The Seasonaires

by Janna King

  “I don’t like drugs,” said Mia. “My mom has cancer. She’s had to take so many and I’ve seen their side effects.”

  “I understand.” Dr. Lambert wrote out a prescription. “This is in no way a permanent solution, but insomnia can wreak havoc on you emotionally and physically, so you need to take care of it.”

  Mia reached over and took the scrip from the doctor, putting it in her purse. “I’ll think about it.”

  Dr. Lambert nodded. “Tell me how else you’re feeling.”

  “I’m sad, of course.” Mia played with her blue enamel bangles. “I’m freaked-out, because someone was shot.”

  “Scared, yes.” Dr. Lambert nodded again.

  “And angry.”

  “Mm-hm.” Dr. Lambert tapped her pen once on the larger notepad.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” said Mia, squeezing her hands together. “I came here to get away from the feelings I’m having now, so this is really, really fucked up. It’s fucked up for everyone involved.”

  “What else are you angry about?”

  “I don’t like that everything I do needs to be for public consumption. Maybe I’m pissed at myself because I knew that going into this job. Social media has never been a huge pastime of mine.”

  “What are your pastimes?” asked Dr. Lambert.

  “I sew, draw, cook . . .” Mia shrugged.

  “Are you doing those things?”

  “I was, before—” Mia shook her head.

  “What have you been doing?”

  Mia didn’t answer. Dr. Lambert leaned forward. “When tragedy and change occur, there’s comfort in the normalcy of day-to-day life.”

  “But life isn’t normal here,” remarked Mia.

  “What do you mean?” Dr. Lambert leaned back.

  Mia motioned out the window. “It’s Nantucket, the dream life.”

  “The only dream life is the one you have when you sleep,” said Dr. Lambert. “Do you remember yours?”

  Mia shook her head. She stared past Dr. Lambert at the bowl of apples on the desk.

  Dr. Lambert looked at the apples. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you.” Mia focused on an apple, a shiny red one without a stem. “I do remember a piece of a dream I had. But this was before Grant died, like a week after I got here.”

  Dr. Lambert watched Mia.

  “I was walking home from the bodega near my apartment with apples for my mom.” Mia smiled. “She loves apples.” Her smile faded. “But I couldn’t remember how to get back, even though I live a couple blocks away. And my phone wouldn’t dial. I tried and tried to reach everyone I knew . . . and then I woke up.”

  Dr. Lambert wrote on her pad. Mia peered over, but she couldn’t read the doctor’s curlicue writing.

  “You’re going to say that the apple is like a symbol of temptation, right?” Mia picked up the sand tray’s tiny rake. She scraped straight and circular lines.

  “What do you think it’s a symbol of?” asked Dr. Lambert.

  “The answering a question with a question thing doesn’t work for me.” Mia scrubbed the sand with the rake.

  “Apples can symbolize temptation, yes,” said Dr. Lambert. “They can also mean wisdom or spiritual growth.”

  Mia sat back on the couch, still holding the rake. She started to cry. Dr. Lambert handed her a box of tissues from the coffee table. Mia wiped her eyes, weeping for a few cathartic minutes.

  “‘Embrace your grief. For there, your soul will grow,’” said Dr. Lambert. “That’s a quote from Carl Jung, a psychiatrist who believed that dream images are not just our own, but part of a bigger picture.”

  Mia placed the tiny rake back in the sand tray. “Let me ask you a question, Dr. Lambert.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Lambert leaned forward.

  Mia sighed wearily. “What’s a soul?” She could see that a question to her question was coming, so she got up and left.

  FORTY-ONE

  After another sleepless night, Mia broke down and took an Ambien. She slept like she’d been hit in the head by a ball-peen hammer. Dragging herself out of bed the next day, she picked up her smartphone and checked the time. She focused her blurry eyes enough to see it was past noon and she had a text from Presley:

  Hi, Sleeping Beauty. Went to do a little retail therapy. Tried to wake you, but #fail.

  Mia clicked off her phone. “Coffee,” she said to herself. She made her way downstairs to find Nadege weeping as she dusted the foyer shutters.

