by Cecilia Lyra
I shake my head. “Not unless you count being ignored by Cassie.”
“Do you want to come over? I don’t have to go into work, and it’s supposed to be nice. We could go for a swim. I promised Kiki I’d build her a castle with a moat and a bridge. I don’t have to go into work, so if you’d rather not spend the day with us—”
“Spending the day with you is exactly what I want.”
I feel my face flush. By “you” I meant the three of them: Kiki, Ben, and Craig. But maybe he thinks I meant only him. I decide not to clarify.
A silence falls between us. I wonder if he’ll kiss me. I wonder why he hasn’t tried anything yet. He must feel it, too, the electricity between us. It would be wrong, but I want it to happen. Maybe it’s because Patrick has been punishing me with silence. Maybe it’s because losing Nana made me realize how precious life is. Maybe it’s the beer. I don’t know. But I’m ready to throw caution to the wind. I’m ready for him to kiss me.
But he doesn’t.
Twenty-Seven
Cassie
Wednesday, July 18th
If I didn’t trust my own mind, I’d be convinced that my father was a hallucination.
Since seeing him on Main Street, I’ve kept tabs on Julie’s whereabouts—discreetly, of course. All she does is spend time with the handyman who may or may not be a serial killer but is most definitely obsessed with her. Other than the tune she was whistling, I have no reason to believe she’s seen our father.
This has only increased my paranoia. Too much is unknown at this point. My father’s exact location. The reason he has flown from Seattle to Montauk. Whether he’s even still here—and, if he is, where exactly he’s staying. Julie’s apparent ignorance of it. Most of all, there’s this: how does Julie know about Daniel and me?
I hate that she knows. I hate the way she looked at him when they met. Mischievous, shrewd. Like she was helping us keep our secret. Like we used to do, as children.
I don’t want her help. My situation is nothing like our parents’ triangular mess.
What I want is to find out how she knows about my most private relationship.
It can’t be public knowledge—Claudia would’ve told me. Rachel and Christina would never say anything. Daniel has checked Tatiana’s Facebook account: she and Julie don’t have any friends in common. I’ve run out of leads to chase.
But I haven’t given up. There has to be a way to get to the bottom of this.
These are the thoughts running through my head as I’m lounging on the hammock with a paperback. I look up when I hear a warm, raspy voice.
“Cassie? Oh dear, is that you?”
I turn around. For a minute, it’s like I’m looking at a ghost.
Is that…Mrs. Bunsen? I haven’t seen Nana’s friend in so long, but it looks just like her. I slowly make my way out of the hammock. It is her: flowered tunic, big, silver hair, cane.
“Let me help you, Mrs. Bunsen.” I hurry down the steps, offering my arm. It occurs to me that Nana climbed these same steps day in and day out in her old age. Craig-the-handyman could’ve made himself useful and built a ramp. Nana could’ve paid him in pictures of Julie.
“Oh, thank you dear,” Mrs. Bunsen says. “Mandy’s on her way.”
Mandy. The name is vaguely familiar. Where have I heard it before? But now is not the time to be asking questions. Climbing these steps is a challenge. I’m relieved once we’re on the porch. I pull up a chair for her.
“No need to fuss over me, dear. Park me anywhere.” She lets out a bubbly laugh. “That’s how it feels after we grow old, you know. People park you like a car. In my case, a rather large one.”
“This is a nice surprise.” I take a seat next to her. “How have you been?”
“All right, I suppose.” She pats my leg gently. “I miss Bertie.”
“I do, too,” I say. I feel a knot in my chest.
“I don’t mean to make you sad, dear. She wouldn’t have wanted that.” She looks around the porch, taking in the salt-heavy air. “This is what she wanted, you and your sister together. Wherever she is, she’s happy you’re both here.”
I resist the urge to point out that Julie and I are sharing a space—nothing else. Nana might’ve meant well, but she had no right to force a reconciliation between us. In a sense, I’m glad there’s no afterlife. If there was, Nana would be hurting. Disappointed to watch me spending my days ignoring Julie. Spying on her.
