A Scandal at Eastwick

by L. C. Warman

  “I was just leaving,” she said to Paulette, who made no move to step aside for her. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “So you dropped off the note, eh? Just now?” Paulette said.

  “What? No!”

  “How else did it get in my mailbox?”

  “I have to assume someone put it there.”

  Paulette shook the note at the girl. “You! You put it there! No one else has been here!”

  “Your sons have. You have. And I’m sure plenty of other people have, too,” Lia said. Paulette wanted to strangle her.

  “She blackmailed me this morning!” James said. “That’s why I told you, Mom—because she was going to tell you anyway, if I didn’t give her some money.”

  “What money?” Paulette snarled. James colored.

  “Lia had a theory,” Harry said, and Lia seemed to be trying to catch his eye, shaking her head no. “About what might have happened.”

  “I didn’t—” Lia began.

  “It’s about Dad and Mr. Kowalski.”

  Paulette’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

  “No!” Lia burst. She was really working it—her big eyes were wide, her expression earnest. Paulette was sure Hollywood had taught her that; when Paulette had known her, Lia had only been shy, and jumpy, and the kind of eager-to-please that Paulette had always despised as a character trait in those inferior to herself. “I just thought—maybe that is what someone is blackmailing you about?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you lie to me.”

  “Mom—it’s not a surprise that there’s some bad blood between Dad and Mr. Kowalski. You told us that they had a falling out.”

  “I think Dad called him a dunderhead,” James offered.

  “Shut up, James. And yes, Harry, of course they had a falling out, because Mr. Kowalski is a selfish, stingy, self-centered man who wanted all of the money and the credit and wanted your father to accept a pittance.”

  “I thought Mr. Kowalski let him go,” Harry said. “Because—”

  “He forced him out when your father complained!” Paulette said. “He couldn’t stand constructive criticism—absolutely typical. So your father left and started his new firm. You remember. Lucas was always so embarrassed after that—knew how dirty his uncle’s dealings with our family had been.” Paulette, actually, had told Lucas to never come to their house again, and her boys, embarrassed and confused, had slowly lost touch with him. So much the better. She didn’t need traitors trying to befriend her son.

  “I just thought,” Lia said, swallowing, “that there might have been some mention of money being moved, and maybe the blackmailer is referring to, you know, some situation—”

  “You know nothing of any situation,” Paulette said. “This was before you even threw yourself onto Harry.”

  “Mom.”

  “Enough. Enough! Get out of my house. I’m calling the police on you, do you hear? I wouldn’t be going anywhere fast, young lady. You’ll have some answering to do!”

  “But I didn’t write the notes!” Lia said. “Mrs. McKenzie, you have to believe me. Which means someone else did, and—”

  “OUT!” Lia’s words had struck her with fear—what if, indeed, she had another enemy who knew her secret—who knew that secret? Paulette couldn’t bear it. Arthur would be here later today. Paulette had to compose herself. She had to get through this. “Out of my house, now!”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Lia said, bright red by now. Actress, actress, actress, Paulette reminded herself. “I’m sorry you think it was me.”

  “Of course it is,” Paulette said. “You knew that Harry was too good for you. And now you’ve lost your chance at happiness, and you’re out to destroy me for God knows what reason!” Harry was muttering something to Paulette, trying to calm her down, but Paulette wrenched away from him. “Get out of my house, and never, ever speak to me again.”

  Lia threw one last look at Harry, full of meaning.

  Chapter 27

  Lia left in her rental car with her hands shaking, struggling to keep in her tears. It was all so monstrously unfair. She had done nothing to any of them but come back home, and it seemed as though the moment she had touched St. Clair soil, all fingers had been pointed towards her.

  She should never have returned.

  She was tempted to drive and drive until she had burst out of the boundaries of St. Clair, whose air felt heavy and oppressive, whose weight seemed to press on her shoulders. St. Clair had pulled her into its arms as soon as she had come back, but it was only to suffocate her, to throttle her, to whisper that she had betrayed it first, and now she could never call it home.

  Lia wanted to call someone, anyone, but who? Her mother would never understand—she would be all hot denial, sputtering indignation. Atul? He and the rest of her friends obviously wanted nothing to do with her. Her ex-boyfriend’s mother had publicly accused her of blackmail, and she had gotten not even a text. Even if it was well-deserved, after her complete silence for years on end—even then it still stung.

  Finally, Lia called Lucas.

  “She got another blackmail note,” Lia said, in response to his hello. “Paulette. While I was over talking to Harry.”

  Silence. Then, “Want me to come over?”

  Lia cried the rest of the car ride—though thankfully, only after she had agreed to meet Lucas at the Eastwick mansion and had hung up. There was something refreshing about her tears, about wallowing in the self-pity of being wrongfully accused and misunderstood. And to think that she had thought embarrassment about her career would be her biggest humiliation on coming home!

  When she arrived, Lucas was already there with a six-pack of beers and a pizza. “How did you get that all so fast?” Lia said, and Lucas laughed, a little self-consciously.

