by Riley Sager
PINE COTTAGE
6:18 P.M.
Quincy and Janelle stood in the cabin’s kitchen area, separated from the great room by a waist-high counter. It was Janelle’s suggestion that each of them prepare some aspect of dinner. A surprise, seeing as how the most elaborate thing Quincy had ever seen her cook was ramen noodles.
“Maybe we should just roast hot dogs,” Quincy had said when they were planning the weekend. “We’re camping, after all.”
“Hot dogs?” Janelle replied, affronted. “Not on my birthday.”
So there they were, colliding with Amy and Betz, who had been tasked with the main course of roast chicken and several side dishes. Quincy was on cake duty, and she had lugged along an entire bag of baking tools to use for the occasion. A cake pan. All the necessary ingredients. An icing bag with detachable tips. Yes, Janelle’s mother and stepfather had paid for the cabin rental, but Quincy was determined to earn her keep in cake.
Janelle had an easy job—bartender. While Betz and Amy fussed with the chicken and Quincy decorated the cake, she set out several bottles of liquor. The large, cheap kind that came in plastic jugs and was meant to be poured into red Solo cups, of which Janelle had brought plenty.
“How long are you going to let Joe stay?” Quincy whispered to her.
“As long as he likes,” Janelle whispered back.
“Like, all night? Seriously?”
“Sure,” Janelle said. “It’s getting late and there’s plenty of room. It could be fun.”
Quincy disagreed. So did everyone else, in their own muted way. Even Joe, with his odd cadences and filthy glasses that clouded his eyes, seemed unenthused by the idea.
“Has it occurred to you that Joe might want to go home?” Quincy said. “Isn’t that right, Joe?”
Their unexpected guest sat on the threadbare couch in the great room, watching Craig and Rodney kneel in front of the cavernous fireplace and bicker over the best way to start a fire. Realizing he was being addressed, he looked Quincy’s way, startled.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” he said.
“It’s no bother,” Janelle assured him. “Unless you have somewhere you need to be.”
“I don’t.”
“And you’re hungry, right?”
Joe shrugged. “I guess.”
“We’ve got plenty of food and drink. Plus we have a couch, not to mention an extra bed.”
“We also have a car,” Quincy said. “Full of cell phones. Craig could call a tow truck or drive him anywhere he needs to go. You know, like back to his own car. Or his house.”
“Which will take hours. Besides, maybe Joe wants to join the party.” Janelle looked his way, hoping he’d second that thought. “Now that we’re all friends.”
“Technically, he’s still a stranger,” Quincy said.
Janelle flashed the exasperated look she always got when she thought Quincy was being a goody-goody. Quincy had seen that same expression before her only sip of beer and her single hit of a joint. In both instances, Janelle had used sheer force of will to coax her into doing something she didn’t want to do. Now, though, her frustration was amplified by the situation. Everything about the weekend—the cabin, her birthday, the absence of oversight of any kind—made her slightly manic.
“We’re here to have fun, right?” she said. There was something accusing about the way she said it, as if she suspected she was the only one there intent on a good time. “So let’s. Have. Fun.”
That seemed to settle it. Joe would be staying as long as he liked. The birthday girl again got her wish.
“What’s your poison?” Janelle asked Joe once the makeshift bar was complete.
He blinked at the bottles, alternately confused and dazzled by the choices. “I-I don’t really drink.”
“Seriously?” Janelle said. “Like, not at all?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “I mean no.”
“Well, which is it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to drink,” Quincy said, again the voice of reason, the angel perpetually perched on Janelle’s shoulder. “Maybe, like me, Joe prefers to maintain control over his mental faculties.”
“You don’t drink because you’re a wuss and Mommy and Daddy would get mad if they ever found out,” Janelle told her. “Joe’s not like that. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s just—I’ve never tried it,” Joe said.
“Not even with your friends?”
Joe stammered, trying to push out a response. But it was too late. Janelle pounced.
“What? No friends either?”
“I have friends,” Joe said, a prickle in his voice.
“A girlfriend?” Janelle asked, teasing.
“Maybe. I-I don’t know what she is.”
Behind Quincy, Betz whispered, “Imaginary is my guess.”
Janelle glared at her before turning back to Joe, saying, “Then you’ll have quite a story to tell the next time you see her.”
She began to pour, splashing liquor from several bottles into a cup and filling it the rest of the way with orange juice. She took the cup to Joe, forcing his fingers around the red plastic.
“Drink up.”
Joe tipped his face toward the cup instead of the other way around, his nose dipping birdlike beneath the rim. A cough rose from inside the cup. His first sip. When he came up for air, his eyes were wide and goofy.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Okay? You totally love it,” Janelle replied.
Joe smacked his lips. “It’s too sweet.”
“I can fix that.” Janelle grabbed the cup from his hands as quickly as she had put it into them. Then she was back at the bar, snatching a lemon and searching her work area.
“Does anyone have a knife?”