I can’t wait for this month to be over. Only eleven more days to go.
“Don’t be sad, Julie.”
“I’m Cassie, Mrs. Bunsen.” I make it a point to keep my tone gentle, soft, but I feel a familiar thrum of disappointment echo in my chest: Julie is always the one people want to see.
She eyes me curiously, like she thinks I’m playing a prank on her. But then she nods, laughing. “Of course you are. You’ll get names confused at my age, too.”
I clear my throat. “Can I get you anything? Some coffee or iced tea?”
“Mandy should be here by now. Where is she?”
“Mrs. Bunsen,” I begin, enunciating carefully. “Who is Mandy?”
“There she is.”
I follow her gaze to see a short, plump woman in a headscarf walking on the beach. I have no idea who she is, but I recognize the woman beside her. Julie.
“I’m confused, Mrs. Bunsen.”
“Did Bertie not tell you? She asked Mandy to come. We should’ve been here days ago, but my back gave out.”
Nana asked her to come? Oh, dear. I’m not sure what to do. I don’t think I have it in me to explain to her that Nana isn’t here anymore.
“Who is Mandy?” I ask again, leaning forward.
“My granddaughter, of course, Julie. Aren’t you forgetful? Your grandmother used to tell you about Mandy’s predictions all the time.”
Of course. Mandy is the meddlesome psychic who gave Nana the harebrained idea to bring Julie and me here after Nana’s death. I try to think back to my talks with Nana—had she mentioned that Mandy is Mrs. Bunsen’s granddaughter? It’s entirely possible she did. I used to tune out when Nana began talking about auras and spirit animals. I hate myself for not having paid more attention. I’ll never get to talk to her again.
Mrs. Bunsen’s eyes are glued to Julie and her granddaughter. The two of them look like old friends. They probably are friends, I realize. Julie visited Nana with some frequency, after all. Julie probably knew Mrs. Bunsen was coming and rudely did not tell me. I feel a jolt of irritation.
Julie and Mandy are strolling at a leisurely pace along the shore. If they had any manners, they’d take the rocky sand path that connects the houses on this part of the beach.
Then it occurs to me to use this time to my advantage.
“Mrs. Bunsen, did Nana talk to you about her plan to bring us here?”
“All the time, dear. You know, Bertie. She never liked the city.”
True, but irrelevant. I press on. “Did she say anything about asking our father to come, too?”
“I’ll tell you what she did say. She didn’t like your husband. I don’t think she’d mind me saying so.”
“Do you mean Julie’s husband?”
“Yes, of course. The lawyer. He isn’t good for Julie, my dear. She’s too trusting, too sweet. She’s not like you. I never understood how that happened. How you became so strong. She was raised by a single mother, she should be more resilient. You were lucky.”
I should take offense at this, but instead I press on. No time to waste.
“Did Nana mention bringing my father here?” I ask again.
“Bertie loved that boy. He could do no wrong in her eyes. But me, I’ll never forget how he refused to spend time with you two together, no matter how many times she begged him to.” She’s referring to Nana’s pleas that my father come to the island while Julie and I were both here. She insisted it was important that the two of us spend time with him together. Julie and I overheard her on the phone once, her voice an exa
sperated whisper. Come for the weekend, Stephan, she’d say to him. Surely, Katherine will understand. She can’t blame Julie. But my father never did. He said my mother wouldn’t stand for it, but I know better: he had no interest in spending time with Julie and me. It was probably too much for him, seeing his two worlds collide. My father’s most frequently used defense mechanism was compartmentalization.
Now that I think about it, it makes sense that her last wish to her son would be for him to honor the request that he never fulfilled while she was alive.
“Did she ask my father to come to the island now? With Julie and me here?”
“Of course she did. She wanted the three of you together. Four, if you count Craig.”
What in the world does Craig have to do with any of this?
I don’t get a chance to ask. Julie-the-sloth is now making her way up the porch steps. Mandy is right behind her.