  Mia went to her. “Nadege, what happened?”

  “I feel terrible,” whimpered Nadege. “I think they took Vincent because of me.”

  “What do you mean?” Mia saw the front door open. Cole entered, sweaty from a run. She gave him a concerned look with a nod to Nadege, who covered her face with one hand.

  “A Detective Miller was here,” said Nadege. “He asked me some questions about July Fourth.”

  “You didn’t have to answer any questions, Nadege,” said Cole as Mia led her to the bottom stairs, where they sat. Cole stood in front of them.

  “My mother is here from Haiti.” Nadege shook her head. “I’m not making any trouble for her. All I told him was that I didn’t see any of you after you left on July Fourth. And then he asked to speak with Vincent. I pointed him to the guest cottage, then I saw Vincent follow him out in the car. Vincent’s back now, but when he saw me, he turned away.”

  “I’m going to go see if he’s okay,” said Mia.

  She walked along the driveway and knocked on the guest cottage door. Vincent answered. He had a bottle of Pinot Grigio in one hand and an empty wineglass in the other.

  “Hi,” said Mia.

  “Care for some wine before I drink this whole bottle?” Vincent stepped back for Mia to enter, pouring himself a full glass.

  Mia waved him off. “I already have an Ambien hangover.”

  Vincent shut the door behind her. “I took that shit until I woke up on my doorstep, naked, with a half-eaten Big Mac on my chest.”

  “I thought you were a vegetarian.”

  “Exactement.” Vincent took a healthy sip of wine.

  “I came to see if you were okay.” Mia looked around the mini version of the main house.

  “No. I’m not okay.” Vincent sat on one of the kitchen counter stools. “I was just questioned about the murder of someone I happened to like. Grant was an idiot, but I liked him.”

  “I liked him, too,” said Mia, sitting on the stool next to him. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened,” said Vincent. “I was with my friends. They told that to the police and so did everyone working at the restaurant that night.”

  “Why did they question you if Ruby Taylor killed Grant?”

  “You know why, Mia.” Vincent offered a sideways smile. “Somehow the police knew, too. Like we talked about at the stable, nothing is private and it’s our own fucking fault.” He finished off his wine.

  “I wanted to ask you something that day . . .” Mia touched one of the magenta roses in the vase on the counter.

  “I’m an open book. Catch me before I shut and lock with one of those little keys, like a . . . ?” He mimed turning a tiny key. “What’s the word?”

  “A diary,” replied Mia.

  “Yes.” Vincent lifted his index finger. “Read me. I’m a diary.”

  “Did Grant ever hurt you? You said the marks on your neck were from climbing up the dock.”

  “No. Jamais.” Vincent looked into Mia’s eyes. “I don’t have abusive relationships anymore.”

  “Was Otto Hahn an abusive relationship?”

  “Ah, you are going back in my diary,” Vincent chuckled dryly. “He wasn’t a relationship.”

  “What was he?”

  “A mistake.” Vincent poured more wine in his glass.

  A rose petal dropped in front Mia. “I read about him, and he’s done some really vile things.”

  “A lot of people do vile things,
especially in this business.” Vincent shrugged.

  Mia went on, “I saw an anonymous quote from a photographer who worked for him years ago. He said Otto berated him in public. He threw caviar in his face at a party! Fish eggs!” Mia searched for a reaction from Vincent, who polished off half his glass in one swallow.

  “I was seventeen.”

  Mia let this confirmation sink in. “Why didn’t you leave or report it?”

  Vincent placed his empty glass on the counter with a clink. “Dix-sept.” Vincent put up ten fingers, then seven. “I moved here from Pont-de-Flandre, which sounds pretty but it’s not. And I fell into a job with the hottest clothing line in the world.”

  “So many women have spoken out about his atrocious behavior.”

  “You know what people say? ‘Sour grapes,’” replied Vincent, with a sad head shake. “That some girls were pissed because he stopped paying attention to them. He wouldn’t fire them. He’d just be a shit till they left.”

  “I know guys like that.” Mia took a sip of Vincent’s wine. “They’re not as slimy as Otto, but—”

  “Cole is not like that.” Vincent winked. He took the glass from Mia and drank.

