Edgewater

by Courtney Sheinmel

  When she spotted me in the doorway, she winked. “Lorrie just walked in, so I’ll put her on,” she said into the phone, and she paused, listening to the response on the other end. “It was great talking to you, too. And anytime you or your family need anything, seriously, you just give me a holler.”

  She covered the mouthpiece and lowered her voice to a stage whisper as she handed me the receiver. “It’s Charlie Copeland!”

  Now, of all the people I thought might possibly track me down and call me at Oceanfront, Charlie had to be the absolute last person on the list.

  “You can have my office to chat,” Naomi told me. “I’ve got to tend to a few things.” She winked again, and then she was out the door, closing it behind her.

  “Charlie?” I said into the phone.

  “Lorrie?”

  My cheeks went hot at the sound of my name in his voice.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to track someone down without a last name?” he asked.

  “I knew you were up to the challenge.”

  “What is your last name?”

  I hesitated. “Holl . . . Hall.” I said. I didn’t know I would lie about it until the moment it was out of my mouth. “Lorrie Hall.” It came out more easily the second time. It had a nice, no-baggage ring to it.

  “Lorrie Hall,” he repeated. I liked the sound of it. Especially in his voice. I could tell by his tone that he was smiling, and something inside me relaxed like an exhale. I wondered where he was right then. Whenever I was on the phone with Lennox, I’d picture her where she was calling from—her car, her room, the sunroom that looked out on the moms’ prized rose garden. And I knew exactly what image to call up in my head, because I knew what all those places looked like in real life. But in Charlie’s case, save for his Porsche and his tree house and the ballroom-size foyer at the Compound, I didn’t have any notion of his possible surroundings. I think because of the state of my home, I wondered a lot about everyone else’s.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked him.

  “Home.”

  “Where in your home?”

  “In my room,” he said.

  Charlie in his bedroom!

  “Where are you?” he countered.

  “I’m at Naomi’s desk, in her big chair, which I’ve always wanted an excuse to sit in, so thanks for that.”

  “Happy to be of service.”

  “It used to be such a rare thing to be called to Naomi’s office. It only happened if you did something really special, like the time I was youngest rider to win gymkhana.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Charlie said.

  “It’s a series of timed games you play while riding. Naomi invited me in here and said I could put a picture of my horse on the wall. It’s still up there now.” I spotted it from the vantage point of Naomi’s chair—a gray mare named Spice. “You know, over the past couple days, I’ve been in this office more than I’ve been in it in the last decade.”

  Naomi’s office was an extension of her home, with a private entrance so she didn’t have people traipsing through her living room to get to it, and it was so unlike the home offices of my friends’ parents. Those had been designed and decorated by professionals: chairs set at carefully measured distances from the desks and covered in fabrics that coordinated just so with the rugs and the curtains. Everything was expensive, and nothing was personal. But Naomi herself had chosen whatever was in her office, likely possessions she’d accumulated over time. Everything in the room had a reason for being there, and she managed to make it all look cozy without being cluttered. I imagined that the rest of her house was the same way. Since Naomi lived alone, the place wouldn’t bear the stamp of anyone else’s personality. She had been married and divorced years before, and now she said that tending the horses was like having a few dozen equine husbands, so she didn’t need another human one.

  “I remember seeing her in this chair and thinking she was the most amazing woman I’d ever known,” I told Charlie.

  “And to think I got to speak to her—what’s her last name?”

  “Ward,” I said. No reason to lie about that one. “Naomi Ward. She owns and runs this place.”

  “Naturally,” he said. “When I called, I asked to speak to the woman in charge.”

  “The woman in charge?”

  “I’m a feminist. Are you surprised?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Well, I am. But that’s not really what I said when I called—the woman-in-charge thing. I called and asked for you, and when I said my name . . .”

  “Right. Of course, in that case they would transfer you to whoever was in charge.”

  “It’s a curse sometimes.”

  “You could’ve just said ‘It’s Charlie calling.’”

  “Ah, but I did,” he said. “Oceanfront has some pesky privacy policy whereby they won’t confirm or deny if someone is boarding a horse there, so I couldn’t even get them to agree to give you a message. That is, until I said Copeland.”

  “The magic word,” I said. “Like open sesame.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.” He paused. “So, Ms. Hall. There you are at Oceanfront.”

  “Here I am,” I said. “How’d you know where to find me, anyway?”

  “You mentioned your horse the other night, and I knew you had to board him somewhere around here, so I started calling barns. I figured, if I at least hit the right place, I could leave you a message.”

  I couldn’t believe he’d made the effort. “I’m glad you found me,” I told him.

  “You could’ve just given me your number the other night,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

  “I’ve earned it now, though, haven’t I?”

  He had. But I didn’t have a phone number to give. I was always bumping up against the fact that I was actually Lorrie Hollander.

  “Not quite yet,” I said coyly.