“Mrs. Bunsen, I’ve missed you so much.” Julie wraps her arms around her, a gleeful smile on her face. I’m envious of her tan—weeks under the sun have given her skin a gorgeous golden hue.
“My pet. It’s so lovely to see you. And so beautiful, you’re like a movie star.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, though I have to admit she looks stunning and somehow younger. Maybe it’s the beachy waves (I much prefer them to the sleek, perfectly parted style) and the lip gloss.
“Hi, I’m Cassie.” I extend a hand to Mandy, who has smooth, rosy cheeks and an encouraging smile. She looks like a friendly teacher, not a kooky psychic.
“I recognize you from Bertie’s pictures.” She shakes my hand, smiling with her teeth, which are ultra-white and perfectly straight.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “Coffee, water?” I’ll play hostess for another five minutes. Then I’ll make up an excuse and drive into town. I’d rather be stuck in traffic.
Mandy shakes her head. “No coffee. Caffeine will interfere with the process.”
“Process?” I feel the ripples on my forehead.
“Oh, yes, dear,” Mrs. Bunsen says. “Mandy is here to look at your chakras.”
Of course she is.
Twenty-Eight
Julie
Wednesday, July 18th
Before Mandy and I came inside, Cassie shot me a contemptuous look, one that read this is all your fault. For the record: it isn’t.
I had no idea Nana had asked Mandy to visit us for a reading. She showed up at Craig’s, asking me to come over to Nana’s house. Kiki, Ben, and I had been right in the middle of breakfast. It’s lucky that Craig wasn’t at work because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to come. At least not without Kiki and Ben.
“You’re keeping a secret.” Mandy’s gaze is intense, but not uncomfortable.
I peer behind her shoulder, looking out the large window. Cassie is on the porch with Mrs. Bunsen. I’m surprised that she’s still here. I would’ve thought she’d bolt at the mere mention of the word chakra.
“Could we do this upstairs?” I whisper. We’re inside, seated at the dining table.
She lowers her voice. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear us. This is a safe space.”
There is no such thing as a safe space. Not when it comes to my secret.
“You feel divided,” she continues. “Like a rope being pulled on both sides.”
I think of Sophie. She’s still insisting that I gather information about Cassie and Daniel. I haven’t told her anything, obviously. Though it isn’t easy, ignoring her. Especially when her job is on the line. And I’ve thought about Janette’s point, about how an article about Cassie’s affair could jumpstart a career for me, maybe even get me a book deal.
But none of it matters. I am not going to be responsible for ruining Cassie’s life. Not again.
“I see more than one now,” Mandy says. “You have…many secrets.”
I swallow a smile. I’m a fan of psychic readings, but they’re usually private. The front door is closed, but what if Mandy is wrong? What if Cassie and Mrs. Bunsen can hear us?
“Your secrets are keeping you from your destiny.”
I slide my chair closer to hers. “What’s my destiny?”
“There is resentment. And bitterness. And so many crossed wires, I can barely see what’s ahead,” she pauses, looking up. “But there’s…something else. Something beautiful and golden. A river.” A shadow passes through her face. I hear the wind chimes outside. “But there’s blood in the river. A betrayal.”
I have to put a stop to this. I place my hand on hers.
“Can I ask you about my marriage?” A convenient interruption. I’d love to hear Mandy’s take on my relationship, especially after the fight Patrick and I had last night.
It started with a phone call. One that he initiated—the first time he’s called me since I’ve been here.
“I’m sending a car to pick you up,” he said. We had a party to attend—one I couldn’t miss. A partner at the firm wrote a book. Everyone was going to be at the launch on Martha’s Vineyard.
“I have to spend the night here,” I reminded him. I stared down at my bright orange, bitten-down nails and my dirty feet. I thought of how I’d been letting my hair air dry and how I hadn’t refilled my eyelash extensions since before I left Boston. I did not look like Patrick’s wife.
“The driver will take you back after the party. Did you bring any acceptable dresses with you or should I have Annalise pick a few outfits?”