She spotted one on the counter, a carving knife intended for the chicken Amy and Betz were preparing. Grabbing it, Janelle pushed it into the lemon, slicing through peel, pulp, and, ultimately, her finger.
“Dammit!”
At first, Quincy thought she was being dramatic for Joe’s sake. Giving him what the rest of them had dubbed “The Janelle Show” behind her back. But then she saw the blood pumping from Janelle’s finger, spilling over the paper napkin pressed against it, littering the counter in drops the size of rose petals.
“Ow,” Janelle whimpered, tears forming. “Ouch, owie, ow.”
Quincy swooped in behind her, cooing, performing her roommate-appointed duty to soothe. “It’ll be okay. Lift your hand. Put pressure on it.”
She flailed around the kitchen, searching for a first-aid kit while Janelle hopped from foot to foot, wincing at the sight of all that blood. “Hurry,” she urged.
Quincy found a tin of Band-Aids beneath the sink. The old-fashioned kind with a hinged, flip-top lid. So old she couldn’t remember the last time she had a similar pack in her own house. She grabbed the biggest Band-Aid she could find and wrapped it around Janelle’s finger, begging her to hold still.
“All done,” Quincy said, backing away, hands raised. “You’re good as new.”
The drama lured Joe off the couch. He hovered nearby, watching Janelle examine her bandaged finger. He lowered his gaze to the knife on the counter and its blood-splotched blade.
“That looks sharp,” he said, picking up the knife and touching the pad of his index finger against its tip. “You need to be more careful.”
He stared at Janelle and Quincy, as if seeking assurances that they would be. Beads of liquid clung to his bottom lip—remnants of his first cocktail. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and, knife still in his grip, licked his lips.
13.
Jeff retrieves me a half hour later, summoned by Jonah Thompson, who found his number on my cell phone, which I handed to him when he asked me the name of an emergency contact person shortly after I puked all over
his shoes. I’m in the lobby ladies’ room when he arrives, hunched over a toilet even though my stomach feels as squeezed dry as an empty water bottle. It’s up to one of Jonah’s coworkers to fetch me from the stall. A tiny bird of a reporter named Emily, who nervously calls to me from just inside the door like I’m someone contagious, someone to be feared.
Back at the apartment, Jeff puts me to bed in spite of protests that I’m feeling much better. Apparently, I’m not, for I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I sleep fitfully for the rest of the afternoon, only vaguely aware of either Jeff or Sam popping into the bedroom to check on me. By evening, I’m wide-awake and famished. Jeff brings in a tray of food fit for an invalid—chicken noodle soup, toast, and ginger ale.
“It’s not the flu, you know,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Jeff says. “It sounds like you were pretty sick.”
From a combination of lack of sleep and Wild Turkey and so many Xanax. And Him, of course. Seeing that picture of Him.
“It must have been something I ate,” I say. “I’m much better now. Honest. I’m fine.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that your mother called.”
I groan.
“She said the neighbors are asking why you’re on the front page of the newspapers,” Jeff continues.
“One newspaper,” I say.
“She wants to know what to tell them.”
“Of course she does.”
Jeff snags a triangle of toast, takes a bite, puts it back on my tray. While chewing, he says, “It wouldn’t hurt to call her back.”
“And have her berate me for not being perfect?” I say. “I think I’ll pass.”
“She’s concerned about you, hon. It’s been an eventful few days. Lisa’s suicide. Being in that newspaper. Sam and I are worried about how you’re dealing with it all.”
“Does this mean the two of you actually had a conversation?”
“We did,” Jeff says.
“And it was civil?”
“Abundantly.”
“Color me surprised. What did the two of you talk about?”
Jeff reaches again for the toast but I swat his hand away. He instead kicks off his shoes and pulls his legs onto the bed. On his side now, he scoots close, his body pressing against the entire length of my own.
“You. And how it might be a good idea to have Sam stick around for a week.”
“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with the real Jefferson Richards?”
“I’m serious,” Jeff says. “I spent all day thinking about what you said last night. And you’re right. The way I got those charges against Sam dropped was wrong. She deserved a better defense. And I’m sorry.”
I hand Jeff more toast. “Apology accepted.”
“Plus,” he says between bites, “this cop-killing case is going to start taking up more of my time, and I don’t like the idea of you being home alone most of the day. Not after your picture’s been plastered all over the city.”
“So you’re suggesting that Sam becomes my babysitter?”
“Companion,” Jeff says. “And she’s actually the one who suggested it. She mentioned the two of you did some baking together yesterday. It might be nice to have some help during Baking Season. You always said you wanted an assistant.”
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “It’s a lot for you to handle.”
Jeff tilts his head at me. “You sound like you’re not sure.”
“I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t want it to affect you. Or us.”
“Listen, I’m going to be honest here and admit that Sam and I will probably never be friends. But the two of you have a connection. Or you could. I know we don’t talk much about what happened to you—”
“Because there’s no need to,” I hastily add.
