by Viv Daniels
I wandered over to a knot of these guys to find them in the middle of a debate about the history of body horror and the influence of Cronenberg on the production. I listened in silence, nodding at a few of the points being made, so I was totally taken off guard when one of the guys, wearing a plain black T-shirt and a pair of baggy black jeans, turned to me and said, “What did you think?”
“I think there’s an argument to be made for that,” I said. “Certainly something like Scanners, with the weaponry angle. But I think the scenes at the rendering plant owe more to Altered States—”
“That wasn’t Cronenberg,” snapped another guy. “That was Chayefsky.”
This was why I only took three classes in the Canton Film Studies department—blowhards like this. I never said Altered States was Cronenberg. I just said the scenes in the rendering plant reminded me of Altered States.
“Yeah, I love that film,” said the black T-shirt guy. “If we’d had more money for CGI, it would have been an even more blatant homage.”
I stared at him. “Wait, you’re Sam Rowland?”
He laughed. “No, I’m Sam Raimi. Yeah, that’s me.”
“But you’re so young!” I couldn’t help but blurt out. Oh, God. I wanted to die.
“Yeah, well that’s why I couldn’t get anyone to help finance this. I called in every favor I’ve been owed my whole life, and all my credit cards are leveraged to the max.”
“That’s awesome,” I said. “It was a great film. I hope it gets a really good distribution deal.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “We’re doing the festival thing now and building up support. How did you hear about it?”
“Canton film studies email list,” I lied with a shrug. “Seemed cool.”
“Oh, you’re a film studies major!” he asked.
No. Of all the majors I’d tried, film hadn’t been one of them.
“Cool! Are you going to write it up for the school paper or something like that?”
Something like that. I smiled at him. “It’ll have to wait a month or two if I do. Classes won’t start until September.” There, that wasn’t a lie.
“Of course.” He nodded in understanding. “Well, if you do, and you have any questions, you can email me.” He handed me his card. “I wrote the screenplay as an undergrad, you know.”
“As an undergrad,” I echoed, looking at his card. How come everyone else knew what they wanted to do already? Tess and Dylan were off genetically engineering algae or something, this Sam guy had written a movie and gotten it made…
“And maybe we’ll have a distribution deal in place by then,” he went on. “And the movie will actually play in Canton. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Soon after, the conversation devolved into the pros and cons of various film festivals and how those Saw guys had built their empire, and I slipped away. On one hand, it would be cool if Render got a theatrical release. But even if Sam just got a DVD and Hulu deal, he’d do well. He’d created a good foundation for his next film. He’d be approached by producers and studios to work on their films. He’d have a career.
And I’d still be figuring out what to major in.
* * *
Dad’s car was in the garage when I got home from DC, but it was gone by the time I got up the next morning. Naturally. This was the new normal when it came to us. Avoidance whenever possible, stony silence when it wasn’t.
Back in December, it seemed easy. Dad was a liar. He’d lied to me and Mom my entire life. He’d kept some woman and her daughter—his daughter—in an apartment across town and didn’t tell anyone they existed. I had a sister and I never knew…well, at least, not until my boyfriend, Dylan, had started working with her on a science project at Canton and dumped me to be with her.
Tess McMann. My sister. My glamorous, brilliant, scientist sister, who was so attractive and enchanting and whatever else Dylan didn’t care about the six months we’d spent together. Who was so smart and hardworking that Canton had actually offered her an academic scholarship in order to entice her to transfer in to our school.
The scholarship hadn’t been enough, though. She needed money for books and supplies and a lot of other expenses, and Dad wasn’t giving her a penny in order to punish her for daring to actually come to his alma mater.
That didn’t seem right to me. Why was he paying my expensive Canton costs so I could change my major every week and a half, while he cut off the daughter who actually could do something with the money? Clearly, the wrong girl had been born legitimate. So I told him that he needed to give her money for school, or I’d expose his secret.
He gave her money, and me the cold shoulder.
I didn’t care. I was furious at him, too. Then I went off to Europe, and some of my anger at him faded. Yes, he’d made some pretty terrible choices. But he was still my father. It didn’t make much of a difference though, since as soon as I got home he’d made it clear he still wanted nothing to do with me. I was no longer his perfect, golden girl. I’d betrayed him—though I still wasn’t sure if the betrayal had been the threat I made or just the fact that I now knew his dirty little secret.
In deference to my mother’s advice, I did my laps in the morning, even though I knew that would deprive the handyman of the sight of me in the pool. Afterward, I hung about the house, watching stupid reality television, reading one of my mom’s architectural magazines, and wondering how, only a short month ago, I’d been the envy of all my friends, running around Europe’s most fashionable hot spots.
And maybe that’s why I was avoiding them all now. It wasn’t that Europe hadn’t been fun and amazing and enlightening and all that other stuff. My knowledge of Italian Renaissance art had grown by leaps and bounds, though I hadn’t been an art history major since freshman year. I could tell you all kinds of cool facts about Scottish history. I’d picked tulips in the Netherlands and gone swimming in the Mediterranean and skied in St Moritz. I’d gambled in Monaco for about twenty seconds, then decided I was probably spending enough of my trust fund on my European adventure without pissing it away at the roulette table. I’d taken a cooking class in Tuscany and a baking class in Paris and my French was basically fluent now, so all of that was a bonus.
