A Scandal at Eastwick

by L. C. Warman

  “Yes,” Alyssa said. “Do you want to split a bottle?”

  “No. I’m not drinking.”

  Her stomach sank. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” she asked, and it came out testily, even as she strived for sweet and polite.

  “No. I’m driving.” He glanced up at her over the menu. “Are you all right? You seem tense.”

  Alyssa’s fingers tightened over her menu, but she managed an easy smile. “Perfectly fine. I just want to enjoy a nice dinner with you.”

  Harry gave her a doubting look and flipped a page on his menu.

  “So how was the meeting with Lia?” Alyssa asked. Where was the waiter? She wanted a glass of wine. Damn Harry if he wasn’t going to drink—she’d take the bottle for herself. She at least would not need to drive. She at least had planned for a date night better.

  “The meeting with Lia was fine,” Harry said. “She didn’t have much to say. She says she didn’t do anything.”

  “And you believe her?” Alyssa said.

  “Yes, I do. I don’t see why she would.”

  “She needs the money, doesn’t she? She doesn’t have a job.”

  “She’s not that desperate. And besides, Lia wouldn’t do something like that.”

  The Lia you knew, maybe, Alyssa thought. But if she pushed too hard, Harry would keep defending her, and Alyssa couldn’t bear that. She had been so eager to like this girl just a few days ago. So eager to play the sportsmanlike victor, to smile and compliment and befriend, because she could afford to be kind when she was the one with Harry, the one with the good job, the bright prospects, the life that Lia had thrown away. But why was Harry doing this to her? Why hadn’t he taken his mother’s side in all of this?

  It’s because he knows, that little voice whispered in Alyssa’s head again, and she shoved it down. It wasn’t her fault. Really, how could Harry hold her responsible for someone else’s actions? It wasn’t fair. If he tried to say that to her, if he tried to leave her over it—she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  “I heard Paulette got another blackmail note while Lia was there,” Alyssa said instead, after the waiter had come and taken their drink orders (water for Harry, a glass of pinot noir for Alyssa).

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Paulette told me.” Paulette had always liked Alyssa well enough, a fact that she appreciated even more knowing how much the woman hated all of Harry’s past girlfriends. A woman like Paulette had affections based more on status, looks, and wealth, it was true, but Alyssa still liked that she had passed muster where others had failed, that her pedigree was somehow deemed the most desirable for Harry. “She texted me after Lia had left.”

  “Yes. My mom found another note.”

  “Odd coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  She waited, but Harry said nothing else. “Paulette said something about calling the police,” Alyssa said finally.

  “Yeah. I talked her out of that. Have you tried the lasagna here before? They make a spinach ricotta with it that’s really good.”

  “Talked her out of going to the police?”

  Harry lifted a brow. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not necessary. It’s a stupid prank, whatever it is. Calling the police would only bring more attention to it.”

  “So you’re just going to let her get away with it?”

  “Let who get away with it, Alyssa? I told you, Lia didn’t do this.”

  It was all Alyssa could do to keep her composure as the waiter placed the glass of pinot noir on the table and sauntered off again. Should she go for understanding, supportive girlfriend? I know you don’t want to think badly of anyone, sweetie, but you have to understand… Or release the rage bubbling within her? Stop defending her, unless you’re trying to tell ME something about OUR relationship.

  She opted for neither and took a long sip of wine, while Harry watched her across the table. She had been so sure that they would marry, even up until a few days ago. What had changed, except for the fact that that awful girl had come into town? He couldn’t still be in love with her—he had looked at her with curiosity, the night of the party, but not lust, not interest, not anything inappropriate at all, and Alyssa had watched closely. So why was their relationship going so off the rails? What had happened?

  The whole vacation was ruined, plain and simple. Alyssa wanted to catch the earliest flight out and snatch Clarissa away with her. They’d go home, regroup, let things settle as they may. And then Alyssa would see if Harry reached out, if this was indeed the end of what Alyssa had thought of as her future.