  She brought them both to the library, the room of the Eastwick mansion that Lia loved the most, with its built-in shelves and dark oak furniture and velvet green curtains. They sat at the scarlet-cushioned chairs of the low reading table, and Lucas popped open two of the beer’s caps with a small opener on his keychain.

  “Harry was nice about it, I guess,” Lia said, aiming for a light tone and missing sorely. She would not cry, she promised herself. Not in front of Lucas. “I mean, given the fact that it seemed like I blackmailed his brother this morning and slandered his father this afternoon.”

  “Harry’s not a bad guy,” Lucas said. Oh, she hated it when boys talked like that—as if they had all signed some secret contract to never directly bad-mouth another male in the presence of a woman. “How is he holding up?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “It must be weird, seeing him after all this time.”

  Lia blushed. He seemed to be watching something in her expression, making her confused and a little lightheaded. “It’s not, really. Not weirder than anyone else. I’m glad we didn’t work out—I just wish his mother didn’t think I was out to get her.”

  Lucas nodded. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I leave Friday. So unless Paulette actually makes good on her threat and calls the police, I’ll be out of here by then.”

  “You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are plenty here, you know. You could try looking. Sometimes it’s easier to get interviews if you’re already in a place.”

  Lia smiled. “Then you’re the first person who actually wants me to stay any longer in St. Clair.”

  Lucas grinned back. “That’s not true. Your friends do, too. Even if you guys haven’t talked in a while.”

  Was he flirting with her? Good God, it had been so long that Lia didn’t know. She was used to the casual flirting amongst her Hollywood friends that was all a part of networking, the wink, wink, we like each other and maybe might do business later on. But Lucas had no reason to be so nice to her—except, maybe, that he was a good person, and recognized a wrongful accusation when he heard one.

  Lia wa
s grateful to him for that—so grateful, that she didn’t want to muddy the waters by wondering whether the cute St. Clairite indeed had any feelings for her.

  “I wasn’t a good friend to them,” Lia said. “When I was away. I don’t blame them.”

  “You could repair it. It just takes time.”

  “I suppose to do that I’d have to stay in St. Clair.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Lucas said, grinning again, and Lia blushed.

  “I just don’t understand who would be blackmailing Paulette,” Lia said, taking a sip of her beer to distract herself from Lucas’s intense gaze. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Still could be her son, James. You said he’s out of money. And he was there today at the house.”

  “He arrived with Paulette. How would he have gotten the letter in the mailbox without her seeing? Besides, he told her that he was broke. I’m sure she’ll help him—that’s what parents do. He doesn’t need to blackmail her. Paulette is probably so scandalized at the idea of a poor son that she’ll throw whatever money she has at him to fix the problem.”

  Lucas pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It doesn’t make sense to me, either.”

  The silence expanded between them. Lia twirled her beer in her hands.

  “Why did you stay?” she blurted. “I’m guessing you went away to college, like everyone else in this town.”

  “I did.”

  “So why come back?”

  “My family’s here. I have connections around here, too—good jobs. Plus there’s the city.”

  “It’s not New York City.”

  “No, or L.A., for that matter. But it’s growing. And it’ll keep growing.”

  “So family, friends, opportunity,” Lia said, ticking them off of her fingers.

  “Yup. Not enough to entice you, though?”

  Lia struggled to answer. How to describe her simultaneous love for and fear of St. Clair? How to explain to him how she missed it as though it were a piece of her, how she sometimes longed to be home, how it called to her from across the country—and yet how unnatural it could feel at the same time, like a magnetic force that had no right to have such a hold on her heart?

  “I guess I thought when I left ten years ago that I was leaving for good,” Lia said finally. “Coming back—feels like a failure.”

  “Why?”

  Lia blushed. “Well, because obviously I’m not some big actress. I haven’t even done work in some cool indie films or obscure T.V. shows that make me feel like I have some credibility, at least. I just…didn’t make it, plain and simple.”

  “Are you disappointed by that?”

  Lia considered, not meeting Lucas’s eyes. “Honestly? No. I think I reconciled myself to that a long time ago. I kind of knew, when I went out there….I loved acting, but I just never thought, really thought, it would ever happen for me. But I stayed out there because—well, because I had committed.”

  “You didn’t want to admit defeat. Come home empty-handed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re not sad to come home—you’re sad because you think people will judge you for having failed.”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Lia protested. It wasn’t. “I know people don’t think about you—the universal you—half so often as you think they do. Most people are too wrapped up in their own problems to care. But it’s true that when I’m back here…when I see people that I spoke to ten years ago, when I was packing up all my things and moving on to a new life…it’s weird. I feel like I time-traveled back here ten years older, with nothing to show for it. I mean, look at you,” Lia said, finally lifting her eyes to Lucas’s. He was watching her intently, something unreadable in his expression. “You have a secure job. Family. I’m sure you’ve had some adult relationships.”

  “Had,” Lucas said. “Past tense. I’m single now.”

  “Right. And me…what do I have? No—don’t answer that, it was rhetorical. I have experience and stories and blah blah blah. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m starting over, and I feel like I’m starting behind. Especially when I’m back here, when I’m around people that I used to measure myself against, and now I just don’t stack up.”

