by Lisa Unger
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.”
She tried to move away from him, but he tightened his grip on her hair.
“Listen.” It was more like a hiss through his teeth than a whisper. “You know what Brad served time for? After the armed robbery?”
She didn’t answer; she wasn’t expected to answer.
“Manslaughter,” he said. “He beat someone so bad in a fight over money that the guy died three days later.”
Emily could imagine Brad doing that.
“Emily, I’m scared,” said Dean. “Doesn’t he scare you? The way he’s looking at you? Let’s just give him what he wants so he’ll go.”
Emily didn’t say anything. The words were all bottled up in her chest.
“She goes to the bank tonight after closing, right?” How did he know that? Emily hadn’t told him that, had she? “They close at nine; it takes her an hour to finish up.”
She looked at the clock on the microwave. It was just after eight. She didn’t say anything; she couldn’t.
“She’ll have the whole week’s worth of cash. It’s one of those bank envelopes. The husband goes home; he doesn’t stay with her.”
Then she knew he’d been casing the Blue Hen, which she couldn’t believe. Because he knew how much she liked it there, how much she liked Carol. And she wondered but couldn’t bring herself to ask whether Dean owed Brad money after all. How long had he been thinking about this? Was Brad’s showing up an opportunity for him to do something awful? Maybe he’d been planning already.
Her mind started racing, and through the hum of her anxiety, she examined her options. She could pretend she needed something from the car and then go to her mother’s. Her mother would take her in; she’d call the police. Or maybe Emily could warn Carol. If she got the car away from them, they couldn’t do much damage. But what would Brad do to Dean?
No, she couldn’t face her mother. She couldn’t admit it about Dean, about the kind of life she was living. She’d told her mother that Dean was on a job interview today. She’d been lying about him for months. Leaving messages about his job interviews, how she thought he might propose, how he’d brought her flowers. She had something else to tell her mother, too, but she was saving that for when all the lies she’d told about Dean turned out to be true.
“Don’t hold your breath, sweetie,” her mother had said during their big falling-out. “A guy like that will never do what you hope he’ll do. And you’ll keep on hoping until he drains you of that, too.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Don’t I?” she’d said. She’d given Emily a sad look of warning. That was when Emily had started screaming. She could still feel that shaky rage exploding from her.
Now Emily folded her arms across her belly. “Don’t do this, Dean,” she said. She hated herself for crying. But she couldn’t stop the tears. “Please.”
He bared his teeth at her. “I don’t have any choice. And neither do you—unless you want him to kill me because I can’t pay him back.”
She felt the dry suck of fear in her throat. “I have eight hundred dollars in my checking account,” she said. In her panic, her voice came out too loud. She lowered it. “That’s it. It was for the rent, but you can have it.”
Dean rubbed his eyes hard, something he did when he was stressed, getting himself worked up. “It’s not enough.”
“You said you gave him two hundred. That’s a thousand.”
“Half is not going to cut it.”
She knew in her heart that he’d already decided; he’d worked out some deal with Brad. Dean was going to get a cut of the haul. Emily could see it all on his face. Still, she had to try.
“He can have my car,” she said. “Between that and the cash, it’s more than you owe him. It’s fair.”
Dean shook his head and backed away from her. “You’re not getting it.”
“I don’t want your car,” said Brad.
He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Emily looked into his eyes. They were blank, unreadable. That was the worst kind of person, the scariest—the one who’d learned to keep his feelings out of his eyes. Or who didn’t feel anything at all. Emily had known people like that; they were the destroyers. They took things—everything you worked for, all your silly dreams—and smashed them beneath their boots for no reason at all.
“I’ll get cash in the morning. You can take the car and the money and go,” she said. “It’s easy.”
He gave her a smile, a laugh that sounded like a cough. “No. She’ll have ten grand in that envelope.”
“You’re wrong,” Emily said. She couldn’t keep her voice from wobbling, but she wiped away her tears. “Not that much. Dean’s exaggerating.”
“Bullshit,” said Dean. He tapped her hard on the arm, but she backed away from him.
Brad looked to Dean, then back at Emily, and apparently decided that she was a better source of information. “How much, then?” he said.
“I have no idea,” she said. She offered an easy shrug. “People don’t use cash that much anymore. It’s all plastic these days. A couple hundred at most.”
“She’s lying,” said Dean. He had that frantic little-boy tone he got when he was losing his temper. “She’s lying. I’ve seen that envelope. It’s this thick.” He made a big U out of his thumb and forefinger, thrust it at Emily.
Brad rolled his head from side to side, and Emily heard a loud cracking in his neck. He glanced at the clock. It was eight-forty. “Let’s go,” he said.
Emily looked over at Dean, who was looking at the floor again. Once upon a time, she felt so safe with him, like nothing would ever go wrong in her life again. Those first few months when he was working hard, and she was, too, as well as going to school, it felt perfect. And she didn’t even know he had a problem with pills. She would lie in bed with him, nestled in the crook of his arm, and she practically wanted to weep with relief that all men weren’t monsters, like her mother had warned, and that her life was not a mess at all.
