by Cecilia Lyra
“Will you check on Daniel?”
“He’s fine.” He’s downstairs, waiting. I say make him wait. He’s making Cassie wait because of some stupid Labor Day party. “But we’re obviously not going out.”
“Yes we are,” she protests. “Chocolate Martinis at the Barracuda Bar.” She raises her fist in a pathetic attempt at enthusiasm.
“It’s raining. The Barracuda Bar is probably closed.” I put my palm on her forehead. “And the only thing you’ll be drinking tonight is tea.”
She groans but doesn’t press the matter. Which is definitive proof that she is sick. “Do you want me to get him?” I ask. He’ll have to go to his hotel eventually, he can’t stay the night, but they can at least hang out for a little while.
“Would you go?”
“Go where?”
“Out,” she says. “With Daniel.”
“And leave you here?” My voice goes up an octave. “Why on earth would we do that?”
“The plan,” Cassie mumbles.
Ah, yes. The plan. Earlier today, when she told me Daniel was joining us tonight, Cassie asked me to observe how Daniel acts around her. “I hate that I’m second-guessing myself,” she’d said. “But I need an outsider’s perspective. Just watch him with me. See if you think he loves me and only me. If he’s the kind of man who would have, you know, other other women.”
“How can I observe you two together when you’re not there?” I ask.
“You know men. It’s your superpower.”
“Do I need to remind you of my failed marriage?”
“Please?” she asks. “Craig isn’t joining us until later, is he?”
She knows he’s not. He’s joining us for late-night drinks once the kids are in bed. He trusts the sitter, but she’s never tucked them in before. They need their dad.
“I’m not going to be able to tell you much,” I say now.
“Come on, Jul. Do it for me.”
“If you can convince him to go out, then I will.”
“Challenge accepted,” she says. And then she lifts herself from the bathroom floor and proceeds to brush her teeth.
Daniel is hard to convince. He suggests we order in. I wholeheartedly agree.
“Can you two just go?” Cassie asks. She’s lying on the sectional couch. “I need to sleep it off and I won’t be able to do that with you here.”
“We’re not leaving you,” he says. I appreciate that his tone seems to suggest that her plan is ridiculous. He reaches for her hand. The gesture is tender, heartwarming.
“Craig is right next door. And he’s coming over later,” Cassie says. “Please? It’ll help me get better.”
“I don’t want to go without you.” He looks at me. “And I’m sure neither does Julie.”
“Agreed,” I say. “I can cook. What are you in the mood for?”
“We don’t have anything,” Cassie says, giving me some serious side-eye. “At least pick something up.”
“Are you even hungry?” he asks.
“I will be after a nap. It’s out of my system. I just need to rest now. And that way I won’t feel bad that you’re stuck inside because of me. It’s a compromise.”
“It’s raining. We’re supposed to stay inside.”
“It’s barely drizzling,” Cassie says.
As if on cue, we hear thunder. I know that Cassie wants a second opinion, but this is ridiculous. And it’s most certainly not drizzling.
“I’ll go. Julie can keep you company,” he says. Daniel is a tough negotiator. Maybe Cassie has found her match.
“You’re both going or I’ll be mad.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest and pouts. That seals it. She wins.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
The Westlake Fish House isn’t packed, but it is busy. An overworked server hurriedly informs us that there’s a forty-minute wait on all takeout orders.
“Minimum,” he adds, for emphasis. “It’s the rain. People order in.”
“Want to go someplace else?” Daniel asks me. His tone is casual, friendly.
“I don’t mind,” I say. We’ll be waiting wherever we go.
We place our orders, take a seat by the bar, and each order two beers—I’m happy Daniel is not a wine bully like Cassie. They’re playing Bossa Nova in the background, a song I recognize because it’s one Patrick likes. It’s funny how I think of him but don’t miss him.
Daniel asks about Cassie right away. Predictable questions (What was she like as a child? How did it work, our relationship as summer sisters?), but also deeper, more thoughtful questions (Do I feel like she’ll be OK after the conversation with Dad? Is there anything we’d like to do to honor Nana’s life now that she’s gone?). He expresses happiness about us having mended our friendship and regret that he’ll never get to meet Nana. He talks about Cassie with a mixture of awe and pride. And yet he seems to see her—all of her. Past the armor, the tough exterior. By the time the server lets us know that our food should be coming out shortly, I realize two things:
He hasn’t uttered a single sentence that wasn’t about Cassie.
And I’ve never seen a man more in love with his girlfriend. (I’m sticking to girlfriend. I hate all the other terms.)
I text Cassie when he excuses himself to go to the restroom.
Today 8:46 P.M.
He loves you. I have no doubt.
Today 8:46 P.M.
Are you sure????
Today 8:47 P.M.
You’re the one who said I have a superpower, remember?
Today 8:47 P.M.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! I AM SO HAPPY!
On the drive back home, I decide to act like a normal sister-in-law, which is to say: grill him mercilessly about his intentions with Cassie.