  “Well, when you decide I’ve earned it, I’ll be happy to take it,” he said. “And I wanted to call because we didn’t get to say good-bye the other night.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “Lennox got caught taking pictures with her cell phone. Just a selfie, but zero tolerance and all that. We were escorted out.”

  I left out the part in the middle. The part about seeing his father playing with the model trains. I didn’t really have the vocabulary to describe the experience.

  “No worries,” he said. “We can say a proper good-bye now.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s why you were calling—to say good-bye?”

  “And other things, like ‘Hello.’”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello,” he said again. “Hello. How’s Orion?”

  I loved that he remembered the name of my horse. “He’s on his way back from North Carolina as we speak, but I’ve gotten to ride a couple of the green horses in the meantime.”

  “A horse of a different color! Are they Irish or something?”

  “Figurative green,” I said, thinking of Nathan. “They call them that because they’re too green to put new riders on.”

  “But you’re advanced enough.”

  “Yes,” I said. When it came to riding, I didn’t believe in modesty. “I’ve been doing it for years. Statistically, I should be pretty good at it by now.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Charlie said. “I like the confidence.”

  At least there was one thing I was truly confident about.

  “So, when will Orion be back?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “Hopefully.”

  “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

  “Just a few things to finish up here,” I said.

  “Do you want to come over and have dinner with me when you’re done?”

  The night before, I’d stopped by the break room at the end of the day, pretending to be oh-so-casual as I picked at the leftover food on the long wooden table. I’d planned to do the same tonigh
t, since there was nothing at home besides food frozen next to the dead birds. But now here I was, being asked to have dinner with one of the wealthiest and most eligible of teenage heartthrobs.

  Did Charlie qualify as eligible if he was on a break from dating Shelby Rhodes? I didn’t want to think too hard on that one. And Shelby aside, I was a little nervous at the prospect of being back at the Copeland house. What if someone recognized me as a Hollander? What if I had another weird meeting with the senator?

  Still, I was pretty sure there was only one answer to the question Charlie had asked. “Yes,” I said.

  14

  OUT OF SIGHT

  I SHOWERED IN THE BATHROOM BEHIND THE TACK room and then opened the cabinet Naomi kept stocked with supplies and used the spray-on deodorant and some moisturizer. That was when I spotted the extra toilet paper. Rolls of it, there for the taking. Except not really. This would be a new low: toilet-paper thief.

  I’ll replace the rolls, I promised Naomi silently. The minute my bank account is replenished, I’ll buy even better toilet paper—three-ply, if there is such a thing—and restock the cabinet. That would make me a borrower, not a thief. Still not great, but definitely better.

  I stuffed a few rolls into my oversize bag and walked out of the bathroom. “Hey, Lorrie,” Jeremy said.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. I pulled my bag closer to me, as if Jeremy were a security guard at the Copelands’, about to insist on seeing what was inside it.

  “Nice bag,” he said.

  “Thanks.” It was a Goyard. The past fall, Lennox and I had purchased matching versions of the Parisian shoulder bags that were the thing to tote your books in from class to class at Hillyer. Hers was orange, and mine was green.

  “It looks good on you,” he said. “Matches your eyes.”

  Which was, in fact, why I’d picked that color.

  “My mom used to have one like it,” he went on.

  “Thanks,” I said again. In all honesty, I didn’t particularly like the Goyard bags, but it would have made more of a statement not to get one when they lined the halls of Hillyer. Now I felt simultaneously angry at myself for charging a thousand dollars to be like everyone else, and nostalgic for the time when I could do so and not give it a second thought.

  But really: What seventeen-year-old needs a Goyard book bag? What forty-year-old needs one, for that matter? At least it was deep enough to hold a few rolls of contraband toilet paper. I squeezed the bag closer still, feeling the puff of rolls inside it.

  “Well, I guess I’ll get going,” I told Jeremy.

  “Wait,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  It sounded like an accusation. “Nothing,” I said. He couldn’t possibly know about the toilet paper, could he? “Why do you ask?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “I just thought maybe, if you were free tonight, we could grab a bite.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” he asked, uncharacteristically persistent. “If you’re not doing anything.”

  “Who said I wasn’t doing anything?”

  “You did,” he said. He tugged at his goatee. “You just did.”

  “Sorry, I meant . . .”

  I’d meant it as, I was most certainly not stealing toilet paper from our boss.

  “I’m actually on my way to a friend’s house.”

  “Oh. Don’t worry about it,” Jeremy said quickly, as if he was the one who should be embarrassed. “Maybe another time, then.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’d be great.”

  THE IRON GATES WERE CLOSED WHEN I GOT TO THE Compound, and I had to roll down my window and speak into a microphone to announce myself. “I’m Lorrie Hall,” I said. It sounded a little bit more natural every time I said it. I hoped I wouldn’t have to provide my license or any other kind of verification.

  “Your business here?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “I’m here to see Charlie.”

  “One moment, please,” she replied. The seconds seemed to tick by in slow motion as I waited. What was happening on the other end? A background check? Much as I wanted to see Charlie, I couldn’t help but think how much easier my life would be if I just stayed home, out of sight.