  “Have you spoken to Clarissa lately?” Alyssa asked, watching Harry carefully.

  “No. Why?”

  His expression didn’t change. A flicker of hope lighted in Alyssa’s breast. He might not know, a voice whispered. He might not know, and it’ll turn out all right after all.

  Alyssa just needed to make sure it stayed that way.

  Chapter 29

  Lia woke up the next morning feeling something akin to hopeful. Lucas had stayed until eleven or so the night before, and left with strong encouragement and promises of help. One person, at least, believed in her.

  But it did not improve from there. She had told Lucas she would reach out to her friends again, try to offer them the apologies that would help her make amends. But a series of individual texts went unanswered, three hours later. After four phone calls and a voicemail, Lia could no longer ignore the fact that she was being deliberately snubbed. She was afraid to check any of her social media accounts, in case some of them had unfriended her there, too.

  Lia wasn’t sure what to do next. Her day of departure, the day she would no longer be house-sitting the beautiful Eastwick mansion, was fixed for just a few days from now. If she left with the blackmail hanging over her head, what then? Would the notes stop, if the writer of them was savvy enough to realize their scapegoat was gone? Would they continue, and convince Paulette that she was never the issue to begin with? She thought of the lawsuits that could follow, the court orders, the attorneys’ fees, and shuddered.

  She was lost. If no one would talk to her, how could she help? How could she find out anything if she was stonewalled? For the first time, Lia felt decidedly like a St. Clair outsider—not an exile by choice, but someone who was no longer welcome within the town’s insular space. She didn’t like it.

  Lia considered, hemming and hawing over a slice of toast and a yogurt. She thought of reaching out to Harry again, even though she was sure he had nothing more to tell her. She thought of reaching out to Lucas, simply because she knew that she wouldn’t be rebuffed. But finally, it was Atul whom Lia tried, texting him a longer apology, telling him that she missed him, expressing sorrow that things had come to this. She didn’t mention the blackmail or Paulette; somewhere in crafting the text, Lia began to feel that such an issue was not important, or at least, not as important as owning up to her own flaws for the past ten years.

  She wasn’t sure why she chose Atul; she was the closest to Julia, growing up, and Bella had always been quick to forgive in high school. Katie, too, had always been kind. It was instinctual, the feeling that of all the old faces she had met at the party, his had been the most engaged: his eyes had not glazed over when he had seen her, his shoulders had not turned quickly away.

  Lia’s phone buzzed. Atul.

  You need to talk to Julia.

  Chapter 30

  Arthur slipped on his satin robe and slippers and padded down to the kitchen, humming to himself. Paulette did not stir as he left; she was always a deep sleeper, her face twisted and mouth puckered, most of the time. Especially lately.

  But he was determined to be cheerful. Why should he concern himself about this blackmail nonsense? It had nothing to do with him, surely—Arthur had had some errors in judgment in the past, but they remained firmly in the past, and if the blackmailer had wanted to shame him over them, then he would have been the
target, not Paulette. Likely the blackmail was over something about Arthur’s brother, the bad financial dealings that Arthur had always viewed as a function of his younger brother’s greed and idiocy.

  “It’s really quite simple,” Arthur had said the night before, when Paulette had clung to him like a barnacle, face upturned towards his, hopeful and fearful. “You just let it play out. Let them try and tell whatever ‘secret’ they have. Then move on. Really, Paulette, it’s beneath your dignity to worry about this.”

  “You’re right, of course you’re right—you always are,” she had said, face still etched with worry. Arthur had patted her on the head and reminded her to relax.

  He moved to the kitchen’s coffee pot and began to fiddle with the settings. He checked the coffee in the lazy Susan and sighed—Paulette had forgotten to restock his favorite brand again. He had only reminded her twice this week. He pulled the next-best Arabica beans out and began searching around for the coffee grinder.

