The House on the Water

by Margot Hunt

  “It obviously worked.”

  “Not right away. John kept dating both of us for months. It was actually kind of horrible and dramatic, in that sort of way that once you look back on it, you wonder why you ever tolerated it.”

  “But you won in the end.” Ford nodded in John’s direction. “He chose you.”

  “Actually, he didn’t.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest, but it’s not as if John had been so careful with my feelings lately. “The other girl got tired of his equivocating and broke up with him. If I won, it was by default.”

  Ford looked back at his steaks. I wondered if he was embarrassed by my confession. But then he said in a softer voice, “Well, winning isn’t always a montage from a Rocky movie. Sometimes it just means getting what you want in the end, even if you have to wait for it.”

  “I know,” I said, still watching my husband. He looked completely at ease—his long, lanky frame stretched out, his face flushed, his eyes bright. I thought back to those early days of our relationship, which were so filled with constant drama and my unwavering belief that being with John was worth waiting for him to choose me. Was it? I wondered now. If I had the benefit of age and experience, would I have made the same choice?

  I wasn’t sure that I would.

  Dinner was delicious. I suspected that Ford’s cooking experience was more extensive than he’d led me to believe. The steaks were perfectly done, and he’d seasoned the grilled corn with a spicy butter I would’ve eaten on anything.

  Afterward, we all lounged on the cushioned chairs and love seat. We’d plugged in the Christmas lights that were entwined around the deck posts. It felt almost magical, sitting there amid the twinkling lights, listening to the ocean as the tide rolled in. Or it did, right up until a group of teenagers ran out on the beach, screaming so loudly it sounded as if one of them was being murdered.

  “Isn’t it past their bedtime?” John murmured.

  “It’s definitely past mine,” I said.

  “They’re just having a good time. Don’t you remember being that young? It feels like yesterday to me,” Esme mused.

  “I was never that young,” John joked.

  “Let’s put on some music,” Nick suggested. “I saw a speaker in the front hall closet.”

  He went to retrieve the outdoor speaker, and Esme synced her phone to it. Soon a nineties playlist of Esme’s favorite songs was blaring.

  “I think we should turn it down a little,” I said, feeling like the mom ruining everyone’s fun.

  “Don’t worry. The neighbors won’t be able to hear over the sound of the ocean,” Esme said, her words slightly slurred. This wasn’t true, but I knew it was pointless to argue with a drunk person. Soon Esme, Nick, and John were all dancing to “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe.

  “We could video this and use it to blackmail them,” Ford remarked.

  I hadn’t noticed him move to stand next to me. I smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing. Do you think drunk people know how ridiculous they look dancing?”

  “Isn’t that a saying? Dance like no one’s watching you?” Ford asked.

  “It may be, but it’s not good advice. It should be, dance like your future employer is looking at your social media account.”

  “Spoken like a true mother.”

  I shivered, but whether it was at his words or at the cool cut of the wind blowing off the water, I wasn’t sure. I’d long ago given up the fantasy that I was or could ever be the perfect mother.

  “Are you and Nick planning on having children?”

  “No,” Ford said. “I don’t see that for us.”

  I nodded. I wanted to say, that’s probably wise. That children are a gamble under the best of circumstances. But it’s the one thing mothers aren’t allowed to say. Even if it is true.

  “We got a cheesecake at the store. Maybe I should put it out.” Ford nodded at the dancers. “It might soak up some of the booze.”

  “Better not,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Esme can’t resist cheesecake. It’s her kryptonite.”

  “So?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Didn’t you know? Esme’s diabetic.”

  Ford shook his head. “Nick never mentioned it.”

  “She’s had diabetes since she was a kid. In fact, I’m wondering if all the wine she’s had is a good idea. I don’t think she’s supposed to drink this much.”

  “Jesus.” Ford looked concerned. “Should we intervene?”

  “No, no—Esme gets defensive when anyone brings it up. I’ll just remind her to check her blood sugar levels before she goes to bed. It’s not the first time I’ve done it.”

  “You two have been friends for a while?”

  “I’ve known Esme more than half my life.” I watched my friend dance, her arms raised over her head, her hips swinging from side to side. “There’s nothing that I don’t know about her.”

  “That must be nice,” Ford remarked. “I don’t think I have any friends I’ve known for that long. I’m not good about staying in touch with people.”

  “I’m not either. Esme’s the only one from school who I stayed close to.”

  “I don’t get the feeling that she likes me very much.”

  I glanced at Ford, but he was watching Esme dance. I wasn’t sure what to say. I had a feeling that if I protested, if I said that of course Esme liked him, Ford would know I was lying.

  “She probably just needs time to get to know you better,” I said.

  “Somehow, I doubt that would help. I get it. She’s a protective older sister. And Ford and I married quickly.”

  “Esme did too,” I said.

  “She did?”

  “Yes, she and David only dated for a few months before they got married.”

  Esme shimmied over toward us, holding her hand out. “Come on, Caro. Dance with me. We never dance anymore.”

  I laughed. “That’s because we’re old.”