  But then the gates swung back on their hinges. And despite my instincts telling me to do otherwise, I pressed the gas pedal and drove up the long, private road to the Copeland home. At least a half dozen other cars were parked in the driveway. I pulled up next to a Toyota and grabbed my bag, tossing the rolls of toilet paper onto the floor before heading outside.

  Charlie met me at the door, in well-worn jeans and an untucked button-down. “Hey,” he said. He hugged me hello, and I breathed in the smell of him—soap mixed with something warm and sweet. As I walked into the barn each day, the smell of it had always done something to me, relaxed me in the way that I guessed scented candles or chamomile tea did for other people. I’d feel my shoulders drop and my limbs loosen. The smell of Charlie had a physical effect on me, too: I felt my knees weaken.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he said as he pulled away. He whipped his head, and his bangs lifted up, then settled down again. “I was worried I’d have to eat on my own.”

  “Your parents aren’t here?”

  “Mom’s on a road trip of the district, shaking hands and holding babies.”

  Oh, good. One Copeland parent down. “Sounds like fun,” I said.

  “Oh, she’ll douse herself in Purell when all is said and done,” Charlie said. “My dad always says the campaign trail is the best place to pick up a MRSA staph infection.”

  “I guess you really have to want it badly.”

  “She does,” Charlie said. “My dad always did, too.”

  I noticed he used the past tense to talk about his dad, which seemed odd. I wondered if that meant something. Back when Nathan and Lennox were an item, he’d say something offhand, and she’d spend the next couple hours analyzing it for hidden meanings. I always told her she gave more thought to his words than he ever did. Now there I was, doing the exact same thing. But mostly I was worried about whether it meant Franklin Copeland was home. “Did your dad go with your mom?” I asked.

  Charlie shook his head. “He had a doctor’s appointment in Manhattan.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  Charlie’s face registered something—the slightest discomfort—for a split second. But he recovered quickly. “He’s fine,” he said. “Just his annual physical.”

  “Won’t he be back in time for dinner?”

  “You ask just as many questions about my parents as your friend Lennox does. Do you have a blog, too?”

  I shook my head, and I could feel my cheeks reddening. “No,” I said. “I have about as much politics in my whole body as Lennox does in her pinky.”

  “The irony is, I do, too,” Charlie said. “And to answer your question—no, my dad won’t be back for dinner. He has a bunch of meetings lined up for the next few days, so he’s staying at our apartment in the city. Which means tonight it’s just us. That all right with you?”

  “It’s better,” I told him.

  “Good. Now, come in already.”

  INSIDE, THE MAIN WAS NO LESS GRAND JUST BECAUSE I’d seen it before. In fact, without the crowd, it looked like an exhibit hall in a museum. Of course I’d been in nice homes before, even some magnificent homes. Lennox’s house in Dream Hollow was all white and immaculate. The moms collected architectural plans of famous buildings, and original blueprints flanked each side of the double staircase. In her room, Lennox had a blueprint for the White House and a painting that Andy Warhol had done of George Washington.

  But the artwork the Sackler-Kandells owned was nothing like this. I recognized at least two pieces from my art history textbook, and we’d barely made it past the front hall. If your house told your story, then the story this one told was: We have more money than God.

  Charlie led me down a corridor, vaguely pointing things out as we went. “That’
s the parlor, that’s the music room.” The latter had not one but two grand pianos, along with a harp. I heard muffled voices in the background, which got louder as we walked deeper into the house, and when we reached the dining room, I could see why—ten people on ten different phones. The table was piled with papers, but not like the piles at my house. These were neat and purposeful. Thick, scalloped drapes in dark jewel tones hung by the windows, held back with gold tasseled ropes. An Oriental rug was spread across the floor, clean and vibrant, and there wasn’t a single cat in sight. “Campaign headquarters is supposed to be in the West House, but it spilled over into the Main,” Charlie explained to me.

  “Yo, Charlie,” a guy called. “Wait up.”

  Charlie bent toward my ear. “They try to speak my language when they want something from me,” he said.

  The guy jogged up to us. He was short—shorter than I was—with thick dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, and he slapped Charlie on the back as if they were pals. “We think it would be great if you could come to Riverhead next week for the town hall your mom is doing. You know, reach out to the eighteen to twenty-four vote.”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “Brock,” someone else called out. “Did the Speaker get back to us on that appearance next week?”

  “His office said no.”

  “Get his office on the phone.”

  “I’m on it.” He turned back to Charlie. “I can count on you for that town hall, then?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Charlie said. He took my hand. “Come on.”

  We turned down another hall. “Luckily you have another dining room,” I said as we passed a second one with gilded walls—rococo style, like the one in Edgewater, except without the mold. A crystal chandelier, round and somewhat reminiscent of the ball that drops in the center of Times Square every New Year’s, hung down over an enormous mahogany table.

  “This is the formal dining room,” Charlie said. “My mother would never let a war room be set up in here.”