The Book of Essie

by Meghan MacLean Weir

  I think for a moment that I would like to explain about the library, about how Lissa would have approved of that sort of insurance, but it is too soon. I like Roarke, but I’m still not sure how much I can trust him, so I say instead, “She left me behind. And she never came back.”

  Roarke does not say anything, but he reaches out a finger to touch my hand. I wonder if he is doing it just to shore up the story of our romance, but when his finger hooks around my pinky, I realize that he really means to comfort me. I smile shyly, grateful for his friendship at least, even though it can never be more than that.

  “Is the lawyer coming?” I say.

  He nods. “I didn’t even have to ask twice. It was like she knew I would be calling. She’s already made some changes to the contract. She’ll be here by the time the meeting starts at three.”

  “That’s good. Remember that it’s fine to get whatever you can for your parents, but that you’re really there to get as much as you can for yourself.”

  “And for you. We’ll be partners, after all.”

  He begins to slide his finger up my arm, stroking it gently, and this I know is deliberate. I can practically hear the heads turning. I drop my eyes and move half a step away.

  “You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

  He shrugs. “Hey, I wouldn’t be saying yes if I didn’t think I’d be able to have some fun.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly given them something to talk about. Well done.”

  “Just imagine what would happen if I kissed you,” he teases.

  “I don’t have to imagine. I know. There would be at least two heart attacks, probably Hester Perkins and Evelyn Cook. Those two are really on their last legs. Not to mention the rash of fainting, some of it legitimate but most of it for show. It would be a madhouse.”

  Roarke smiles and stares at me without speaking.

  “What?” I ask finally.

  “It’s funny. I think I’m going to really like being married to you.”

  * * *

  —————

  The meeting takes place at church since the production office is not big enough to accommodate everyone. It is clear that Daddy has been brought into the loop, although I have no idea when Mother would have done that. Not when I first told her I was pregnant, that much I know. She would have never brought Daddy a problem until she had solved it to her satisfaction, would have never risked letting the decisions be taken out of her hands. In fact, there is a good chance that Daddy does not even know about the baby. I think about the times we have sat down to dinner together or passed each other in the hall. Surely if he knew, he would look at me differently. There would be a flicker of disappointment or else disgust. Or maybe it would be the opposite. Maybe he would be pleased—not consciously, of course. Still, he has given enough sermons on the dangers of fornication to not feel at least a little vindicated by my situation. He would be gloating, and I’ve seen no hint of that.

  At first I am not sure if I will even be allowed in the room, but as the others gather, Mother eventually twists her head to motion for me to follow. It is the same room the confirmation class uses and there are posters they have drawn or painted decorating the walls. Daddy sits at one end of the long polished table with Mother to his left and the family’s lawyer to his right. I claim the other seat next to our lawyer rather than sit next to Mother. Roarke is diagonally across from me with an empty chair between him and Mother, and his lawyer is on the other side. Suzanne and Leroy Richards look anxious as they sit, but their lawyer looks the most nervous of all in his ill-fitting suit and crooked tie. He is clearly out of his depth. Roarke’s lawyer, on the other hand, looks entirely at ease in her tailored burgundy suit and practical heels. Her hair shines as if she’s just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. She makes sure to introduce herself and shake everyone’s hand.

  Daddy opens the meeting by thanking everyone for coming. Then he says, “Esther’s mother and I are thrilled that Essie has found someone so worthy to share this next phase of her life with and the years beyond. Roarke, we welcome you to the family.”

  Daddy has told me nothing of his happiness. In fact, I’m nearly certain that before today he did not even know Roarke Richards’s name. I narrow my eyes, but Roarke manages a “Thank you, sir” and Daddy continues, “Now, given the special circumstances of our family business, so to speak”—he pauses for laughter and Suzanne Richards manages a croak—“it is understandably a bit more complicated than the two lovebirds just saying their I dos. This contract here outlines our proposal and the various remunerations. I trust you’ve had time to look it over.”

  The Richardses’ lawyer nods obediently, but the lawyer sent to Roarke by Liberty Bell indicates that she needs a few minutes to review the contract since she was driving while the last round of edits were being exchanged by email. I take a copy as well despite Mother’s raised eyebrows and run through the major points. For Mr. and Mrs. Richards there is the promised assistance paying off their mortgage and the cumulative debts on the store. Additionally, they have been offered $250,000, half of which they will be given up front and the other half of which they’ll get only if Roarke and I stay married for five years. After that, a stipend of $10,000 a year has been written in for the duration of our marriage, as long as Mr. and Mrs. Richards remain married themselves.

  Roarke, on the other hand, has been offered more, which is entirely reasonable, since he is the one who will actually have to be married to me and spend his life on TV. He gets tuition and costs for Columbia as well as $250,000 up front and another $250,000 at the five-year mark. Then the stipend is $50,000 a year for a long as we stay together.

  “What about children?” I ask.

  Mother looks sharply at me and Daddy says, “What about them?”

