“Were they in a prescription bottle?” the Chief asks. “Were they marked?”
“No,” Greer says. “I have a pillbox. It’s an enamel box with a painting of Queen Elizabeth on the top.”
“So who would have known that the pills inside were sleeping pills?” the Chief asks.
“The sleeping pills and the pillbox were something of a family joke,” Greer says. “My husband obviously knew. And the children.”
“Would Ms. Monaco have known they were sleeping pills?” the Chief says.
Greer knows she can’t hesitate here, even for a second. “Oh, yes,” Greer says. “I offered Merritt a sleeping pill from the box the last time she stayed with us, in May.” This answer wouldn’t pass a polygraph, she knows. The truth is that Greer had offered Merritt aspirin for the headache she had after the wine dinner but never a sleeping pill. “So I think we can conclude what happened.”
“And what’s that?” the Chief says.
“Merritt took a sleeping pill,” Greer says.
The Chief says nothing. It’s infuriating; the man is impossible to read, even for Greer, who can normally see people’s agendas and prevailing emotions as though she were looking into a clear stream.
“She helped herself to my pills,” Greer says. “Then she went for a swim, maybe thinking she would cool down before slipping into bed. And the pill knocked her out. It was an accident.”
The Chief pulls out his pad and pencil. “Describe the pillbox again, please, Ms. Garrison.”
He’s bought it, she thinks, and relief blows through her like a cool breeze. “It’s round, about four centimeters in diameter, cherry red with a portrait of the queen on the top,” she says. “The top is hinged. It flips open.”
“And how many pills inside?” the Chief asks.
“I couldn’t say exactly,” Greer says. “Somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five.”
“The last time you remember seeing the pillbox, it was in the kitchen,” the Chief says. “There’s no chance you brought it back to your bedroom?”
“No chance,” Greer says. Her nerves return, multiplied, quivering.
“So you know there’s no chance you brought the pills back to your bedroom,” the Chief says, “and yet you didn’t remember bringing the pills into the kitchen when you talked to the detective. I guess I’m questioning how you can be so certain.”
“I keep the pills in only one place,” Greer says. “And they weren’t there. If I had brought the pills back to my room, they would have been where I always keep them.”
“No guarantees of that,” the Chief says. He clears his throat. “There are a couple of reasons why I don’t think Merritt took a pill of her own volition.”
Of her own volition, Greer thinks. Oh, dear God. They’ll suspect Tag of drugging the girl, of course. Or they’ll suspect Greer herself.
“But wait…” Greer says.
The Chief turns away. “Thank you for the information,” he says. “Now I’m going to find your son Thomas.”
Tuesday, July 3–Friday, July 6, 2018
CELESTE
Tuesday at work, she makes a list of things that might take the place of love.
Security, financial
Security, emotional
Apartment
After the honeymoon, Celeste is moving into Benji’s apartment in Tribeca. Together they surveyed Celeste’s studio to see what would make the trip downtown. Not her futon, not her yard-sale furniture, none of her dishes or pots and pans, not her shower curtain or bathroom rug, not the pair of mason-jar lamps filled with beans. When Celeste said that she wanted to bring the rainbow candles her mother made, Benji said, “Just bring the candle Abby gave you if you want a candle.” The candle he was referring to was a Jo Malone pine-and-eucalyptus luxury candle that Abby gave Celeste as an engagement present. Celeste does love the way it smells but once she found out how much it cost, she knew she could never, ever light it.
Celeste immediately decided she would bring her mother’s candles despite Benji’s obvious opinion that they weren’t as good as a department-store candle. Celeste would set them on the mantel!
Benji told Celeste that he contacted a real estate agent at Sotheby’s who is searching for a brownstone on East Seventy-Eighth Street, specifically on the block between Park and Lexington. Celeste tries to imagine herself living on that block, owning a home on that block. Would that be as good as love?
Shooter has the condo in Hell’s Kitchen. The condo has nothing in it but a mattress and a TV, Benji has told her. Shooter is never there.
