God, he was cute.
When she returned, the house was empty, thank God. She could hear Brett’s measured breathing—the deep in and out of sleep. If she walked along the inner edge of the stairs, they made no creak. She’d learned that early on.
She closed the guest room door, but not before taking a peek inside. Brett was asleep, soundly by all appearances. If she hugged the railing of the hallway, which overlooked the living room below, the floorboards would not give her away. She’d learned that early too.
In Penelope and Brett’s bedroom, she shuffled through drawers and didn’t unearth even a vibrator. God, they had to be the world’s most boring people, with the most uninteresting sex life imaginable. She envisioned missionary-style sex weekly, lights off. Hell, he was still sleeping in the guest room for the time being. Penelope said it was because she’d been getting up so early she hadn’t wanted to wake him, but come on.
Brett was built nicely—no doubt. Although she had the impression that Penelope thought he was too thin, especially after his year of running and yoga and barely eating. Penelope had retained her figure from college. But she was still mousy. Fade into the woodwork. An absolutely beautiful face that she paid zero attention to. She had a bottle of foundation in the cabinet that had expired three years ago. What a waste.
In the closet (now gorgeously organized, with barely a thank-you to show for it), the hamper was half-full. Brett’s side was dark—mostly black and deep-blue suits, limned with fine dust. They’d all have to be cleaned when—or if—he started work again.
When she’d reorganized Pip’s closet, she’d focused mainly on her side. Brett’s was sparse, clean. Now she moved to his side, pulling out shoeboxes, peeking inside before carefully replacing them.
Oh, Brett, are you really this dry and boring?
She feared he was. The closet was completely devoid of interesting skeletons. There was a trunk at the foot of their bed—antique, scrolled, cherry—that contained nothing but extra blankets and a few heavy wool sweaters that hadn’t been worn in years, by the smell.
Pip’s nightstand: cough drops, a small pack of tissues, a vitamin D prescription from six months before with only two pills missing, an OTC sleep aid, barely used.
Please, Brett, she thought, be more than this. Please.
She found the answer to her wish in the back of his nightstand. A small black Android device, seemingly current. Both Brett and Penelope carried new-model iPhones.
She held down the power button, expecting nothing. It could be dead. Old. Broken.
The screen lit up. Jackpot. She turned the device over and studied the back.
Imagine Wireless. A pay-per-month phone service.
This was a burner phone.
“Oh, Brett,” she said softly, with not just a little bit of glee. “What are you hiding?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Then: Independence Day
“You don’t seem like a Fourth of July kind of person,” Penelope observed as Jack ticked off a list in his hand.
“I don’t care much either way, but it’s an excuse to have a party, right? Hot dogs, burgers, beer. Like when we were kids.”
“I never had a Fourth of July picnic as a kid,” Penelope said, realizing too late, as she usually did, how pathetic her childhood sounded.
“Never?” Willa arched her eyebrows disbelievingly.
“I mean, it’s a barbaric holiday.” Jack shrugged like this was irrelevant.
“Barbaric how?” Penelope echoed.
Flynn appeared at the basement doorway and said, “It’s not even nine in the morning—why are we talking about barbarism?”
“Celebrating Independence Day. I mean, it’s not as shitty as, say, Columbus Day, but people don’t actually celebrate that anyway. No one is proud of that douchebag.”
“Do you know a lot of Black people don’t celebrate the Fourth of July?” Flynn shrugged. “I was adopted by white people, so I didn’t know until high school.”
“What! Why?” Willa looked appalled.
Flynn spread his hands wide, at a loss for words, and seemed to opt for the simplest explanation. “It wasn’t our freedom then. Why would we celebrate it now?”
“For the party,” Willa stammered. “Fireworks, sparklers, swimming, boating.”
“We have two Americas.” Flynn added cream to his coffee, shaking his head, his speech slow and deliberate, at the same time as Bree said, “Boating!”
Penelope knew Willa grew up rich. Like southern plantation, lake house, beach house, BMWs, and Mercedes (not Jags, though—she was careful to underscore that for reasons Penelope would never understand) rich. She didn’t know Flynn’s background, except that he was raised in Philadelphia, adopted, and got into Penn on a scholarship he didn’t much talk about.