  I speak slowly and say, “If I’m not mistaken, the boys’ wives have each been given incentives of one hundred thousand dollars for every live birth and twenty thousand for every pregnancy that ends in miscarriage as long as the miscarriage is documented on the show.”

  Roarke’s lawyer presses her lips together, probably to mask her disgust. At the other end of the table, Suzanne blinks like a catfish caught on a line. Daddy looks sideways at Mother and whispers gruffly, “Is this true?” She nods once and Daddy glances over at their lawyer and mumbles, “Add it in. Anything else?”

  Beneath the table, I pull out Margot’s phone and type discreetly. I see Roarke jump as his own phone buzzes and he glances into his lap, then whispers into his lawyer’s ear.

  She bobs her chin, then faces my parents and says, “My client would like five hundred thousand dollars up front instead of what’s currently being offered and the rest of the terms remain the same.”

  Daddy pushes his palms down on the table and says, “You can’t be serious,” but Mother slides her hand over his and says, “Five hundred is fine. Why don’t we just send Lucas out to revise the contracts and get them ready to sign?”

  Roarke

  I feel the air rush out of my lungs when Celia Hicks gives me an extra $250,000 as if it’s nothing. Gives us, I should say, and I look over at Essie where she sits across from me, hands folded beneath the table, eyes lowered, waiting patiently. Soon the revised contracts are being passed down the table. My eyes can’t focus on the words, but Delaney Phillips, my new best friend of about thirty minutes, seems more than up to the task of reviewing the updated document. She places a hand on my shoulder when it’s time to sign, and I feel as if the pen that moves across the page is being held by someone else. My parents sign each copy when I’ve finished, then they’re passed to Essie and Pastor and Mrs. Hicks. The contracts are notarized and the copies tucked into briefcases, after which everyone files out of the room. Once in the hall, Mom hesitates uncertainly, but Celia Hicks, who has been fawning over her all day, does not even say good-bye before she goes clicking down the hall in her heels.

 
Mom’s face falls, but Essie steps in then and hugs her, saying, “Would it be all right if I called you Mom?” and I see my mother melt at the attention, confirming for me what I long suspected—she had always wanted a girl. She and Essie leave the church hand in hand and Essie walks us all the way to our car. Pastor Hicks had retreated to his office, lawyer in tow, after shaking my father’s hand and then, after a moment’s hesitation, shaking my hand as well.

  Essie closes the car door for my mom as my dad climbs in behind the wheel and then she crosses the narrow strip of grass to join me on the sidewalk. I’m standing with Delaney, who says to her, “The extra money was your idea, wasn’t it?” Essie doesn’t answer, and instead of being offended, Delaney laughs and begins to walk away. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t agree to any media appearances without letting me vet them. You both did very well today.”

  Delaney pulls away in her Mercedes and I hear Dad start the car to signal that it’s time to go.

  I ignore him and instead say to Essie, “So, what happens next?”

  “Besides living happily ever after? I’m guessing we have to shoot some footage of us falling in love. I’ll have my people call your people,” she says, laughing, and she starts to move away.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” I call after her and she turns back and throws her arms out to either side.

  “You’ve seen my life up to this point. You, Roarke Richards, are one hundred percent the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me.”

  * * *

  —————

  Essie is right about the love story. It seems this is part of what we need to sell. A lot of thought has gone into choosing the locations. Nothing early on is shot outside or near a window, since we’re supposed to have started dating in winter, when there would’ve been leafless trees and snow on the ground. Instead we go to a private art gallery and several restaurants. We hold hands at a small indie movie theater several towns over. Essie is fitted with hair extensions since she cut her hair sometime in December. I’m invited over to the rectory to “meet” her parents and have dinner, a scene that is just as awkward in real life as it’s meant to be on film.

  We are on schedule to finish this background footage by the end of the week. On Wednesday, just as we’re getting ready to film our first “real” kiss, Essie asks me to come with her to Havana.

  “I’m going next week for spring break,” she tells me. “It’s a mission trip. We’ll pay your way, of course, or the show will. It’s really the same thing. The flight from Miami to the island is chartered, so it’s no trouble to add one more person. I know that there’s no baseball practice. I already checked.”

  For some reason this annoys me and I say, “If you want to know if I have baseball practice, ask me. You don’t have to go around doing reconnaissance behind my back. We’re partners, remember?”

  “You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry. Will you come?”

  “I’ve never been on an airplane. Heck, I’ve never even left the state except riding on a school bus to get to baseball games.”

  “What about Columbia?” she asks me.

  I shrug. “Never been. But I figure it’s got to be better than here.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yes, Essie. I willingly submit. I’ll fly with you to a tropical island on a private plane paid for by your ridiculously rich family so we can take long romantic walks on the beach.”

  “The cameras will be coming.”

  “Then I better bring plenty of sunscreen. Make sure I don’t end up looking like a lobster on TV.”

  Just then the director, a guy named Graham, finishes talking to the cameraman and walks over to us and says to me, “Just like we talked about, okay? Count to three silently and then kiss her.”

