by L. C. Warman
“We went to high school together,” Lia said, forcing herself to speak. “I guess you two know each other already.”
“Oh, I know all of Harry’s friends,” Alyssa said, smiling.
“How are you holding up?” Lucas asked, still addressing Lia. Oh, God, she thought, please don’t bring it up. Not in front of—“I was wondering if I could get your help with something, when you’re done with your drink.”
Lia resisted the urge to throw it back in one gulp.
“Perfect,” she said, and Lucas smiled, the expression lighting up his clear blue eyes. She blushed again—the alcohol, Lia decided. She spotted Paulette walking behind him, and Lucas’s and Alyssa’s gazes soon followed hers. Paulette seemed distraught, whispering fiercely to a man Lia recognized as Harry’s older brother, James, and a tall woman with square shoulders that had to be James’s wife Mariel. The latter two were looking nervously about the room, as if suspicious of eavesdroppers.
“She’s had a bit of a shock,” Lucas said. “She’ll be fine.”
“Shock?” Alyssa said sharply. Her buoyant mood evaporated. “What do you mean? Where’s Harry?”
“Somewhere around here. It’s fine,” Lucas said, casting Alyssa a surprised look. She blinked rapidly and glanced back at Paulette.
“I should go over there and talk to her,” Alyssa said, but she remained rooted on the spot.
Lia downed her drink in two more long sips. “Okay,” she said to Lucas, brandishing her empty glass at him as a warm buzz ran through her veins. “Ready.”
As she left, Lia cast a final glance back at Alyssa, who seemed to have entirely forgotten her existence. Her face was white, and she was staring intently at Paulette McKenzie.
Chapter 14
“Look,” Lucas said. “I know you didn’t blackmail anybody.”
Lia blinked up at him. He had told her, when they were out of earshot of Alyssa, that he in fact had no favor to ask of her, but wanted to talk alone. About Paulette’s accusation.
They were seated on the window bench at the top of the stairs, both perched on plump cushions next to the frosty glass. If Lia looked up, she could see an expanse of midnight sky speckled with stars and could almost forget that she was trapped back in St. Clair, with the ghosts of her past life scattered all around her.
“I didn’t,” Lia repeated.
“But you should know something,” Lucas said.
Lia blinked up at him. She had never really noticed Lucas in high school: he had been quiet then, smaller, both in stature and how he carried himself. What had made him bloom these past ten years? What had been his secret, when Lia had felt all she had done was wither?
“Know what?” Lia said, massaging her throat.
“She’s a bit…litigious,” Lucas said. “She employs my father’s firm. She’s already talked about getting a lawyer, sending a cease-and-desist…even if she doesn’t want to call the police, she still might try something like this.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Doesn’t matter—you can be threatened by lawyers no matter how innocent you are,” Lucas said, shrugging apologetically. “But my advice? Don’t respond to any of it. Lay low. How long did you say you’re in town for?”
“Just the holidays.”
A strange look passed over his face at this. “Well,” he said. “You should be fine then. But I want to give you my number—call me when you get anything from her. I’ll help you respond. Or not respond, as the case may be.”
Lia didn’t know what to say to this. Could Paulette sue her over something like this? Defamation? Slander? What was the right term? And it didn’t matter if Paulette never proved anything—Lia had no money at all and would be wiped clean after just a day of lawyer’s fees. Was that what she was up against? Her stomach twisted.
She pulled out her phone and texted Lucas her number, feeling all the while that she might be sick.
And she wondered—was it possible that someone else in Paulette’s small circle knew?
Chapter 15
Arthur McKenzie smoked a pipe on the balcony of his younger brother’s mansion, wrapped in a silk robe with a pair of thick emerald slippers on his feet. The air was bitingly cold, more so after his shower, but Arthur found that he liked the sharpness of it. It made him think.