  Mia returned to the main house, still hazy from the Ambien and the conversation. She walked up to the bedroom for a nap and found Presley on the bed, reading her iPad. Shopping bags dotted the floor, including two from Lyndon Wyld.

  “The police talked to Nadege and Vincent,” said Mia, plunking down on her bed.

  “Cole told me,” replied Presley.

  “I don’t understand why.” Mia played with her bangles.

  “I do.” Presley pointed to her iPad. “Toxicology reports came back. Your pity project Ruby Taylor was so wasted, she couldn’t have lifted a gun, let alone pull the trigger. They released her. It may have been a drug deal gone wrong.”

  Mia looked at Presley. “Should we—?”

  “No.” Presley scrolled through Twitter. “But look what’s trending.”

  Mia’s eyes fell on the slew of tweets about the murder, marked with one hashtag:

  #whodunnwyld

  FORTY-TWO

  At the police station, in the investigation room, Detective Miller put a baggie with a gold diamond-tipped coke spoon on the metal table in front of Otto, who sat in a chair with his hands folded.

  “This was found at the scene. It had your prints on it,” said Miller, leaning on the table.

  “That’s because it’s mine,” Otto replied with his customary arrogance. “I use it to put sugar in my coffee.” He held his thumb and forefinger millimeters apart. “Keeps me thin.”

  “Was the gun yours, too?” asked Miller.

  “Make love, not war.” Otto made a peace sign. “That’s what my folks taught me.”

  “Would you call what you did to Ruby Taylor making love?”

  “You’re getting really personal here, detective.” Otto clucked his tongue.

  Miller sat down in the chair across the table. “You’ve had a history of personal relationships with your employees.”

  Otto frowned at the detective. “This is my private life, you know?”

  “Not according to the videos we found online,” said Miller, tilting his chair back on two legs. “We didn’t have to dig deep. They were right out there for all to see.”

  “What videos?” Otto’s eyes widened, innocently.

  “I’ll be happy to show them to you and refresh your memory.”

  Otto leaned in. “There’s one video that counts. It’s the Nantucket Channel 14 news footage. I arrived at the house in a car long after the unfortunate event. Now, I don’t want to do your job for you, but I wasn’t close enough to walk there, like on the beach, for instance.”

  Miller scowled.

  “Ruby texted me to come over,” added Otto, showing Miller a text from “Unknown Number”:

  It’s Ruby. My phone broke, so I borrowed 1. Meet me at the house

  “Sweet thing,” Otto smiled. “But I never went. I was otherwise occupied at my hotel with Axel, one of my seasonaires, and two girls he met. You can talk to them.”

  After letting Miller get a good look at the text, he put his phone back in his pocket.

  “Now I’m done here. If you have more questions, talk to my attorney.” Otto pinched his own nipple. “He’s kind of a freak. I mean, we’re all freaks, right?”

  “Not all of us,” said Miller.

  Otto leaned forward again, grinning. “All of us, especially those of us who say, ‘not all of us.’”

  Mia hurried down the hallway as she read the text from her mom:

  See you in a bit!

  “I want to come with,” whined Presley on Mia’s heels. “I’m the best welcome wagon. Remember when we met?”

  “Yes. You’re ‘a hugger,’” replied Mia. “That’s exactly why you can’t come. I don’t need you hooking up with my brother right now.”

  “Well that’s presumptuous, sugar.”

  “You basically said as much when I was Skyping with him.” Mia stopped and turned to Presley, speaking in a low tone. “Shit is complicated enough, don’t you think?”

  Presley’s and Mia’s faces were close. “Only if you make it that way,” replied Presley. “You’re not going to talk to them about anything, right?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re you,” said Presley.

  “Well, you’re you. You’re not coming.” Mia continued along the hall and down the stairs.

  “I’m going to meet him later anyway,” called Presley.

  “Later is better than sooner.” Mia blew out the front door, holding an aluminum Lyndon Wyld monogrammed water bottle so her mom had hydration on the long ride back.

  Vincent waited for her at the G as Cole loped up the driveway, finishing up another run. He stopped, putting his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “I promise not to be sweaty and stinky when your mom and brother get here.”