“I agree,” Jeff says. “You say you’ll never get past what happened, but you already have. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Quincy Carpenter, baking goddess.”
“Whatever,” I say, although the description secretly pleases me.
“But maybe you do need some kind of support system to cope. Someone other than Coop. If Sam’s that person you need, I don’t want to stand in the way of it.”
I realize, not for the first time, how lucky I am to have landed someone like Jeff. I can’t help but think he’s the one big difference between Sam and me. Without him, I’d be just like her—wild and angry and lonesome. A tempest never reaching shore, forever tossing about.
“You’re awesome,” I say, pushing the tray aside to throw myself on top of him.
I kiss him. He kisses back, pulling me tighter against him.
The stress of the day suddenly melts into desire and I find myself undressing him without even thinking about it. Loosening the tie still knotted around his neck. Popping open the buttons of his Oxford shirt. Kissing the rosy nipples surrounded by a thicket of hair before moving lower and feeling his arousal.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I try to ignore it, thinking it’s a reporter. Or, worse, my mother. Yet the phone continues to rattle against the bedside lamp, insistent. I check the caller ID.
“It’s Coop,” I say.
Jeff sighs, his desire deflating. “Can’t it wait?”
It can’t. Coop had called me yesterday evening, responding to my pretending-not-to-be-worried text. At the time, I was too busy to answer, what with Sam hovering around me in the kitchen while I made dinner. If I don’t pick up now, he’ll definitely be concerned.
“Not while my picture is still on the front page,” I tell Jeff.
Vibrating phone in hand, I spring out of bed and hurry into the master bathroom, closing the door behind me.
“Why didn’t you tell me Samantha Boyd contacted you?” Coop says by way of greeting.
“How did you find out?”
“I got a Google alert,” he says, the answer so unexpected he could have told me “aliens” and I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Although I would have preferred to hear it from you.”
“I was going to call you,” I say, which is the truth. I had planned to call him right after I got done confronting Jonah. “Sam showed up at my place yesterday. After Lisa’s death, she thought it would be a good idea if we met.”
I could have told Coop more than that, of course. How Sam had changed her name years ago. How she dared me into downing two Xanax too many. How I threw all three back up the moment I saw His picture.
“Is she still there?” Coop asks.
“Yes. She’s going to be staying with us.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Until she figures out some stuff.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“Why? You worried about me?”
“I always worry about you, Quincy.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. Coop’s never been this forthright before. I don’t know if it’s a good change or a bad one. Either way, it’s nice to hear him admit out loud that he cares. It’s definitely more heartwarming than a nod.
“Admit it,” I finally say. “When you saw that Google alert, you almost drove out here to check on me.”
“I got as far as the end of the driveway before stopping myself,” Coop replies.
I don’t doubt him. It’s that kind of devotion that’s made me feel safe all these years.
“What changed your mind?”
“Knowing that you can take care of yourself.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But I’m still concerned that Samantha Boyd has come out of hiding,” Coop says. “You have to admit, it’s startling.”
“You’re starting to sound like Jeff.”
“What’s she like? Is she—”
The first words I think of are th
e same ones Sam used this morning. Damaged goods. Instead, I say, “Normal? Considering what happened to her, she’s as normal as anyone can be.”
“But not as normal as you.”
I detect a smile in his voice. I imagine his blue eyes sparkling, which happens on the rare occasions he actually lets down his guard.
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m the queen of normalcy.”
“Well, Queen Quincy, what do you think about me coming into the city to meet Samantha? I’d like to get a read on her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust her.” Coop softens his tone slightly, as if he knows he’s starting to sound too intense. “Not until I meet her myself. I want to make sure she’s not up to something.”
“She’s not,” I say. “Jeff’s already grilled her.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“I’d hate to put you out like that.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Coop says. “I have the day off and the weather is nice. The leaves are starting to turn in the Poconos. Makes for a pretty drive.”
“Then sure,” I say. “How does noon sound?”
“Perfect.” Even though we’re on the phone, I know Coop is nodding. I can sense it. “The usual place.”
“It’s a date,” I say.
Coop grows serious again, his voice husky and low. “Just please be careful until then. I know you think I’m being overly concerned, but I’m not. She’s a stranger, Quincy. One who experienced a whole lot of bad stuff. We don’t know if it messed her up. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, knees pressed together, suddenly cold. Jonah Thompson’s voice flashes into my thoughts. It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you. What a spineless asshole.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Coop. “I think you’ll like her.”
We say our good-byes, Coop finishing up with his usual invitation to call or text if I need anything.
At the sink, I splash water onto my face and gargle with a hearty dose of mouthwash. I pout at my reflection, trying to look sexy, mentally preparing myself to pick up where Jeff and I left off. Despite Coop’s interruption, the desire I felt earlier is still very much intact. Perhaps even more so. I’m fully ready to jump back into bed and finish what I started with Jeff.