“There are a lot of different Americas,” Jack offered flippantly, waving his hand like it was immaterial. “I just think it would be fun to have a good old-fashioned picnic, like when we were all kids.”
“When you were kids.” Flynn’s voice was louder now. Firmer and resolute.
“Will we invite other people?” Willa asked, her face unreadable.
“Like your date?” Bree teased, and Willa shot her a look.
“Should we?” Penelope asked, staring directly at Willa, looking for a signal. What had happened on that date a few weeks ago? Had Willa come home crying? The next morning, Willa had behaved like business as usual, but she never mentioned the date, the Ecstasy, that night again. Penelope had tried to ask her, went to her room the next night. She’d waved her away with an eye roll and just said, Ugh no. Men suck.
Willa gave Penelope a barely perceptible shake of her head, and Penelope followed quickly: “Let’s just do us—a bonding thing.” She couldn’t have invited anyone else if she’d wanted to. She was starting her job at the bookstore the Monday after the picnic. She didn’t know a soul.
“Can I have a veggie burger?” Bree asked, and Jack pretended to fall backward dramatically.
“Just for one day, can’t you have red meat like a real American?”
“What happened to a lot of different Americas? Or is that only true when it’s convenient for you?” Bree countered, but she was smiling. “To be a real American now, you have to eat cow?”
“Yes, and drink Miller Lite, and . . . I don’t know, maybe drive a truck? Wear red, white, and blue. What else?” Jack threw up his hand, the other still clutching a coffee cup.
“Know all the words to ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” Penelope offered, because she felt sure they could at least muster that.
“Listen, y’all, I grew up in Louisiana. Y’all don’t even know real America up here,” Willa declared. “First of all, ya gotta wear one of those tall net hats that says like Tide or something on it. I had an uncle that wore one. He was a real American. Nice guy—my favorite uncle.”
“YES.” Jack pointed at Willa emphatically. “See, this is what I’m talking about. This Saturday—two days from now—it’s on. We’ll have a real Independence Day. Everyone in? Get your trucker hats.”
They all agreed, but Penelope looked around the kitchen, the smiling faces of Jack and Willa, Bree pensive but grinning, and couldn’t help but notice that Flynn had gone.
Flynn worked the grill, which surprised Penelope for more than one reason. Willa had pegged Flynn and Jack wrong again, but also Penelope couldn’t have been sure that Flynn would even show up to the party. The others had been insensitive, and it was doubtful they’d even been aware of it.
Jack hovered over Flynn’s shoulder, the way men do around a barbecue, discussing the temperature, smoke, cooking, meat, color. Flip it now; no, not yet; remember Willa said rare.
Willa came upstairs dressed in a fire engine–red gauzy dress and an enormous white straw hat. She twirled on the patio, stumbling a little over the uneven flagstones. For a second, Penelope wondered if she was drunk already, but it was only two. Flynn laughed and emitted a low whistle. Jack grabbed her hand and s
pun her in a little pirouette.
“Willamena! Sing to us,” Jack called, and she cringed at the Willamena. He sat in the big overstuffed chair, his legs slung over the side, his guitar on his lap. She demurred, a coy dip to her chin.
“What should I sing?” she asked. Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks, and she chewed her pinkie. Finally, she smoothed the front of her red dress down over her thighs.
Bree emerged outside holding a tray of drinks: some kind of berry-lemonade-vodka thing she’d found on the internet. Willa had been keeping the bar fully stocked—vodka, rum, bourbon, gin. None of that bottom-shelf swill, she’d said. Penelope took a sip. It was delicious—and strong. Willa drained half her glass in one go, and Jack watched her, shook his head a little, and caught Penelope’s eye. He mouthed, River.
Willa started, her voice loud, delicate, and clear. “It’s coming on Christmas.”
Joni Mitchell. Penelope always thrilled at the depth of her sweet, resonant alto. She could hit the highs and the lows with the same signature vibrato. Her voice was a little breathier. A little sexier. Penelope looked over at Jack, who looked rapt.
Anyone who didn’t know her wouldn’t guess that Willa’s snark and sarcasm covered over this gorgeous voice.