Family
Tag, Greer, Thomas, Abby, Abby’s future baby, assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins in England.
Shooter has even less family than Celeste. Shooter has no one.
Nantucket
This is, perhaps, the strongest competition for love. Because Celeste has never felt about a place the way she feels about Nantucket. She tries to ignore that her most romantic storybook times there have been with Shooter. She could easily go to the Chicken Box with Benji; she could take Benji out to Smith’s Point and show him the natural water slide. On Nantucket, she will always have a beach to walk on, a path to run, a farm to provide heirloom tomatoes and corn on the cob, a boat to putter around the harbor in, cobblestoned streets to stroll in the evenings. Celeste yearns to experience Nantucket at every time of year. She wants to go to the Daffodil Festival in the spring, wear a yellow sweater, make a picnic of cold roast chicken and deviled eggs and asparagus salad, and cheer as the antique-car parade passes by. She wants to go in the fall when the leaves change and the cranberries are harvested and the high-school football team is playing at home. She wants to go at Thanksgiving, swim in the Turkey Plunge, watch the tree-lighting on Friday night, eat scallops just harvested from the sound. She wants to go in the dead of winter during a blizzard when Main Street is blanketed with snow and not a soul is stirring.
Shooter won’t be able to give her Nantucket the way that Benji can.
Celeste can’t come up with anything else, so she rolls back up to Security, financial. Celeste will have health insurance. Celeste will be able to shop for groceries at Zabar’s, Fairway, Dean and DeLuca. She will be able to buy expensive salads, bouquets of fresh flowers—every day if she wants! Orchids if she wants!—boxes of macarons, bottles of Veuve Clicquot, cases of Veuve Clicquot! She will be able to buy hardcover books the day they come out and get orchestra seats for the theater. They’ll be able to take trips—to London, certainly, but also to Paris, Rome, Shanghai, Sydney. They’ll be able to go on safari in Africa, maybe even hike to see the silverback gorillas in Uganda, a dream so far-fetched that Celeste has put it in the same category as space travel. She will shop with Merritt at Opening Ceremony, at Topshop, at Intermix. She’ll try things on without checking the price tag. It’s inconceivable. It doesn’t seem real.
How will it work? Celeste asked Benji. M-M-Money, I m-m-mean. Once we’re m-m-married?
I’ll put your name on my accounts, Benji said. We’ll get you an ATM card, a checkbook. Once I turn thirty-five, I’ll have access to the trust from my Garrison grandparents, so there will be that money as well.
Celeste has wondered since then how much money is in the Garrison trust. A million dollars? Five million? Twenty million? What is the amount that takes the place of love?
What about m-my salary? Celeste had asked.
Keep it for yourself, Benji said.
Celeste earns sixty-two thousand dollars a year, but Benji makes that sound like a quarter she found on the sidewalk. She supposes that, to him, it is.
Celeste’s assistant, Bethany, walks into her office without knocking and Celeste scrambles to hide the list. What would Bethany think if she saw it? What kind of woman has to make a list of reasons she’s happy to be marrying Benjamin Winbury?
“Celeste?” Bethany says. Her expression is uneasy, as though she suspects she interrupted something.
“Mmm?” Celeste says.
“Zed wants
to see you in the conference room,” Bethany says.
“Conference room?” Celeste says. She was supposed to meet with Zed in his office because tomorrow starts a two-and-a-half-week vacation that includes her wedding and honeymoon and she needs to delegate the work on her desk.
Bethany shrugs. “That’s what he said.”
The door to the conference room is closed and when Celeste swings the door open she sees a dozen golden balloons and, in the center of the table, a round bakery cake ringed with icing flowers and the words Congrats, Celeste! A cheer goes up and Celeste looks around at her zoo colleagues: Donner, Karsang, Darius, Mawabe, Vern, even Blair from reptiles.