Paulette had come to him, hysterical, the night before. He never liked hysterical women. He didn’t understand why women just couldn’t get that men took them less seriously when they let their emotions come into play. Even last night, he had had to tend to Paulette, coaxing her into the car, whispering that all would be all right, just to get her to shut up long enough to draw a breath and stop making such a scene.
How Arthur hated scenes!
And he had driven her back home—that is to say, back to the mansion she used to share with Arthur’s brother—and had put her to bed with a cup of tea and a promise that all would seem better in the morning. It hadn’t, of course; Paulette had been restless and unsettled during the night, and her first words at breakfast were, “I’m going to call my lawyers about it and see what might be done!” Which wouldn’t have been so bad, Arthur supposed, if she hadn’t subsequently burst into tears.
All he could get from her was that someone was trying to blackmail her. Over what, Paulette did not say. Oh, she mentioned vague things about money and slander and libel (Arthur didn’t correct her), but she carefully avoided the topic of what she thought she was being blackmailed over. She had shown him the note; it had been enough for Arthur to deduce that Paulette thought she knew exactly what secret the writer referenced and was afraid of it. But why?
Arthur took another puff of the pipe and watched the smoke curl above his head, the sharp scent of it stinging his nostrils. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten involved with Paulette. His brother’s widow—that had certainly set their circles talking! But he was in a vulnerable place, just then. She had sensed it, like a spider. If he could go back and do it all again…
But he couldn’t, of course. He was stuck with her. One did not just leave a woman like Paulette McKenzie.
He thought back to his time at the university. How simple things had been then! Arthur had been a bachelor all his life; it had been uncomplicated, easy. He had risen up the ranks of the modest university in the nearby city—not as prestigious as the larger college two hours away, but close enough that Arthur could continue living in St. Clair, could build a modest and comfortable life for himself without throwing his mind and body into work that had been so treacherous for so many of his colleagues. Right out of grad school, he had gotten a phone call from a former advisor who had suggested he take a tenure-track position in Idaho—Idaho! It was all Arthur could do not to laugh him off the phone.
The job in the city had been much better. Less competition, for one, and Arthur, who did his work quietly and solidly and without much fanfare, got regular promotions each year, joined committees every so often, and once in a while even got an award for something or other, though he had long since stopped attempting to publish his literature theory in journals.
He had his excitement, in those years—a sabbatical in Japan, a visiting professorship in Scotland, the publication of two books on the art of criticism (one which did moderately well, and the other which flopped spectacularly). He had girlfriends, too, women that came into his life and out, none of them ever asking too much of him except his companionship, for Arthur always made it clear that family life was not for him.
And then his brother had to go and die.
It had been a nasty shock. Heart attack—quick and unexpected. Not the worst way to go, Arthur would sometimes muse. But if he had to choose, he wouldn’t pick that way. Paulette had been inconsolable. The children had been sad, of course. Arthur had hated, absolutely despised the way that he had to act at the funeral, patting shoulders and heads and nodding sagely while saying things like “Everything will be all right.” It bloody well wouldn’t! But he was the older brother, after all, the one expected to hold it tog
ether when everything else was falling apart.
He hadn’t meant to ask Paulette out, four months later. If he had been thinking logically about it, he would have realized what a godawful idea that was. He had merely phoned her up, thinking that it had been two months since he had spoken to her last, and not wanting to tell his graduate student assistant any longer that “things were going on as expected” lest she should suspect he was not the attentive brother-in-law and uncle that he purported to be.
Paulette had just been so…happy to hear from him. That was what had done it. It had melted Arthur’s resentment away. He felt gay and jovial, fluffed up with self-importance. They should talk more often, he declared! They should all get together, he cried! And in the meantime, the two of them should grab dinner, he insisted!
Only when Arthur had hung up did he realize the weight of what he had done.
There was no denying that Paulette thought it a date—certainly not after he picked her up that night. She had chosen a restaurant that had made him think so, and had picked a Friday night, albeit early, for them to go out. Her makeup was subtle, he gave her that, but she had put on a fancy dress and (Arthur had looked for it) high heels, the kind that, in his mind, were utterly ridiculous.