“I love you, Em,” he’d whisper. “I’m going to take such good care of you.”
She should have known better. She really should have known.
chapter eight
The girls were suspiciously quiet in Chelsea’s room, and Brendan was lounging on the couch, watching television. When he was younger, Brendan would spend the whole evening torturing Chelsea and Lulu, trying to hang out with them, begging them to play games they refused to play, telling on them when they broke the rules. At some point, he’d given up and taken to ignoring them, though Kate had noticed him surreptitiously staring at Lulu all through dinner. He was playing it cool. But the girls didn’t notice that, either. There were too many years between them; Brendan at ten barely ranked as a human being in the eyes of a sixteen-year-old, though Brendan and Chelsea were close enough when left to their own devices. Chelsea was very tender with him when her friends weren’t around; Brendan looked at her with something akin to worship. They were good company for each other on the island. It was something they had in common, their love for that place, their endless desire to explore it.
Kate’s suitcase was nearly full, and she still felt ill prepared for the trip. The problem was that her parents insisted that everyone change for dinner. She couldn’t just bring the easy activewear that was appropriate for the island. She needed a suitable outfit for dinner every night, like everyone else. Except Sean, who absolutely refused to change for dinner, a ritual he found affected and ridiculous. Whereas Kate’s first husband had kowtowed to her parents’ many requirements and customs, Sean bucked them at every opportunity. He just didn’t care what they thought. Their tremendous wealth failed to impress him or motivate his behavior—as it did with most—and he refused to be anything other than who he was. For this and so many things, Kate adored him.
Kate felt that when she visited them, which she did as little as was seemly, she owed them the respect of following their rules. She knew where they came from
and why they felt the need to order their lives as they had. She didn’t always like it, but she understood it. Both of them, for different reasons, needed control over their environment. And when you were in their orbit, they needed to control you as well. She’d grown to accept it and had learned to navigate it in a way that Theo never could and Sean didn’t want to.
“Don’t get yourself worked up.” Her husband was lounging on the bed. She tried not to look at him, lest she be tempted to give up her task and join him.
“I’m not,” she said.
“Your breathing is shallow.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
Sean’s suitcase was zipped and tucked neatly into the corner. They would be there for seven days, so he was taking seven outfits, eight changes of underwear (always good to have an extra), and eight pairs of socks. He knew exactly what he would wear every day. He had one pair of loafers and one pair of amphibious shoes. This time, just to keep everyone on their toes, he’d packed one pair of dress pants and a crisp white oxford shirt. One night he’d dress for dinner just to mess with her parents, who really didn’t know what to do with him. He’d left extra space in his suitcase for the toiletries bag, which would never fit in Kate’s suitcase. He’d packed for Brendan in the same way. Kate and Chelsea would be stuffing things into their suitcases up until they loaded them into the car. Even though they’d bring everything they could think of, they’d still feel like they didn’t have enough.
“I saw the e-mail from your mother,” said Sean.
“Please,” she said.
“I wrote her back with all of our dietary restrictions and considerations.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “What dietary considerations?”
Sean smiled his Cheshire-cat grin. In spite of the fact that she was getting herself all worked up, she smiled, too. How could she not smile at him? He was all mischief, just like their son. Though Sean had dark close-cropped hair, compared to Brendan’s dirty-blond curls, and deep brown eyes to Brendan’s faceted hazel, they were the image of each other: same sharp nose, same sweetness around the eyes, same fullness to the lips. Heartthrobs, both of them, her boys—but faithful and funny and full of caring. So unlike her father, her brother, or her ex. She thanked her lucky stars, or the fact that she had gotten smart and figured out a way to do better.
“You’re mean,” she said. She tossed a pair of socks at him, which he easily caught and threw back in one fluid motion. He was athletic, another way in which he was different from her first husband. Sebastian’s physical prowess had been limited to pouring himself a drink and lighting a cigarette. His skills were cerebral, not all of them used for good.
“You love it,” Sean said. She did. Kate abandoned the packing and lay down beside him. Her husband moved through the world with a centered, good-natured ease that Kate envied. She pressed her body against his and squeezed, hoping to soak up some of his inner calm. She took in the scent of him as he wrapped his arms around her.
“Don’t worry. We’ll just drink our way through it,” he said.
“Stop.”
There was a cocktail hour promptly at six, the point from which her parents proceeded to get properly soused on martinis, or whatever the cocktail of the evening happened to be. Wine was served throughout the three-course meal. By the time dessert was on the table, the mood would be dictated by her mother, whether she was happy or feeling bitter, whether she was angry with Dad or just had it in for someone at the table.
Luckily, only Kate seemed to suffer. Dad was in his own world, had learned long ago to tune Birdie out. Sean thought that everything about her parents’ various dysfunctions was hilarious. And Chelsea and Brendan were too loved and praised to be vulnerable to any of the passive-aggressive attacks her mother might launch. So it was just Kate—and Theo, when he was around—who walked on eggshells, delicately tuned in to Mother’s various ups and downs.
“We can cancel,” he said. “Brendan’s ankle is the perfect excuse.”