  “Use the ground coffee. It won’t wake everyone up.”

  Arthur turned, his heart leaping in his chest. He scowled. At his age, he didn’t like being surprised. Harry stood behind him in a t-shirt and boxers, face stony.

  “I wouldn’t fuss over things like that,” Arthur said, recovering.

  In response, Harry walked over, took the beans from Arthur’s hands, and shoved a bag of ground coffee into Arthur’s now-empty outstretched fingers. “Thanks, Uncle Art,” Harry said, and Arthur frowned. He had never had a bad relationship with Paulette’s boys, but this—this aggression, was really out of character. He considered reaching again for the other beans, but on realizing that he probably would not best Harry in a physical match, simply turned his shoulder and began preparing the coffee.

  “You want any, then?” Arthur said stiffly. Paulette wouldn’t like it if he was fighting with the boys. Not that it really mattered, not anymore…but still. Easier to keep the peace. Arthur liked peace.

  “No, I’m fine. How long are you staying this time?”

  The question was a slap in the face. “A day or so. Anything the matter, son?”

  “I’m your nephew, actually.”

  Arthur blushed, his blood boiling beneath his skin. Who did the little nitwit think he was? “Yes, nephew. What’s bothering you?”

  Arthur waited, the silence only feeding the flames of his panic. His mind spiraled in a dozen different directions, but one, especially, kept rising to the surface. No, he thought. That girlfriend of Harry’s would never have said anything. Girls loved to talk, loved to gossip, but this…surely she wouldn’t have. Surely she would have been wise enough to keep her mouth shut.

  “Nothing’s bothering me,” Harry said, in a tone that quite indicated otherwise. “James told me that he came to you about the art shop when he first decided to open it. You were the one who suggested he buy the building. Who said he needed to go all in at launch.”

  Ah! Was that it? “I gave James some advice, but it was plain, Harry, that he was going to do exactly what he wanted to do, with or without my support. I graciously agreed not to tell Paulette about the venture. He told me that he wanted to buy the building and buy all of those French paintings, and I said, if he was passionate about it, why not? I’m not sure what he told you, but if he’s trying to make it seem as though it were my fault—”

  “Why didn’t you tell him to talk to a financial advisor? Why didn’t you have him talk to an accountant? Why didn’t you ask him to speak to anyone who actually knew what they were talking about?”

  “That was James’s prerogative, not my duty.” Arthur patted down a filter, poured in the coffee grounds, and stabbed the machine ‘on.’ He turned back to Harry, whose face now looked murderous. Stupid boy. Just like their father, those two were. Always wanting to point the finger when something went tragically wrong. “James will need to own up to his mistakes to move forward,” Arthur said. “The art shop was his idea. Even if he received the worst advice in the world, Harry, that’s what it comes down to. Ownership. Responsibility. Integrity.”

  “He wasn’t even going to buy the building!” Harry exploded. “He was going to rent, and you told him that renting was ‘the worst long-term investment you could ever make.’”

  Arthur remembered that. He remembered how he had been proud when James, pale and excited and moon-faced, had come to him talking excitedly of some new venture. Arthur had been intrigued—he rather liked the idea of an art dealer in the family. He had no financial experience to help, nothing worthwhile to offer, but he had listened to James spew numbers and ideas and hopes at him, and had seized on the word ‘rent.’

  He had told James something about it being the worst investment you could ever make, because Arthur’s brother had said something to that effect once, and besides, Arthur wanted to offer James something—something that later, James could remember and thank him for. Come to think of it, Arthur’s brother had probably been talking of renting homes versus owning them, but wouldn’t the principle hold? And besides, really, couldn’t James have done his own research?

  “James is a smart boy,” Arthur said finally. “He had big plans for his shop. I merely listened and gave him some of my thoughts. I’m a professor, for heaven’s sake, Harry. What did he want financial advice from me for?”