  “Hush. We’re still twenty years old, and dancing at Tipitina’s in New Orleans,” Esme protested.

  I smiled but shook my head. Esme danced back toward Nick and John. I watched while she wrapped her arms around my husband’s neck, a move that might have been provocative if she wasn’t so drunk. John glanced at me, saw that I was watching, and gently dislodged her hands.

  “Is it time to stage an intervention?” Ford asked quietly.

  “Probably,” I said.

  I caught John’s eye again. He nodded and leaned forward to murmur to Esme. She protested at first, but finally shrugged and nodded.

  “Esme’s wasted,” Nick said. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

  “I have,” I said. “But not for a decade or two.”

  “What was she drinking?”

  “Wine, I think,” I said.

  “And then a few vodka and sodas, and then some more wine.” Nick laughed. “She’s going to feel terrible tomorrow morning. “I should get her upstairs, before she throws herself at John and causes irreparable damage to Caroline’s marriage.”

  I shook my head. “No worries. She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just had too much to drink.”

  “I’ll help you take her up,” Ford said.

  They went to Esme, and Nick took her by the arm. “Bedtime,” Nick told her.

  “But we’re dancing!”

  “You can dance tomorrow,” Ford assured her.

  “Fine, but I’m bringing my wine with me,” Esme said, picking up her glass of red wine.

  “Don’t forget to make sure she checks her blood sugar level,” I called as Ford and Nick led Esme into the house.

  “Esme has officially been overserved,” John said, joining me.

  “I noticed.”

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

  I nodded, watching through the French doors as Nick and Ford navigated Esme up the stairs. “She’ll be fine. Esme always is.”

  John was still sleeping when I woke up the next morning. He snored s
oftly, one arm thrown over his face. I watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest for a few moments before I slid out of bed and padded downstairs. I filled the coffeepot, and as it brewed, I reread the list of instructions the owner of the rental had affixed to the refrigerator with little magnets. It included directions on how to turn the house alarm off and on, including the four-digit code. Nick had set the alarm last night, I remembered, and I went to turn it off so I wouldn’t mistakenly activate it if I went outside while the others slept in.

  I poured myself a mug of coffee and took it out on the deck, where evidence of last night’s festivities lay scattered around. After Nick and Ford had put Esme to bed, they’d come back downstairs, and the four of us had cleaned up. But even with the group effort, we’d missed a plate here, a crumpled napkin there. I settled in on a cushioned chair and gazed out at the ocean.

  My thoughts turned to my son. I wondered if he was sleeping, or if the rehab facility ran on a strict schedule. I had no idea. We were only allowed limited contact with him, and the few times we had spoken, the conversations had been strained and disjointed.

  “You’re up early.”

  I glanced up and saw Ford, wearing a crisp blue and white striped robe over his pajamas and holding a coffee mug. He raised it to me. “Thanks for making coffee.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do after that wonderful dinner.”

  “I guess everyone else is sleeping off last night’s hangover.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. There are a lot of empty wine bottles in the recycling bin.”

  “You didn’t drink very much,” Ford commented.

  “No, I’ve never been a big drinker,” I agreed. “I get terrible headaches, and drinking wine always makes them worse. I’m regretting the two glasses of prosecco I had last night.”

  “Oh my God, it’s so bright out here.” Nick appeared, rubbing his eyes. His hair was standing on end, and his T-shirt was inside out. “Why is it so bright?”

  “It is the Sunshine State, honey.” Ford smiled and reached out a hand to squeeze Nick’s. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible.” Nick grimaced. “I’m never, ever going to drink again.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Yeah, well, this time I mean it. How’s Esme? She’s got to be in worse shape than I am.”

  “She’s not up yet,” I said.

  “Oh, really?” Nick perked up. “Let’s go into her room and bang some pots together. I used to do that when we were kids, and she’d freak out every time. It was hilarious.”

  “I doubt she’d find it hilarious now,” Ford pointed out.

  “No, but it might make me feel better,” Nick sighed.

  The rest of the morning passed by quietly. John eventually got up, and the four of us puttered around the vacation house, making breakfast, drinking coffee, scrolling through our phones.

  By eleven, Esme still hadn’t appeared. We were all sitting in the living room, making half-hearted plans for what we were doing to do for the rest of the day.

  “I want something greasy and salty for lunch,” Nick said. “It’s the best cure for a hangover.”

  “We could go out to lunch,” Ford suggested.

  “I’d be up for that,” John agreed.

  “I’m going to get a cheeseburger and fries,” Nick announced. “And possibly some onion rings. And a chocolate shake.”

  “What about Esme?” I said. “Maybe we should wake her up and see if she wants to join us.”

  “I’ll go get the pots and pans,” Nick joked.

  “No, I’ll go get her,” I said. “I’ll bring her up a cup of coffee.”

  “I just made a fresh pot,” Ford said. He nodded toward the kitchen.

  I poured Esme a coffee, added some half-and-half to it, and headed upstairs. Nick followed me.

  “I’m going to hop in the shower,” he said. “Tell Esme to get her butt in gear. I’m starving.”