But it wasn’t like I thought it would be. I’d had no Eat, Pray, Love kind of epiphany about what I should be doing with my life. I didn’t find my soul mate like that chick who bought a villa in Tuscany had, or even have some wild, insane fling in Ibiza. I flirted with a few guys and kissed a few more, but despite my promises to friends and my boast to my half sister that I was going to sleep my way through the hotter half of Europe, it hadn’t really happened.
I’d come home to Canton, still the same girl I’d been when I left it. I still didn’t know what to do with my life. Or my family. Or my heart.
Three
I was out on the deck again—under the umbrella, thank you very much, Mother—and waiting for the handyman to take his position on the roof for our appointment when Mom came outside, her hands full of file folders.
“Sweetie, I need you to do me a favor and take these out to the yacht club for your dad. He forgot them at the office and needs them tonight for a conference call with California.”
I sat up on the chair. “Can’t you send a courier?” I hadn’t been alone with my father since our confrontation last year.
“And pay a hundred dollars while you sit around aging your skin prematurely?” She sniffed and thrust the folders at me. “Go get dressed and take them over. Maybe you two can have dinner and chat.”
“I thought you said he had a call.”
“An early dinner, then,” she insisted. “You two are acting like such babies, I swear. I know he was upset you put school on hold and went off to Europe.”
Yeah, Mom. That’s what he was upset about.
“But really, not everyone is as focused as your father is.”
No. Just my sister.
“You’d had a rough s
emester, what with that boy…and your health scare. I think it’s good you took time to regroup. And going to Europe is never a bad idea. All that culture and language and everything.”
Behind the safety of my sunglasses, I rolled my eyes. Next, she’d be saying it made me more marriageable, like we lived in a Victorian novel and we had to be concerned about my prospects. Although maybe it was right for her to be concerned. After all, I wasn’t exactly career-focused these days. Mom probably thought an MRS degree was the best I could do.
“Anyway, go put on a nice dress and take these out to the island. I’ll call your father and tell him you’re meeting him for dinner.”
I sighed. Fine. It was three-thirty, anyway. I guess the handyman wasn’t coming today. Stand a guy up one time and that was it for our little game. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to our wordless interaction every day until it had stopped happening.
I went inside, donned the flowered sundress I’d rejected yesterday, slipped my feet into a pair of sandal wedges, swept my hair up into a clip, and headed off. The drive to the yacht club took about an hour, which gave me plenty of time to think about what to say to Dad when I saw him. This wasn’t my idea, I don’t have to stay for dinner, and I heard you broke up with your mistress were top of my list.
Because I knew that was why he was spending so much time at the yacht club these days. I mean, really at the yacht club. In the past, he’d had “meetings” all over the place, and he’d often been at his mistress’s apartment. You’d think now that she was out of the picture, he’d come home more often, but I guess my presence made that difficult.
Either that or he had a new sailor girlfriend. Anything was possible with Dad.
But the weather was pleasant, the countryside beautiful and green, and the bridge to the island spanned a stretch of sparkling blue water dotted with boats. It was a great drive…right up until I pulled onto the road leading to the yacht club and ran over…something. Actually, several somethings. The tire pressure monitor on my dash flared to life, like I needed the warning, as it suddenly felt like I’d lost a couple of wheels on the car.
With difficulty, I pulled over to the shoulder and got out to see what had happened. Huge slashes had opened up on both of my left side tires, and when I went back to the road, I found the culprit—a giant bolt that had somehow wedged itself, screw side up, in a crack in the blacktop. I yanked it out. Little bastard.
Well, crap. I called AAA and explained the situation, but since I was in the back of beyond, they said it would probably be two hours before the tow truck could arrive. The yacht club was still a mile or two away. Probably better to deal with the car issue after I’d delivered Dad’s paperwork. I slid his folders into a Canton College tote bag I found in my trunk, slung my purse over my shoulder, and started down the road.
The afternoon, which had seemed so pleasant while in the air-conditioned confines of my BMW, was revealed to be humid and unpleasant. Not to mention buggy. Perspiration dripped between my shoulder blades and my hair began to frizz out of the clip that secured it off my neck. The cute sandals I’d donned started to chafe my big toes, and I was pretty sure I looked like a bedraggled, blistered mess by the time I’d gone the first mile.
Which is when the white pickup truck arrived. The window came down, and who leaned out but the hot handyman himself.
“Look who it is,” he said, smiling brighter than the summer day. “The Girl Next Door.” That’s how he said it, too. As if it were a title or something. “I thought that car back at the turn looked familiar.”
“Hi.” I swiped some sweat off my forehead. “Had a little car trouble.”
“Sorry to hear it. You’re going down to the yacht club, right? Me, too. Need a lift?”