I’m still unsure what made me react like I did. Maybe it was his tone. His arrogance. The way he seemed to be grooming me, like I was a prize mare. Maybe it was the fact that in all the time I’d been away he hadn’t bothered to ask me how I was doing, how I was feeling about being in my dead grandmother’s house with my estranged sister after nearly fifteen years of not speaking to each other. I don’t know. What I know is that I told him I wasn’t going to the party.
“I’m not asking, Julie. I’m informing you that a car will pick you up on Saturday at five.” His tone was not unlike the one Craig uses on Kiki and Ben.
“Fine. I’ll go with one condition.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I was outside on the porch. I didn’t want Cassie to overhear us. “You have to come pick me up.”
“Why would I do that?”
Because we need to meet halfway. Because I want you to show me you miss me—not just my presence at parties. Because I want you to see Nana’s house.
But I didn’t say any of these things.
Instead, I said, “Because it would make me happy to see you here. You could stay for the weekend. I can make a reservation at a hotel.”
“You know I like to go golfing on Sundays.”
“Please?” I asked. “Just this once?”
Just this once. I’d said those words before. Brunch with my dad. Janette’s birthday party. Dinner at U-Burger. All things I’d asked him to do instead of golfing or working or reading. He always refused. Sometimes it felt like I was married to a robot—and that Patrick was married to his routine.
I knew what his answer would be.
Sure enough, it didn’t surprise me.
“How about you go on a shopping spree instead?”
Here’s the thing: it’s my fault. For years, I said yes. To the shopping spree, to the shiny gifts. I told myself I was lucky. That I couldn’t have it all—no one did. It was ridiculous to expect that someone like Patrick—successful, well-connected, generous— would also be sociable and spontaneous.
Except I’ve changed. Maybe it’s being here. Maybe it’s the realization that motherhood isn’t something that I’m willing to give up on. Or seeing Craig’s uncomplicated happiness. Maybe it’s just that I’ve put some distance between us. Whatever the reason, I told Patrick no. And then I hung up. When he called back, I didn’t pick up. He called again this morning—three times so far—but I haven’t answered. If he hadn’t brought up Sophie in a text, I wouldn’t have even bothered to text him back. He punished me with silence for days. Now it’s my
turn.
Now, I’m staring at Mandy, wondering what she’ll say. It’s possible she’ll tell me my marriage is over, that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Or maybe she’ll say I did the right thing, that standing up for myself is just what I needed to clear my aura.
I hold my breath and I wait.
Twenty-Nine
Cassie
Wednesday, July 18th
I expected props. Crystal ball. Tarot cards. Candles.
Instead, Mandy is motionless, her gray eyes fixed on mine. Almost like she’s trying to hypnotize me. It would be spooky if she didn’t look so harmless.
“You should know I don’t believe in this sort of thing,” I say.
“You’re here by choice.” Her tone is peaceful. She’s got the Zen thing down to a T.
She’s wrong. I don’t have a choice—not really. I’m desperate. I need to know why my father is—was?—on the island. Mandy may have information.
Mrs. Bunsen’s words are still echoing in my mind. She became chatty once Julie was inside with Mandy. Bertie spent hours writing those letters. She wanted to get it just right. At first, I thought she was referring to letters Nana sent to me—and presumably to Julie as well. Nana resisted the switch to email, flat out refused to buy a computer. But then Mrs. Bunsen said something else. Bertie went through a lot of trouble to make sure you’d get them after she moved from this life. Your father, too. I teased her about being like that man in the P.S. I Love You film. Have you seen it, dear? It’s lovely. Her letters are lovely, too. And that turquoise stationery was heavenly.
It was the stationery detail that stood out to me. Nana used it for special occasions—birthdays, milestones. I tried pressing Mrs. Bunsen for more, but she became conveniently disoriented. I’m not entirely convinced her senility isn’t an act. Not that I’d ever come out and say it to her face. I’m not about to accuse an old woman of faking dementia symptoms.