Celeste tears up. A shower! Her co-workers have thrown her a bridal shower, complete with balloons, cake, a few bags of chips, and a wrapped present. Celeste can’t believe it. This isn’t that kind of office and these aren’t those kind of co-workers. They obviously know Celeste is getting married, and she knows that Blair feels her long-ago migraine was responsible for Celeste and Benji meeting in the first place. Three of Celeste’s co-workers are actually making the trip to Nantucket—Bethany, Mawabe, and Vern—but because it’s the Fourth of July week, all of the reasonably priced hotels were sold out, so the three of them are arriving Saturday at noon and leaving on the nine-thirty fast boat. Celeste is touched that the three of them are making the trip—to drive from the city and take the boat requires more effort than she thought they’d make—but Celeste is also a bit nervous about their arrival. Benji exacerbated Celeste’s concern when he said, “I can’t imagine Mawabe and Vern in the same room as my mother.”
Although Benji’s sentiment echoed Celeste’s own feelings, she took umbrage. “Why not?” she said. “It would be g-g-good for your mother to realize people like Mawabe exist. I’m just sorry B-B-Blair isn’t coming.” She paused. “B-B-Bethany is normal. Sort of.”
“Sort of,” Benji conceded.
Now, Bethany comes forward holding out the gift. Celeste assumes Bethany selected the gift and everyone else chipped in, but some people—like Darius—probably have yet to pay their share.
“What c-c-could it be?” Celeste asks. She unwraps the box and lifts off the top to find a simple white apron with Mrs. Winbury embroidered in black on the front.
Mrs. Winbury. Celeste’s heart sinks.
“I love it,” she says.
Her stutter is so debilitating and so unpredictable that she and Benji have had to tailor their wedding vows with Reverend Derby so that all Celeste has to say is “I do.”
But even those two words present a challenge.
It’s Wednesday, the Fourth of July. Benji and Shooter, Thomas and Abby, and Tag and Greer are already up on Nantucket. But Celeste had to work through Tuesday, and Merritt has a can’t-miss fireworks party tonight. Celeste’s parents aren’t due to arrive until Friday. Celeste decides she will fly to Boston with Merritt on Thursday morning and then Uber to the Cape and take the fast ferry across to Nantucket.
Celeste calls Merritt at three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. “I c-c-can’t do it,” she says.
“What?” Merritt says. “What do you mean?”
What does she mean? She means she can’t marry Benji. She knows she’s making a mistake. She’s in love with Shooter. It’s a physical condition, an affliction. It is, as Merritt said, in her blood. Celeste feels like she’s standing on a cliff. If Shooter were here right now by her side, willing to hold her hand and never let go, she would jump.
But he’s not. He’s on Nantucket, executing the best-man duties with his usual flair.
“I c-c-can’t say my vows,” Celeste says. “I st-st-st…” She can’t force it out. Stutter is, ironically, the hardest word.
“I’ll be right there,” Merritt says.
Merritt stands before Celeste and says, “Do you, Celeste Marie Otis, take Benjamin Garrison Winbury to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, to bug and to pester, to scream at and screw, until death do you part?”
Celeste smiles.
“Say it,” Merritt says.
“I d-d-do,” Celeste says. She winces.
“Pretend it’s a different word,” Merritt says. “Pretend it’s dew like on a leaf in the morning or due like your rent. I think you’re just psyching yourself out.”
Dew, like on a leaf in the morning, Celeste thinks.
“I dew,” she says.
The corners of Merritt’s mouth lift.
“Again,” she says.
“I d-d-do,” Celeste says. “I mean, I dew.”
“Just like that,” Merritt says. She glances at her phone. “I have to go. We’ll practice more tomorrow. And Friday.”
“Okay,” Celeste says. “Merritt—”
Merritt holds up a hand. “You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “You’re my best friend. I’m your maid of honor.”
“No,” Celeste says. “I mean, yes, thank you. B-B-But what I want to know is, d-d-did you end things with Tag?”
“No,” Merritt says. “He ended things with me.”
Once Celeste is on Nantucket, she becomes a marionette operated by Greer and Roger Pelton, the wedding planner. Roger is like a kind and supremely capable uncle. He goes over the three-day schedule with Celeste—where she needs to be, what she needs to do, what she will be wearing; the outfits are lined up in the closet. Thursday afternoon, Greer has scheduled Celeste for a massage, a mani-pedi, and an eyelash extension.