The thing was, he had enjoyed himself that night. Very much so. Paulette, beneath her needling desire for attention, was fun company. She was smart and engaging. And she admired him, ardently—that was a quality he could always appreciate in a woman. He had not minded at all when she had brought up dinner again. On the fifth date, they kissed. On the seventh, Paulette asked him how they should explain it to the kids.
The kids! It was bad enough having a dead brother looming over the relationship. Oh, Arthur cared for his brother—had loved him, in fact, more than anyone else in the world. He had been proud of his brother’s success, all the more so because it was in an entirely different field, and because he himself had a cushy inheritance from their parents that made financial envy something unpalatable and crass. But his brother had been dead now for six months, by this time. He wasn’t coming back. And after all, wasn’t there something Biblical about the whole being-with-your-brother’s-widow? Except, to be Biblical, he’d have to marry her—and Arthur certainly was in no hurry to do that.
“Let’s keep it from them a while longer,” Arthur said, and when Paulette’s face fell, added, “I don’t want their opinions to influence us, dear. They might not…understand.”
That had worked for another six months, until Paulette forced the issue again. Arthur had compromised by telling her that they would allow the boys to see them hanging out more often, but would tell them nothing officially until three months from now—fifteen months after his brother had died. Months, months, months. All Arthur did in those times was count months. It was as if he could get to some imagined, unknown number, all his sins would be absolved, all his problems cleared away in one fell swoop. Part of him expected to break up with Paulette by then. Part of him hoped for some divine intervention, some deus ex machina—a distant relative taking ill and calling him away, or Paulette falling in love with her plumber.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. That was the complicated bit, the reason why it was such a problem in the first place. For, though Arthur decidedly wanted out of the complicated situation and relationship, he did not necessarily want to end the companionship with Paulette. The evening dinners, the morning strolls, the nightly…well. He enjoyed himself, that was the trouble.
But Arthur felt that he was operating on borrowed time. Sooner or later, one or the other of them would bring up guilt, that niggling little sense at the back of both of their minds that what they were doing was wrong, an affront to the late Stuart McKenzie. Or Paulette would suggest marriage, and Arthur would have to demur, and she would, as all women did, get angry. And then there was the little incident at the college, really not even an incident, but it pained Arthur to think of it even now. It all went back to the boys. Those damned boys!
Really, Arthur thought, taking one final, long puff on his pipe, if anyone had blackmailed Paulette, if the note actually was authentic—well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Her boys! Who else needed her money? Who else wanted it? Paulette was the kind of old woman who would hang on for another twenty, thirty years, the kind of woman who wouldn’t give her kids a dime, except in controlled apartments that she owned and spending money for activities she approved of. Arthur already knew, vaguely, about the trouble that the eldest, James, had gotten himself into. And Harry—Arthur didn’t like to think about Harry. Didn’t like to think about what Harry knew, what he might be up to.
Arthur rose and reentered the house. Whatever this was, Arthur thought, it had to end quickly.
For everyone’s sake.
Chapter 16
Alyssa and Clarissa sat at Wolfclaw Coffee, sipping macchiatos in the far corner of what Alyssa viewed as the annoyingly hipster café, beneath the newly hung painting of a dog reading a mystery novel in an armchair. Alyssa stared at this as Clarissa rose to grab a few more napkins for their table, wondering to herself what kind of artist had painted this portrait, if she was a svelte, rich, young girl with supportive parents and the kind of recklessness to throw her life away on something so frivolous—if she was, indeed, the type of girl that Harry had gone for in high school.
She had been somewhat disappointed with her meeting with Lia. Alyssa had been prepared for claws, for barbs, for a fight, but the failed actress and ex-girlfriend of Harry had been quiet, unassuming. She had barely even seemed to look at Alyssa, let alone flirt with Harry in front of her, or tell stories of old times to make him nostalgic. And, though she was attractive enough, she was not the sort of wide-eyed movie-star stunner that Alyssa feared she might seem in person. Alyssa, objectively, was prettier.