  Harry scowled at this, and Arthur’s lips pressed into a smug smile. He knew he had his nephew there.

  But Harry wasn’t done. “You knew he was struggling with the shop. Why didn’t you tell us? Tell me?”

  “Really, Harry? Because I had made a promise to your brother.”

  “He was in trouble.”

  “Trouble of his own making. You think you would have been able to help? You would have only compounded the error. James entered into a venture that he did not have the experience to run, and he paid the price. End of story.”

  “I wouldn’t have watched him fail and done nothing.”

  Arthur held Harry’s gaze, nostrils flaring. In truth, he didn’t like this—didn’t like it at all. Had he felt a certain nasty surge of amusement to find his nephew floundering in his newfound venture? Yes, because his younger brother had always been so high and mighty about his business acumen, had always boasted of his sons and their intelligence and how he was going to “build an empire one day.” Take that! Arthur had thought—one of his sons had spoiled his inheritance, blowing through all the money his daddy had stocked up for him. Oh, Arthur wasn’t cruel—he knew that the boy would be okay, that his family would pitch in to help, or that ox-like wife of his would sort things out. But he had been just a little gleeful, and why shouldn’t he be?

  But the other reason that Arthur didn’t like the argument at all was because he was seeing, plain in front of him, a glimpse of his future. When he broke up with Paulette, it would snap the final strings that kept him connected to his nephews. And however flimsy their relationship had been over the years, however much Arthur looked at them and saw only his younger brother, in all his arrogance and self-satisfaction, in truth they were his only remaining blood family, the closest things to sons he would ever have. Was he ready to lose them so completely?

  But what other choice did he possibly have?

  He couldn’t stay with Paulette. It was too trying already. He was not built for that kind of life, that kind of responsibility. It was a mistake to try.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Arthur finally said, and surprise registered across his nephew’s face. “Truly, I am.”

  For now, that would have to suffice for everything.

  Chapter 31

  Julia responded to none of Lia’s messages—text or phone or otherwise. Lia reached out to Atul, asking him to help her connect with Julia, but even those appeals remained unanswered. She had only Atul’s insistence that she talk with Julia—and then, silence.

  In only a couple of days now, the Eastwicks would arrive to take possession of the house again and Lia would be off, traveling east in search of her new home. She didn’t have time to waste. I
nstead she looked up Julia’s address, using a real estate trick that her mother had taught her long ago, and drove down to the little ranch on the outskirts of St. Clair that Julia had bought.

  The house was simple and unadorned, very Julia in style. It had only a few hydrangeas, frostbitten and barren, out front for landscaping, along with a dead spider plant on the porch. The rest of the brick house was squat and flat, dark windows like squinting eyes. A green sedan was in the driveway, an older model but impeccably clean; a bag of salt leaned against the garage just a few feet away.

  Lia walked up to the front door, hesitating for just a moment. She knocked.

  As Lia waited, blowing hot breath into her gloves, her eyes drifted over the crooked mailbox below, the chipper welcome mat, the flyer for snow removal that was tucked into the screen door. She imagined that this was the kind of place she would have tried to get if she had stayed in St. Clair—a modest first home, practical and affordable enough, probably close to a number of other kids from her high school whose parents always lectured them about the importance of owning versus renting. Instead Lia had shared apartment after apartment, forking out sizable checks to questionable roommates, moving every four or six months as prices or jobs demanded it. She wasn’t sorry to have had that time, but now…now Lia wanted a change. Wanted to start over. Could she ever do so by coming back?

  Lia knocked again and pressed the little buzzer this time that had a polite “Please knock” sign pressed over it. The buzzer made no sound, so Lia knocked again, louder. She thought she could see lights through the vertical windows on either side of the door, though these were covered with sheer curtains that obstructed her view.

  “Come on, Julia,” Lia muttered, knocking again.

  “Hey!”

  Lia whipped around. “Katie!”