  The house had four bedrooms, two on the ocean side and two overlooking the street. Nick headed into the room he and Ford were sharing. Esme’s door was closed, and I didn’t hear any sound from within. I knocked softly.

  “Esme, are you awake?”

  I opened the door slowly and peered into the room. The drapes were drawn, and the room was so dark I could just make out Esme lying in bed.

  “Hey, I’m sorry to wake you up, but it’s late and we’re all going to lunch. I brought you some coffee.” I spoke loudly, but there wasn’t a response. I flipped the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light.

  “Esme?”

  And then, finally, I saw her. I dropped the coffee mug and screamed, and Nick came running out of his room, a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “What is it?” he shouted. “What’s wrong?”

  “Esme.” I covered my mouth with my hands, shaking my head from side to side.

  Only then did Nick turn and look at his sister.

  “What the . . . ?” he gasped.

  “Oh my God!” I turned to him. “I think she’s dead.”

  Esme was dead.

  I repeated these words to myself over and over, but the reality wouldn’t sink in.

  The rest of us gathered downstairs in the living room. Someone—John, I think—had called the police. As we waited for them to arrive, I was curled up on the couch, trying to process what was happening. John was sitting hunched forward in a chair, his elbows braced against his knees, staring blankly out at the water. Nick and Ford were in the kitchen. Nick had been crying, but Ford had managed to calm him down, rubbing his arm and talking in a low, soothing voice.

  Esme’s body still lay upstairs. Her eyes were open and staring. Her mouth was agape, as though she died gasping in her final breath. Her skin was already cold to the touch.

  I shuddered and closed my eyes, willing the image away. Just yesterday, mere hours ago, I’d thought Esme had never looked happier, never shone brighter. And now she was gone.

  “Do any of you have any illegal drugs, or anything else you wouldn’t want the police to find?”

  I looked up, startled at Ford’s question.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “Well, they’re going to search the house.”

  “Why would they do that?” John asked.

  Ford looked at him incredulously. “An otherwise healthy woman died for an unknown reason. I’m sure the police are going to treat Esme’s death as suspicious unless proven otherwise.”

  “Caroline and I don’t take drugs,” John said, sounding weary.

  “Is it possible that Esme might have?” Ford asked.

  All three men looked at me. I shook my head. “I mean, she smoked pot a few times in college. But that’s it, as far as I know. Although . . .”

  “What?” Nick asked sharply.

  “She’s had a hard time sleeping since the divorce. I think her doctor prescribed her sleeping pills. But those wouldn’t be illegal.”

  Ford nodded. “No, but sleeping pills combined with how much she had to drink could be a dangerous combination.” He glanced at Nick. “That could be the cause of death.”

  Nick shook his head, like he wanted it all to go away.

  There was suddenly a loud banging on the front door.

  “That must be the police.” John stood stiffly and headed downstairs to let them in.

  “Get ready,” Ford said softly.

  I glanced at him, wondering what he meant. Ford didn’t elaborate, but it quickly became clear: in seconds, the vacation house seemed to be filled with EMTs and police officers, even though there couldn’t have been more than a half dozen of them. It felt like an invasion of uniformed people. John directed the EMTs to Esme’s room and then returned downstairs with one of the uniformed officers.

  “I’m Officer Grant.” He looked young, not much older than Aiden. His expression was stern and direct. “This is a camera here on my vest, and I’ll be recording this.” He pointed to his chest. “Do you all understand?�
�

  The four of us glanced at one another and then nodded.

  “Please, one at a time, tell me your names.”

  When it was Nick’s turn, he said, “I’m Nick Overfield, the brother of the . . .” Nick trailed off, trying to find the words for this surreal situation. “I’m Esme’s brother.”

  Nick stepped forward and held his hand out, but the officer didn’t shake it. In that moment, I realized Ford was right. The police were treating us with suspicion, at least for the time being.

  “Esme is the victim,” the officer confirmed.

  “Victim?” Nick’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Why are you calling her a victim?”

  The officer didn’t answer his question. “What’s Esme’s last name?”

  “Lamont,” Nick replied. “It was her married name. But she just got divorced and was planning to change it back to Overfield.”

  Nick was babbling. Was it nerves, I wondered, or was he in shock?

  “And you folks are all staying here together?”

  “Yes,” John said. “It’s a vacation rental. We arrived yesterday and were supposed to be here for the week.”

  “Do any of you know how Mrs. Lamont died?”

  “We have no idea,” John said. “We were all up pretty late last night, so we assumed Esme was sleeping in. But eventually, Caroline”—John gestured in my direction—“went to check on Esme, and that’s when we discovered that she’d . . .” He stopped, and swallowed. “Died.”

  “A late night,” Officer Grant repeated. “What kept you up so late?”

  “We had dinner here,” Nick said. “And then we just stayed up talking and listening to music.”

  “Has anyone else been here in the house since you arrived in town?”

  “No, it was just the five of us,” John said.

  “No guests? Not even the person you rented the house from?”

  “No,” I said. “There was a lockbox by the door downstairs that held the house keys. They gave us a code for it. Esme was the first one here, so she was the one who got the keys.”