“I can’t disappoint the kids.” That sounded lame, even to her own ears. It was a cop-out, because things were so much more complicated than that.
Sean draped his arm over her middle. “You know,” he said. He paused a minute, as though picking his words carefully. “It’s okay to disappoint people sometimes. It’s okay for us to say no simply because we don’t want to do something.”
Intellectually, she knew that was true. It was just that when it came to her family, it didn’t feel that way. “You don’t want to go?” she asked.
He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. “I don’t know. Not really,” he said. “I love the island. I know you and the kids do, too. But the price is high.”
On the dresser, his cell started ringing. He didn’t move to answer it. “You could use the disconnect,” she said. She nodded toward the singing, vibrating device. Ten minutes couldn’t pass without it emitting some kind of sound.
“I could use a disconnect,” he said. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be there.”
Sean was constantly plugged in to the needs of clients, fielding calls on his listings, dealing with appraisers, mortgage brokers. He was good at blocking off family time, not one of those people who couldn’t pry himself away from the laptop or BlackBerry. But with the economy and the real estate market in such chaos, he was working harder than ever and making far less that he once had. He needed a break.
“Really, we could go anywhere on Sunday,” he said. He swept his arm wide. “Just get in the car and drive.”
Freedom was something that, as a couple, they’d never really had. Chelsea was small when they met and married, and Brendan came a couple of years later. They had never slept away from the kids, and Kate didn’t have any desire to do so. Suddenly, the thought of taking off in the car, even with the kids in tow, and going wherever they wanted to go filled Kate with a strange longing.
Of course, if they did that, the kids would sulk; her parents would be angry and disappointed. And Kate wasn’t sure she could enjoy herself while everyone else was miserable. What did that say about her? She didn’t know.
“Next year,” she said. “Next year we’ll go somewhere else, like Hawaii or Europe. Someplace amazing, just the four of us.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “You promise?”
“I promise,” she said. She meant it.
The more she thought about it, the better it felt. They’d tell the kids and her parents now. Everyone would have a year to get used to the idea that they were taking a break from the island. Theo was right; she didn’t have to go every summer. It would be there even if she couldn’t be. She felt lighter, more able to deal with the trip ahead, knowing that next year she wouldn’t have to spend a week trapped in her parents’ thrall. The timing, for other reasons, would be good for her not to be there.
She got up and went back to her packing, picking from a huge pile of stuff on the chair. A fleece pullover, a black sheath dress, a pair of sneakers, a pair of heels.
“Maybe we could even do Asia,” said Sean. He grabbed his laptop off the nightstand. He would start researching right away, come up with the best possible and most expensive trips. Normally, she’d stop him, not let him get overexcited, make him scale back. This time she wasn’t going to do that.
“Or one of those five-star African safaris,” he said. “I think the kids are old enough to appreciate that.”
“You know what, babe?” she said. “Anything you want.”
“Nice,” he said. “I like your attitude.”
She was happy to see him excited. And suddenly, she felt better about the trip ahead. This year she had taken those boating classes. She’d done something else, too. Something huge. And it was going to change everything.
Once this trip was over, she was going to start to follow her brother’s example. There was going to be a bit more distance and a little more of the word “no.”
“You’re not going to give him your phone number.�
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Lulu wasn’t usually the cautious one. Chelsea peered over the laptop screen at her friend, who glanced up from the pink beanbag chair where she sat painting her toenails a garish pink.
“Why not?” Chelsea asked. She stretched out on her bed. Her foot had fallen asleep from sitting cross-legged with the computer on her lap.
“Because then it’s—I don’t know. Real. Like, you have to talk to him.” She looked back to her toenails.
“So? Isn’t that the point?” Hadn’t Lulu said the same thing at the mall?
“Not really,” Lulu said. “Keep it on Fakebook, and it’s safe. They can’t get near you, not really. They just know what you want them to know.”
“They can’t get near you on the phone, either.”
“Yeah, but that’s the gateway to the real world,” said Lulu. “Once they have your number, once they can talk to you, hear your voice, the next step is getting together.”
Chelsea had been messaging back and forth with Adam, carefully coached by Lulu on how to be cool but not overeager, flirty but not too inviting. And for crying out loud, don’t sound so smart. Smart is not sexy. Chelsea didn’t like playing games with people. She just wanted to be herself and meet someone who was willing to be himself. She said as much.
“No one’s himself,” Lulu said. “Everyone’s putting on a show. Especially guys.”
“That’s not true,” said Chelsea. Was it true?
Lulu shrugged. “Honestly, Chaz, you’re the only real person I know.”
Chelsea didn’t know what that meant. On the other hand, she didn’t need to ask for an explanation. At Blair Academy, where they both went to school, many of the parents were mega-rich, like Lulu’s. The kids wore uniforms, but the girls all carried designer bags and wore expensive shoes—everything was about what you had and what kind of car your parents would get you when you turned seventeen. A popular senior girl posted a video on YouTube of her parents surprising her with a Porsche for her birthday. Chelsea had shown her parents, hoping it would inspire them to buy her a sick ride.