  “You keep talking like that. Like you’re in some sort of race.”

  Lia laughed. “Okay. You’re going to tell me to just meditate and that life isn’t a race and we all should just be happy?”

  “No, I’m going to tell you if we are all in a race, there isn’t a finish line. If there is, it’s always moving. And the things you’re envious about—careers, stability, all that—those are things that people take for granted, too. People that look at you and wish they had had the guts to move to the big city for ten years. And then the guts to move back.”

  Lia shook her head and smiled. It was kind of him, really, but she didn’t believe any of it. She didn’t need motivational pep talks, not right now. She needed to get her life back on track, to find some foothold in adulthood.

  “I love St. Clair,” Lucas said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling towards the fireplace. A wave of long hair bounced across his cheek. “It’s weird and insular and snobby and awful sometimes. But it’s home. You grew up here—you know.”

  “I know it’s weird,” Lia said, with a small smile. “And snobby.” And it did feel like home, more than anywhere Lia had lived since. But she didn’t have the love affair with St. Clair that Lucas did—at least, Lia didn’t think so. It didn’t call out to her like a siren, didn’t beckon her home, the way it seemed to for so many of her classmates.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Lia blinked. “How come you never hung out with us more in high school? Was it really—well, what happened between your uncle and Harry’s dad?”

  “Part of it, yeah.”

  “What was the other part?”

  Lucas grinned. “I had other friends in high school.”

  “Cooler friends, huh?”

  “I never said that.”

  “I can only imagine. You missed out, though,” Lia said. “Katie and Atul and Bella and Julia…they’re great.”

  Lucas grew more serious. “I bet.” He cleared his throat. “You can still reach out to them, you know.”

  She smiled in acknowledgment. She could, but she’d get no response. Lia knew how her friends operated, after all these years. And after all, it was she who had erred first.

  Maybe if things had been different, maybe if her friends had welcomed her back with open arms…maybe then St. Clair would feel like home. But no, she couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t think like that. She had to move forward.

  “And if you need help looking for a job,” Lucas continued, grinning, “I know some people who are looking for some media analysts. It might fit—entry-level, but still.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  “No, not at all. You’d have to write a top-notch résumé—no headshots—and then I’d send it over to some people I know. They’d do the interviewing and hiring. How good are you in an interview?”

  Lia straightened up and rolled back her shoulders, putting her polite, eager, attentive face on. “There is nothing whatsoever in the world that I’d rather be doing than this specific job at whatever salary level your human relations department deems appropriate,” she said robotically. Lucas laughed.

  “We’ll work on it,” he said, and Lia shoved him in the shoulder. She blushed as their knees knocked and drew back. It was dangerous, flirting with these possibilities. Flirting with Lucas, for heaven’s sake. What did she really know about him, anyway?

  Lucas seemed to note her seriousness and sobered. “Hey, can I ask you one more thing?” he said. “About Paulette. She still thinks you’re blackmailing her—I was thinking about it today. If she’s so fixated on you, with no evidence…you know something about her, right? A secret?”

  Lia swallowed. She wanted to tell Lucas. She wanted to trust him, to open up to the one person in
St. Clair who was giving her the time of day. But no matter how much she hated Paulette, no matter how unfairly she was being accused, Lia wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t her business to tell.

  “I do,” Lia said. “But I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

  And, if she were being honest, she couldn’t hurt Harry like that. All those years before, when Lia had walked into the closet, reached down, and found the letters, she had trembled and shook, wishing herself to travel back in time by twenty seconds so that the discovery had never happened. Because once she had seen, she couldn’t unsee.

  “I understand,” Lucas said. “Besides, how are you going to get the money if you tell anyone, right?”

  It took a second for her mind to catch up with his words. When it did, she tossed a napkin at him and laughed, Lucas’s deep guffaw drowning out hers.

  Chapter 28

  He knows, Alyssa thought. He knows, and now he hates me, and it’s all ruined.

  She stood, frozen, in the waiting room of the little jazz café downtown, watching as Harry slowly and methodically parked his car and slumped towards the restaurant. He was never that reluctant to see her. He was usually beaming, head up, shoulders back, flowers in one hand. How she had loved seeing him look at her like that, when they first started dating. How she loved feeling that she, only she, could brighten someone’s day with her mere presence, could be the sun to their world.

  “Hi,” Alyssa said, as Harry slunk inside, a wave of cold following him into the restaurant.

  “Hi back.” Harry kissed her—how cold his touch was!—and turned to the hostess, giving him the name for the reservation.

  They were led to one of the best tables in the place, a private, candlelit spot in the back, out of the way of the kitchen and the rest of the diners. Alyssa swallowed and tried to focus on the menu. He knows, a voice in her head whispered again. He knows and he’s come here to break up with you. He thinks you won’t make a scene at a restaurant.

  Alyssa would show him.

  “Are you hungry?” Harry asked. She hated the way men did that, ask such mundane questions when there was so much to talk about.