  We’re in a planetarium, sitting side by side in the cushy seats and looking up at the blank ceiling, where there should be stars. I’m told they will be added in later, but for now the camera lights shine in our faces. I hear Graham say “Action” and turn my head sideways to look at Essie. I’m already holding her hand. I count the way that Graham has instructed and then I lean over and kiss her. Essie’s lips are soft and smooth, without any lipstick. Pressing my lips up against hers is not entirely unpleasant and I close my eyes and reach a hand across to brush her cheek.

  “Cut!” Graham shouts. “Again, and this time don’t block her face with your hand.”

  By the fifth take we are both getting punchy and after a few good moments of usable kissing, I purposely brush my hand up against her boob. Essie bats it away and punches me in the arm.

  “What?” I ask innocently. “They want it to be realistic. What’s more realistic than a teenage boy trying to cop a feel?”

  “Again,” Graham says wearily. It’s clear that when he went to film school, he thought he was going to be the next Scorsese and now he is wondering where he went wrong.

  * * *

  —————

  Dad picks me up that night, and instead of driving home, he takes the car to the quarry. In summer, kids hang out in the clearings along the edge and a few years ago one of them died while jumping off the ledge into the water below. The police guessed he must’ve hit his head on the rocks on the way down based on where the blood had spattered, meaning he was probably dead before he hit the water. You have to get a good running start if you’re going to make it. Everyone knows that.

  I didn’t know him, but I went to the funeral. The whole town did. They talked about what a tragedy it was, that a life with so much promise had been cut short before it had even started. What they didn’t say but we all knew was that he jumped after his girlfriend dared him to. That she dared him to jump and called him a coward only after he tried to strangle her and accused her of cheating on him with a senior from the next town over. That he was drunk out of his mind at the time and that everyone who knew him best said that if he hadn’t jumped, he very probably would have killed her later that night, because that was the sort of guy he was.

  No one said this out loud, though. Instead his girlfriend stood between the dead guy’s parents and cried as if she really was heartbroken. And maybe she was. Who knows? People are funny that way. They remember only what they want to and manage to forget the rest. At the very least I’ll bet she felt responsible and having her dead boyfriend’s mother’s arm around her waist would’ve only made that worse.

  You would think people would’ve stopped coming to the quarry after that, but again, memories are like sand: they can shift or else be filtered, and by the end of the summer it’d become customary to shout out his basketball number when making the jump off the rocks. That’s still how it’s done. The jump doesn’t count unless you manage to keep your shit together enough to yell out “Forty-three!” Kids’ll probably keep doing it long after anyone remembers what the number means.

  Dad doesn’t know any of this, except the part about there being a kid who died. He even knew him, which is more than I can say. Our store doesn’t stock his shoe size and the boy had to have his sneakers special-ordered. Dad probably had to run his fingers over the dead boy’s feet to measure him. Sitting in the car as Dad kills the engine, I shiver at this thought and watch my father’s hands fall from the steering wheel into his lap. The moon is bright enough to turn the granite blocks that mark the start of the trail a milky white and without saying anything, Dad gets out of the car and starts in their direction.

  It’s a good ten-minute walk to the edge of the quarry, but the path is wide and flat and I have made it before in less light than we have tonight. Another tradition is to bring a flashlight but then refuse to turn it on, no matter how frightened you get. I once asked why I should bring a flashlight at all and Greg Meyers, who was a couple years ahead of me and captain of the baseball team the year I first made varsity, told me that only an idiot would wander off into the woods without o
ne. The irony of that statement, made as we both stumbled in the dark, was entirely lost on Greg, who really was a fantastic baseball player but maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  The path is wide enough for Dad and me to walk side by side, but for some reason I stay just a few steps behind and am content to let his dark shape take the lead. Part of me wants to see if he really knows the way. There’s a turn in the trail right near the end that breaks off from the main path to the nature center and it’s this narrower spur that spans the last few hundred feet to the edge of the cliff itself. Dad takes the turn as if it’s second nature and it’s only then that I realize that kids have been coming here for far longer than I ever bothered to consider.

  When we break out of the trees, Dad ignores the edge and takes a seat on a well-worn log that’s been rubbed so flat and smooth it’s practically a bench. After a moment of hesitation, I sit beside him and wait for him to speak. The distant wall of the quarry reflects the moonlight back toward the sky and shimmers like the set of some low-budget sci-fi movie.

  Beside me I feel my father’s body slowly relax, then he says, “This is where I asked your mother to marry me.”

  “I thought you proposed at her college graduation.”

  “I did. That was the time she said yes. But I asked her here first, when she was just seventeen.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Even without looking, I can feel Dad’s shoulders lift and then go slack.

  “She said no. I guess I figured it didn’t count.”

  “So why’re you telling me now?”

  “Because she was right to turn me down even though she didn’t want to. We were too young. We had no business getting married. If we had, neither of us would’ve ever finished college. We would’ve never gotten jobs that paid enough money for us to save up to start the store. I’m not saying we haven’t got ourselves into a mess now, but things were going real well there for a while. That store put food on the table, it kept a roof over our heads, and it did that for long enough that we got you very nearly raised.”