“Oh God,” Bree breathed, a hand over her mouth. She turned to Jack. “I’ve heard her sing around the house sometimes, but not like this.”
“This one’s the Willa Special.” He grinned and watched her, like a proud parent. Or maybe boyfriend. Penelope had an unwelcome stab of jealousy. She hated feeling envious over Jack and Willa, but their friendship had always felt impenetrable. Even when they were in college, they were the main act; she was the foil. Was it so wrong to want the main act, just once, for herself?
“Willa, are you drunk?” Penelope asked, as Willa swayed with her eyes shut.
“Shhh!” Flynn said.
Earlier that day, Bree had turned the patio and courtyard into an oasis. In the center was her garden, edged with wildflowers. She strung Ikea lights diagonally from the corner of the house to a pole at the far east side of the courtyard. Someone had moved out the beanbag chair, two couches, and a recliner. Terra-cotta pots were staggered around on ledges and boxes, different heights of bright, bursting annuals.
They flopped onto the transported furniture, sipping their fizzy lemonades and breathing in the smell of charred meat until the conversation petered out, and Penelope felt a buzzy little thrill when Bree brought her a second drink.
Willa finished her a cappella number, and Jack picked his guitar up from beside one of the couches. He strummed a few notes, then inclined his head in Willa’s direction. “You with the sad eyes.”
Bree clapped her hands and squealed, “I loved Cyndi Lauper!”
Flynn, pouting and nursing his drink, said, “You know it’s not a fake band if half of you have actual talent!”
Willa’s voice was beautiful, and Jack hit the harmony. Penelope closed her eyes, leaned her head back, feeling pleasantly drunk, fuzzy around the edges, and not just a little giddy.
When the song ended, Jack stood as though making a speech. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of America.”
Willa snorted. “Is this a speech or a fucking eulogy?” She drained her lemonade in one shot and poured another from the pitcher.
“What if it was a fucking eulogy?” Jack raised his glass, paused to rethink his speech. “To Willa. The craziest girl I know. I really wish she hadn’t gone skydiving. Or at least I wish she had gotten a lesson first. Who forgets to open their own parachute? She had great tits and an incredible voice and a big giant brain that people didn’t expect because of the tits. She squeezed out every last drop of fun, our Clotho, giver of life, probably drank too much, swore more than a construction worker, and could make a helluva baked ziti.” His voice lowered, and he blew her a kiss. “She was my best friend, and she deserved so much better than me and whatever asshole she ends up with ten years from now. She’s better than all of us.”
Bree pretended to wipe her eyes. “Oh, that was lovely, Jack. You’ve got a way with words. You should be a writer.”
Penelope snorted, and Jack swiveled around. “Oh, is that so funny, then? You think you can do better?”
Penelope stood and delicately cleared her throat. “To Jack.” Flynn and Bree both let out a groan. “The life of every party. A goddamn bastard”—howls because Penelope rarely cursed—“who only wanted everyone to know who he really was—his hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions. He finally finished that novel, and we’re all so appreciative. It’s how we ended up spending every summer together at his mansion in East Hampton. Sadly, he should not have stolen that boat, considering he didn’t know how to sail and he was a tiny bit tipsy, but after all, he was dared by his best friend, Willa, and everyone knows Jack can’t walk away from a dare. Even when he’s fifty years old. He’d always wanted a Viking funeral. To Jack!” Penelope raised her glass, and they chorused, “To Jack!”
“A mansion in East Hampton? Based on book royalties?” Flynn sounded skeptical.
“And a movie deal, natch. The movie wins an Oscar.” Penelope sniffed.
Jack grinned, so genuine and happy, and Penelope felt her cheeks flame.
“Okay, okay. My turn!” Willa stood, her glass raised. “To Bree. Wild and beautiful and happy and innocent and free spirited. Bree, who brought peace and light with her gorgeous flowers and her art. Bree, surprisingly cunning, a little manipulative. Always knew what we all wanted and gave it to us. Truly, a lost art. I loved her with all my heart.”
Willa was half sitting back down when Bree cupped her hand around her mouth, called from the recliner, “No mention of my tits?”