“Eyelash extension?” Celeste says. “Is that n-n-necessary?”
“No,” Roger says. “I’ll call R. J. Miller and cancel that part of the appointment.”
“Thank you,” Celeste says.
“The most important part of my job,” Roger says, “is protecting my brides from their mothers and mothers-in-law.”
Celeste loves how Roger refers to her as “my bride.” She pretends she’s marrying Roger, and this lightens her mood. Temporarily.
Celeste keeps one eye trained on Shooter at all times, like she’s a spy or a sniper. Their gazes meet and lock, and Celeste dissolves inside. He’s trying to tell her something without speaking—but what? Celeste craves the looks, even though they’re ruining her. When Shooter isn’t looking at her, when he’s joking with Merritt or Abby or Greer, she feels sickeningly jealous.
Celeste’s parents arrive. Celeste worries that, like Benji, the Winburys will think Karen and Bruce are “the salt of the earth” and will patronize them, possibly without their even realizing it.
But Greer is fine with Celeste’s parents, and Tag is better than fine. Celeste wants to hold a grudge against Tag, but he is so gracious and charming with her parents that she can feel only gratitude toward him. She’ll confront her anger and disappointment later, after the wedding.
The rehearsal dinner unfolds exactly as it should. Other people are drinking the blackberry mojito punch. Celeste has one sip of Benji’s and decides to stick to white wine. She doesn’t have time to keep track of Shooter; she’s too busy meeting this person and that person: a friend of Tag and Greer’s from London named Featherleigh, a business associate of Tag’s named Peter Walls, neighbors from London, neighbors from New York, Benji’s lacrosse coach from St. George’s, and the four Alexanders—blond and preppy Alexander, Asian Alexander, Jewish Alexander, who is engaged to a black woman named Mimi who is a Broadway dancer, and the Alexander known as Zander, who is married to a man named Kermit.
Celeste feared her parents would be shy and overwhelmed but they are holding their own and Betty looks better than Celeste anticipated. She walks with a cane and Celeste knows she’s on a mighty dose of painkillers, but she appears happy, nearly radiant. She is far happier about this wedding than Celeste is.
Celeste makes a deal with God: I will go through with this if You just please keep my mother alive.
There are passed hors d’oeuvres, each one more creative and delicious-looking than the next, although Celeste is far too anxious to eat. She sips her wine but it has little effect. Her body is nu
mb. The only thing that matters is Shooter. Where is Shooter? She can’t find him. Then he will appear, brushing past her elbow; even the slightest touch lights her up. She has thought back on the kissing in her apartment only a few thousand times since it happened. How did she have the willpower to refuse him? She is in awe of herself.
Her father stands to give a toast. It’s about Betty first, and Celeste’s eyes well with tears. Then it’s about Celeste and Bruce says, And so to you, Benjamin Winbury, I say from the heart: Take care of our little girl. She is our treasure, our hope, our light, and our warmth. She is our legacy. Here’s to the two of you and your life together. And everyone clinks glasses and drinks.
Thomas stands to speak next, and Celeste leans over to Benji and says, “I thought Shooter was giving the toast.”
“He didn’t want to,” Benji says.
“What?” Celeste says.
“He told me he didn’t want to speak tonight,” Benji says. “He’ll give a toast tomorrow, after we’re married.”
Tomorrow, Celeste thinks. After we’re married.
Celeste doesn’t want to go out; she has done enough pretending for one night. She wants to go to bed. Honestly, she would like to sleep as she did when she was a child: right between Mac and Betty.
Her mother senses something is wrong. Celeste can tell by the emphatic way Betty insists that Celeste go out to be with her friends, be with Benji.
I’ll be with Benji the rest of my life! Celeste thinks. Her time with her mother is dwindling; the sand is running through the hourglass more quickly now, at the end. But Celeste knows her mother will be happier if she goes out.
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