  “That would be nice,” Mia chuckled.

  Cole waved and jogged toward the house.

  “Excited?” asked Vincent, noticing Mia’s gaze linger on Cole, whose muscles glistened in a loose tank.

  “Very,” Mia replied, turning back to climb in the car.

  Vincent raised an eyebrow and laughed.

  “About my mom and my brother visiting.” Mia gave him a deadpan look as he took the driver’s seat and started off. She put the water bottle on the floor next to her feet and noticed something sparkle against the aluminum: it was her broken mermaid teardrop pendant necklace just underneath the seat. She slipped it into her purse, sat up, and exhaled.

  Motoring through town, they passed a mint-condition gold 1960s Camaro. Otto Hahn was driving, wearing white-rimmed sunglasses and a Wear National knit cap, even though it was the dead of summer. He grinned, pointing at Vincent. “Vinnie!”

  “Fils de pute,” grumbled Vincent, driving on. He glanced at Mia. “You heard Ruby Taylor was released?”

  “Yes,” replied Mia, even more relieved she had found the necklace. They were silent for a few minutes, but when they hit the winding stretch of road, Mia launched into a conversation about movies to make sure the subjects stayed light. Vincent enjoyed documentaries like she did, but surprisingly, he was a fan of animated films.

  “Monsters, Inc. is a masterpiece!” he said with a wave of his hand.

  They arrived at The Wauwinet. Mia took in the lush grounds. “My mom is going to love this.”

  “What about your brother?” asked Vincent.

  “He’s going to pretend he hates it, but he’ll love it, too.”

  They walked to the hotel’s private dock and watched a shimmering white forty-five-foot boat glide in.

  “There’s your precious cargo.” Vincent nudged Mia, who smiled.

  When Mia saw Sean helping Kathryn down the boat’s ramp, her body swelled with emotion. She raced to her mother, wanting to spill everything, but stopped in her tracks. Seeing her mom outside in the sunshine instea
d of in bed under their apartment’s dim lights filled her with joy. Kathryn beamed at the sight of Mia. They continued toward each other.

  Sean caught Mia in the first hug, lifting her up. “Hey, turd.”

  “Hey, turd.” Mia wouldn’t let herself cry. That would upset her mom. Mia gently put her arms around Kathryn’s tiny waist. Kathryn planted kisses over Mia’s face, like she used to do when Mia was a little girl.

  “Are you okay, baby?” she whispered.

  “I’m okay,” Mia lied.

  Vincent snapped heartfelt shots. He landed on one with mother, daughter, and son, and asked Sean for his social handles.

  “I’m not on any of that stuff,” said Sean.

  Vincent sniffed, eyebrows raised. “All righty.” He readied a post on Lyndon Wyld’s Instagram.

  “Wait—” Sean started to protest, but Mia touched his arm.

  “Sean, please,” pleaded Mia.

  “Fine,” said Sean. Vincent posted.

  Mia and Vincent got Kathryn and Sean situated at the hotel.

  “Who would want to ever leave here?” said Kathryn, seeing her room. Mia smiled.

  “Do you like it, Sean?” asked Mia.

  “It’s all right,” replied Sean with a chuckle. Mia exchanged a glance with Vincent.

  Kathryn’s awestruck gasps punctuated the ride back. She didn’t care that the roads were filled with curves and turns. “It’s like a Disneyland ride.” She giggled, sipping the water Mia brought. “At least it’s what I think a Disneyland ride is like.” Mia squeezed her hand, appreciating her exhilarated expression.

  They drove up to the estate to find Presley sashaying out the front door toward them.

  “Well, hey there!” She wore a flowing maxi dress with a thigh high slit to show off her legs. Her blond hair was in beach-goddess waves. Mia was sorry she’d given her the time to primp.

  “This is Presley,” she said, looking at the driveway’s gravel.

  Presley hugged Mia’s mom. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Daniels. I love your daughter!”

  Mia held her breath as Presley hugged Sean. “And you must be Sean!”

  Sean furrowed his brow at Mia over Presley’s shoulder.