All in all, Alyssa thought, she had no trouble from that corner…even before Paulette’s accusation.
“So,” Clarissa said, returning. “Do you think she did it?”
“Think who did what?” Alyssa said, not even sure why she pretended not to know, except that something about Clarissa had been bugging her ever since last night.
Clarissa tugged at the corner of her fur-lined coat, the one she had purchased especially for St. Clair. It was one of the things Alyssa didn’t like about her friend: how eager Clarissa was to adapt, to try to mold herself to whatever she thought others wanted her to be. It was embarrassing, sometimes, even if it was one of the qualities Alyssa had liked about her at first.
“Do you think that Lia blackmailed Paulette?” Clarissa said.
“I don’t see what else could have happened,” Alyssa returned. “Pity, isn’t it?”
Clarissa shuffled her feet. “It’s weird, though. Why?”
“Because she needs the money,” Alyssa said. “What is she doing now? She doesn’t have a career. She probably lost all of her money on bad apartments in Los Angeles and paying for headshots and the like. So she’s trying to get it from Paulette.”
“Blackmail seems a little…risky.”
“Desperate people do desperate things.” Alyssa took a sip of her macchiato, eyeing her nervous friend through narrow eyes. “You don’t seem convinced.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Clarissa said, with a weak smile. She started organizing the sugar packets on the table with one hand. “Maybe. I suppose that makes as much sense as anything.”
“Of course it does. What else would happen?”
Clarissa looked up at Alyssa, and Alyssa felt a surge of fury. Surely Clarissa wouldn’t be so foolish as to bring that up now. Not here.
Clarissa saw Alyssa’s expression and shrugged, looking away. Alyssa clenched her teeth. Really, she knew that she should never have brought Clarissa here. Besides that embarrassing rhyming of their names—which made Alyssa ask Clarissa once, quite earnestly, whether she liked the nickname “Claire”—Clarissa always managed to get herself into some sort of trouble.
At least the stupid girl had told her, before they arrived
for the holidays. Had confessed her little indiscretion and agreed that, for the sake of Alyssa’s relationship, it would be best not to bring it up, not now at least. And Clarissa hadn’t done anything wrong—nothing illegal, anyway. What was a secret among adults? Why shouldn’t she have one?
And she would keep it, Alyssa thought. Of that she was certain. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to jeopardize her relationship with Harry McKenzie.
She wouldn’t let it.
Chapter 17
“I haven’t been here in ages,” Julia said, without any hint of wistfulness, as she climbed up the flight of stairs and to the second-floor meeting room in the St. Clair Library, which Atul had reserved for them that morning. “Why don’t we go up to the perch instead?”
“More private here,” Atul replied, though indeed, the view from the perch would have been more inspiring than the bare parking lot before them. At least he could watch the arrivals here, though: he thought he spotted Bella’s car, and could just make out two figures exiting from it and moving towards the building.
“It’s weird,” Julia said, following his gaze. “Being back together. Like last night, when the five of us were standing around together for a second—it was like déjà vu, a bit, I guess. But not.”
“We’re all different,” Atul said. He smiled and added, “Improved.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Julia said, face darkening. She turned just as Bella and Katie entered the room. “Welcome to Atul’s clandestine meeting of the minds.”
Atul blushed. “Thanks for coming, everyone.”
They made small talk for a few minutes: how they had enjoyed the party, how strange Paulette’s accusation had been, how the fact of her blackmail was a secret in that everyone who told it to the next person said emphatically that you can’t tell anyone, which meant of course that everyone would be told at twice the speed. Atul felt strange and a little sad as they walked over these facts, laughing a little stiltedly, trading weak jokes that only drove home that their friendships were a shadow of what they had once been. What had changed?