I turned to face him and he braked. “I shouldn’t take rides from strangers.”
He laughed and stuck his hand out the window. “My name is Boone.”
Boone, huh? I wouldn’t have expected that, but I kinda liked it. “I’m Hannah.”
“Hannah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Nice to meet you. At last.”
I climbed into the cab. Cool air shivered across my arms, and every nerve ending came alive as I realized that the handyman—Boone. Boone Boone Boone—sat less than a foot away from me. All that luscious, sun-soaked skin I’d ben staring at from across the fence was now right here. The tattoo on his arm peeked out from under the sleeve of a plain white T-shirt. It wasn’t a starburst like I’d thought, but a compass rose. I could touch it if I wanted, he was that close.
And I wanted to.
His shorn hair was definitely blond. His eyes were a pale blue-green. His jeans were so worn and faded they were practically white in places and I estimated he was nearly a foot taller than my five-four. My blood thrummed in my ears. The cab was otherwise silent. If he’d been listening to the radio or anything before, he’d turned it off when he’d stopped for me.
“So,” I said, trying to cover the awkward silence. “Do you work at the yacht club?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m a member.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue before he shot me a smile. “Kidding. But I’m restoring an old boat with a berth there.”
“Nice.”
“Are you a member?” he asked wryly.
“My dad is.” I gestured to the tote bag at my feet. “I’m bringing him some files for work.”
“What a dutiful daughter.” Oh, he had no idea. We pulled into the yacht club parking lot, and up to the front door. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I said. I opened the door and slid out. Then I turned and looked back through the window. “You know, I was wondering where you’d gone to today.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I like our appointments,” I said. “Boone.”
“Me, too. Hannah.”
* * *
Dad was holding court in the club restaurant, seated at a big round table with about eight of his cronies. The surface of the table was littered with empty glasses and half-eaten appetizer platters, and the atmosphere was loud and raucous. It didn’t seem like a business meeting at all.
I slipped around to his side of the table. “Hey, Dad.”
“Ah, Hannah!” he boomed. “Everyone, this is my daughter, Hannah. She’s a senior at Canton.”
Technically, I was a second-semester junior, thanks to my European excursion. According to student guidelines, this semester was my last chance to declare a permanent major, since we needed to be set by senior year.
Around the table, there were murmurs of approval and greeting.
“I…brought you your files.” I held out the tote bag.
“Great,” he said, still facing his buddies. “You can just put them right here. I don’t have that conference call until later.”
“And did Mom call you?” I tried. “About…dinner?”
He looked at me, and that cold glint was in his hazel eyes. I had eyes the exact same color. So did Tess. “Yes. Yes she did.” He turned back to his cronies. “Excuse me for a few minutes, guys. Hannah needs help with something.” He rose from his seat and put a firm hand on my back as he guided me out of the restaurant. Once we were in the empty hallway, he looked at me.
“Your mother thinks we should have dinner,” he said.
“I know.”
“And you also know that’s not going to happen.”
My chest constricted, and my throat closed up. “I know.”
“So here’s what is going to happen, Hannah. You’re going to stay out here for another few hours. I don’t care what you do or where you go. And then you’re going to go home and tell your mother we had a lovely evening.”
So that’s what this was going to be. I guess it was better than actually sitting across from him for two hours.
“I can’t go home,” I protested. “My car broke down about two miles from here. I had to walk.”
A flicker of concern crossed his features. “Broke down? What’s wrong with it?”
“Fl
at tires.” Figured. He was concerned for the Beemer. “I drove over some screw or something in the road.”
He sighed, annoyed, and flipped through his phone until he found a number, which he scribbled on the back of one of his business cards. “Here’s the number for a car service I use sometimes. Charge it to the company and get the BMW towed back to Canton.”
“Okay.”
And then my father just walked off and left me standing there. I know I deserved it, after threatening him last year. I know I’d wanted him angry; as angry as I was. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
I plopped on a bench outside the yacht club, in the shade of the awning, and stared at the card in my hand. Fine linen, beautiful ink. Steven Swift in bold, irrefutable strokes, the typography of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. Tess and Dylan had told me that he’d forced Tess and her mother to keep quiet about her origins for twenty years. He’d played us all, our whole lives, and the only wrinkle in the system was me.
Once upon a time, I’d been perfect Hannah Swift. I’d had the name, the pedigree, the lessons and the looks and the life they could probably have engraved on silver place settings in advance, it was so obvious where it all was going. My parents were perfect, and the daughter they’d raised would be equally so. Intelligent, but not intimidating. Accomplished, but not ambitious. A respectable high school record, a smash debut, and a degree from Canton in…something, it didn’t really matter, since after that, I was destined to marry a quality man and have his quality children and we’d all look like a big Christmas card family. Sweet. Nice. Perfect.
I’d screwed it up. I’d screwed it up by discovering just how screwed up the Swifts’ perfection really was. Dad wasn’t mad at me for threatening him. He was mad because my knowledge of his double life meant that I’d never be the daughter he’d raised me to be again. How could I be, when I now understood that the whole picture was built on lies?