“We have something else in common other than Cassie,” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“We’re both in bad marriages.”
After a month with the Fire Princess, the Sky Princess has mastered the art of direct confrontation.
“True.” A sad smile.
“I asked Patrick for a divorce,” I tell him. I don’t add that since then I’ve been experiencing equal parts fear and excitement. And something else, too. I’ve felt…liberated.
“Cassie mentioned that.” This is yet another sign of how close they are: they tell each other everything. Or at least she does. “How did he take it?”
“Not well. But it had to be done. I’m hiring a lawyer when I get back.”
“He’s a lawyer, right?”
“Yep.”
“Ouch. Divorcing a lawyer can’t be easy.”
“Do you have one?”
“Do I have what?”
“A lawyer.”
A pause. And then: “You don’t have kids, do you?”
“No.” It’s my least favorite question in the world. Even more than, What do you do for a living? It brings me a small amount of comfort to know there’s a chance that maybe one day Kiki and Ben will be my children.
I need to stop making plans though. I’m no longer a Charlotte. I’m a Carrie.
If Cassie were here, she’d tell me that I’m not a character from Sex and the City. I’m Julie—and that’s better than anyone else.
“It’s complicated when there are children involved,” he says.
I don’t disagree. I know about the situation with his daughter, although I’ve forgotten her name now. Not that I’d bring that up.
“I never thought I’d get divorced,” I say.
“Does anyone?”
“Some people are more open to the idea. I was very much till-death-do-us-part.”
It’s what I told myself when things got tough with Patrick. When I worried that I’d made a mistake. I had to hold on to the idea of a real family as something indestructible. Something different from the scattered pieces I had as a kid.
I’m about to offer to refer him to my lawyer when I hear a loud, screeching sound, followed by a crashing noise coming f
rom a distance. I can’t pinpoint its exact origin, but it sounds like it happened up ahead. Close to us.
“Was that a car?” Daniel asks me.
“I think so?” I don’t drive, but I know that accidents are that much more common when it’s raining. Especially now that’s it’s dark.
“That was loud. No one’s walking away from that.”
I feel a hollow shiver run through my body as he says that. I close my eyes and send a silent prayer to whoever was in that accident. Please, God, let them be OK.
Sixty-One
Cassie
Friday, July 27th
The encouragement brought by Julie’s text only lasts a second.
As soon as I put my phone down, I see him: a lone, soaked figure on Nana’s porch. My father. It’s dark outside, but the lights are on in the living room, which is how I know he can see me, too, through the glass windows. Our eyes lock.
I make my way to the door, swallowing my fear. I have no reason to be afraid. Still, I shiver as I open it and hear the wind chimes tinkling urgently. Their music is different against the rainy background.
“Cassie,” he says. “Is Julie here?” He’s wetter than I’d expect. Like he walked all the way over here without an umbrella. Which would be impossible, of course. I peer behind him. An unfamiliar car is in the driveway. I’m not sure how I didn’t hear him arriving, probably because of the rain.
“No,” I say. “What do you want?”
“This is my house, too.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It will be. I’m contesting the will.”
I scoff, shaking my head. I wish Julie were here to hear him say this so casually, like he’s within his rights. I knew he was up to something. Why else would he have come? It certainly wasn’t to respect Nana’s wishes.
“On what grounds?”
“Funny thing about New York law, a will can be contested for pretty much any reason.” A pause. I doubt that’s true. Still, I feel a lump forming in my throat. “Your grandmother wasn’t herself towards the end. Why else would she have overlooked her only son?”
“I thought we covered that when we last spoke. You were a disappointment to her.”
“I don’t think that’s how a judge will see it. I have more than enough evidence to the contrary.” He tilts his head to the side. “Of course, we could come to an agreement. Avoid the litigation.”
I let out a low laugh. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Nana’s will was perfectly clear and Julie and I have done our part. As of tomorrow, this place will be ours.”
I begin to close the door, but he blocks it with his foot. I push, but he does, too—and I’m no match for him. He steps forward and I step back, a sick tango. He’s inside the house now.
“I think you should hear me out,” he says. “Unless you want the world to find out that Miss Couple’s Therapist is sneaking around with a married guy.”
It feels like all the air has left the room. I struggle to hold myself upright. To breathe.
“Sophie told me everything,” he continues. “I should thank you for that, by the way. I wouldn’t have called her if you and your sister hadn’t made such a big deal about how messed up you are. Tell me: does he have kids? Not that I’m judging: I know how complicated these things can be.” He stares at me for an extra beat, his mouth open in a perverse grin. I can’t bring myself to say anything. My mind is spinning uncontrollably. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ve already contacted a private investigator. I’ll know soon enough.”
“Leave,” I say, my heart thumping against my ribcage.
“Here’s how this is going to work. We’ll sell the house. You and Julie can keep half the money. If you think about it, you’ll see that I’m being generous here.”
I stare into his eyes. The Meyer emerald green, like mine and Julie’s. Like Nana’s. But on him, the color looks off, like it’s infected. Eyes of a sick man. Because that’s what he is. I take a deep breath and steady myself. He’s not going to push me around. Not anymore.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I begin.