Willa stood up, looked around, raised her glass. “To Bree’s nonexistent tits. The woman could run five miles without a bra.” She sat back down.
“To nonexistent tits!” Jack and Flynn said in unison and clinked glasses.
By then, they were all quite drunk on Bree’s lemony concoction, and Penelope squinted at the strung lights and bobbed her head to watch them blur together. She realized suddenly that if Willa didn’t eulogize her, it was likely none of them would. She was closest to Willa, had known her the longest. Then she found that she didn’t much care. She was content to sit back and listen.
“Okay, I’ll go.” Flynn stood, and Penelope found that her pulse was racing. “To Penelope. Still waters run deep.” His voice was low and deep naturally, but that night it took all Penelope’s concentration to even hear him. “Everyone thought Penelope was sensible and practical. But deep down inside, we knew she had a wild streak. We were all shocked when she left us to become a Vegas showgirl, but as it turns out she actually had fabulous tits—a fact none of us knew—”
“Oh, I knew that,” interrupted Jack. Penelope shot him a faux dirty look.
Flynn glared but continued smoothly. “And was an incredible dancer. Penelope also had a way of reaching right into your soul, plucking out your very essence, holding it up to the sun to expose all the terrible things you thought you were: sad or awkward or scared or worried. Without even trying, she saw the raw, unformed parts of you and not only loved you for them but made you love them too.”
Penelope sat, shocked, staring at Flynn and his gorgeous speech and wondering where the hell it had come from. Science and art; she recalled their conversation on the patio. He took his seat, looked away, pressed a palm to his ironed khaki pants, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
“I think Flynn wins the writer award,” Jack said thoughtfully, looking truly touched. “Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Is it . . . Penelope you’re in love with? Not Bree, then?”
“Not everyone is in love with someone all the time,” Bree said, disgusted.
“Well, life is certainly more fun with a little romance, right? Sexual tension makes the world go round, or something like that?” Jack waved his hand in a circle, laughing.
“I’m not in love with Bree or Penelope,” Flynn s
aid quietly and stood back up. He disappeared into the house and emerged a few moments later with the pitcher of lemonade and his own glass full. “Whose turn?”
Bree stood. “It’s too easy for me to do Flynn, but it’s also impossible. I can’t say in ten seconds everything that Flynn means to me—”
“Meant to you. He’s dead, Bree,” Willa interjected. “Play the game. Close your eyes; be dead,” Willa directed at Flynn, who complied. She was getting drunker by the second.
“Meant to me. Right. He’s my brother from another mother, sister from another mister. He’s been there for me through thick and thin, in the best and worst of times.” Bree shot a warning glare at Jack, and he clamped his mouth shut. “He was gentle, creative, intuitive, emotionally available, and would have made someone very happy one day. He would have been a wonderful father to his own children, a fun, loving uncle to his nieces and nephews. If he’d only been able to—”
“Oh my GOD!” Willa shouted, rolling her eyes and flopping back against the back of the couch. When she was drunk like this, red faced, the scar on her left cheek seemed to pulse purple. “Blah blah blah blabbity blah. It was just supposed to be fun. This is awful. Now I’m depressed. Goddammit!”
“You didn’t even let Bree finish!” Jack protested.
“She’s done! That was awful.” Willa stood, unsteadily, and Jack snorted, his eyes tracking her across the room.
“I mean, as long as you’re bored, Willa,” Jack said, his voice suddenly dipping down low.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Willa whirled back to him, her face instantly contorted.
“Just what I said! When you get bombed, you start directing us all. We have to do what you want, when you want. You’re in charge.” Jack shrugged. “We all know it. We all do it.”
“Do what?”
“Cater to the resident queen.” Jack shrugged again, maddeningly.
“Why are you such an ass?” Willa asked him, and he laughed.
“I’m an ass because I call you out? You always do this! You get bored with a game; you declare it over. You don’t want to play Risk, so we all play backgammon even though you can only play two people at a time. You won’t eat certain vegetables, sauces; vinegar is out. We plan our meals around you, and you’re not even the vegetarian! You’re exhausting.” Jack splayed his hands out calmly. “I know I’m not the first one to tell you this.”
The Spires Page 11