“Save it, Cassie—”
I raise my hand. “But even if I did, I’d never give in to you. I don’t care what you do. You think you know something?” I grit my teeth and stare at him. “Do your worst. I’m not scared of you anymore.”
I see him clench his fists and for a split second I think that he actually might hurt me. But I’m not going to be ruled by fear. I’m not going to back down. He’s taken so much from me already. He’s not taking this house.
“Fine.” He sneers. “I’ll keep it all to myself then. I’ll probably sell it.” He cranes his neck, as if appraising the house.
“What’s wrong, are you short on cash?” I ask. “Couldn’t find another rich woman to exploit now that you’re old and balding?”
He isn’t balding—but he is vain.
“Or maybe I’ll keep it and let your sister visit.” He runs his tongue against his inner cheek. “She’s a lot nicer.”
“We agree on that much.”
“You know, I understand why your grandmother was able to forgive her. She was always soft, and God knows she never liked Katherine.” He tilts his head. “What I don’t understand is how you were able to get over it.”
“What are you talking about?” I feel my forehead crease.
He raises his eyebrows, a smile spreading on his lips. “Ah, so you didn’t read the letter after all.”
“What letter?”
“The letter your grandmother left me. If you’d read it, you’d know what your sister did.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stares at me intently. “Julie was the one who sent those pictures to your mom.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. My voice is only a whisper. I feel queasy, weak. “Sophie sent those pictures.” I expect a lot from my father. Selfishness. Greed. All manners of cowardly behavior. But I didn’t expect this. This is a new low, even for him.
“I thought so, too. I only found out it was Julie weeks after your mom died.” He looks to the side. “Do you want to know how? It was her handwriting. On the envelope. By then Sophie wouldn’t take me back.”
I blink. Once, then twice. “Julie would never do that.”
“Maybe you should ask her.”
I picture telling Julie what our father has said about her. She’ll be devastated, I’m sure. But maybe it’ll be good, in the long run. Maybe she’ll finally take off her rose-colored glasses and come to grips with who he really is.
“Leave,” I say again.
He gives out an ugly laughter, turns around, and marches out the door.
I watch as he gets inside the car. I want him off my property. How dare he say these things about Julie? Is he that desperate for money—has he blown through my mom’s inheritance? Or is it out of spite, because he resents Julie and me being back in each other’s lives? I’ve always suspected he loved our estrangement. Unhappy people want everyone else to be unhappy, too. It’s something Nana used to say.
Except something is still bothering me. Something he said. So you didn’t read the letter after all.I’d told him I read Nana’s letter to him. Back in his hotel room. I didn’t specify that it was the one he hadn’t received.
I hear a low rumble of an engine. I’m not sure what makes me step outside, but I do. I stare into his car. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence. The twisted thing that lives inside him.
“Wait,” I shout. I hurry down the porch steps, in the rain, to his car. Pain shoots up my ankle. I’m about to knock on the window, but he lowers it.
“Prove it,” I say. My breath is ragged in my throat. “Show me the letter.”
“Get in,” he says.
“I’m not getting in a car with you.”
“Then follow me in yours.” He rolls his eyes. I look at my ankle, still swollen. There’s no way I can drive. “Do you want to read it or not?”
It’s a stupid move. Not just gett
ing into a car with my father—but indulging his lunacy. He’s bluffing. He has to be. But something’s been nagging at me. A memory, a feeling, lodged inside my brain. I can’t let this go.
I get in the car.
We’re on Old Montauk Highway by the time I realize that I left my phone behind. Julie and Daniel are probably heading back. What will they think when they arrive at the house and don’t see me? I know Daniel’s number by heart. I could call him from the hotel. Or I could ask Elle to use her phone. I’m not about to ask to use my father’s.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” I ask. We’ve been driving in silence until now. The only noise is coming from the windshield wiper, rubbery and busy.
“Elle left.” His voice is steely, cold. And then: “Because of what you said to her.”
Now it makes sense, why he came all the way here. Why he’s making up these lies.
“Good for her,” I say.
“It’s for the best,” he says. “Who knows? Now that Sophie and I are talking again…” He taps the steering wheel with the tip of his fingers. “We’ve always gotten along well, her and me.” A wave of nausea hits me, a familiar response when hearing my dad talk about Sophie. “Maybe this time you two can get along,” he continues, a smirk on his face. “Now that you know it’s not her fault your mom’s dead.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Sure you do.” He clicks his tongue. “Admit it, Cassie. A part of you has always known. Why else would you have stopped speaking to Julie like that?”
He glances at me expectantly. I turn away.
“The more you think about it, the more it’ll make sense,” he continues, as I stare out the window. I can barely see anything because the rain is coming down harder now. “An impulsive move like that? That’s classic Julie.” I hear him suck in air through his teeth. “I feel bad for her, always have. She’s always been so hard on herself. It’s why I never told her I knew about what she’d done.”