The Spires

by Moretti, Kate

  Willa followed Bree and Flynn downstairs after reading Jack the riot act. “We were playing a game, you shithead.” Willa stood, brushed chip crumbs from her skirt onto the floor, and started packing up the box. “Does anyone ever finish this stupid game, or does it always just end in a fight?” she muttered under her breath. Pip followed her lead and stood, silently collecting glasses and plates and carting them to the kitchen sink.

  Only Jack remained seated, unaffected, arms slung over his knees, legs bent and crossed at the ankle. “I mean, you’re not off base. I am, certainly, a shithead. I just feel like we should all be able to be honest with each other. Bree does act like she’s better than the rest of us. Above us. It’s grating.”

  “The only thing grating around here tonight is you.” Willa slammed the basement door and was gone, leaving them alone.

  Penelope stayed upstairs with Jack. He rubbed blearily at his eyes. “Maybe I’m just drunk. Do you think I’m an asshole?”

  “I think you want everyone to love you best. Bree doesn’t. It eats away at you.” The vodka made Penelope bold.

  Jack’s head snapped up at that, and his bright-blue eyes met hers, and the current went from her head straight to her toes. He stared at her so intently for far too long. Finally, he said, softly, “You’re so unsettling sometimes, Pip.”

  It reminded her of what Flynn said the week before.

  She stood up suddenly, her head spinning, and mumbled something about going to bed. Jack reached up from the floor, grabbed her hand. His skin was hot, his eyes unfocused as she looked down at him, and his thumb caressed the inside of her palm, sending a shiver up her arm.

  “I’m jealous, you know. She doesn’t need anyone. How do you go through life like that?” Jack’s voice wobbled and slurred.

  “That’s ridiculous. She needs Flynn.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She pretends to.” He tugged her hand to bring her closer to him, until they were only inches apart. Penelope could barely breathe. “Everything with her is an act.”

  “You’re very drunk. I think we should all just go to bed.” Pip snatched her hand away, her vision blurring around the edges. She backed away from him, but he didn’t make a move to stand. “Will you be okay?”

  “You’re a good friend, Pip.” Then, more quietly, “Better to me than I am to you.”

  Pip paused, considering. Almost turned back, almost asked him more. Instead, she left him there, staring at the ceiling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  February 22, 2020

  “It’s Willa’s birthday!”

  Penelope was in her bedroom folding laundry when Tara came bounding in. It was only ten in the morning, and Tara usually rolled out of bed on Saturdays sometime before noon, but not generally by ten.

  “Is that so? How do you know that?” Penelope kept her voice even while matching socks. She wasn’t mad anymore, but she still retained a certain level of uneasiness. The BREATHE necklace was back in her jewelry box. She had not imagined the conversation, the necklace resting against Willa’s tanned chest. Had she tried to swipe it, gotten caught, and secretly returned it? Why would she act like it was hers, then later pretend she didn’t know what Penelope was talking about? What necklace? she’d asked. What kind of person would play a game like that, and to what end? Penelope had a niggling doubt. Maybe, maybe, she had been wrong. Maybe the necklace had been in her jewelry box the whole time, and it was a duplicate necklace. Maybe the conversation had been so mundane to Willa that she’d forgotten about it entirely.

  She started watching Willa, really watching her. Humming around the house, padding through the halls barefoot, a soft smile on her face. Penelope found herself sneaking around her own damn house, tiptoeing through the front door. Carefully hanging her coat, lingering in the living room, listening to the conversation in the kitchen. For what, exactly? She didn’t know. An affair with her husband? A whispered phone call? Something untoward with either of the kids? None of it could be discounted. There had been too many missteps, too many boundaries crossed for Penelope to feel entirely comfortable with Willa in the house, in her life.

  The sooner they all moved on, the better. From the beginning, she’d promised her two weeks. Well, fine. She’d get her two weeks. But in the meantime, Penelope started locking her bedroom door. It was a simple privacy knob, a pinhole on the outside that could be popped with any generic sharp object. The point was to let Willa know that she wasn’t welcome. Maybe it would be enough; maybe it wouldn’t.

  Hopefully, this would only be a few more days.

  She handed the basket to Tara, who sighed theatrically and flounced away. Penelope suspected she’d just dump it in Linc’s room and pretend she never saw it.

  In the kitchen, Tara and Linc and Brett were huddled together, conspiring. When they saw Penelope, they waved her in.

  “We’re planning a party for Willa. She’s been so great while Daddy was sick and you were working. Wouldn’t it be fun to throw her a surprise party?”

  “Come on, Mom.” Tara leaned in, whispered to her girl talk–style. “I can tell you’re still kind of mad at her. About”—the pills, she mouthed. “But just for fun? Can you be nice for a night?”

  Yes. Yes, she could have been nice had Willa just not bought her kids birth control and gone through all their finances and rearranged their closets. If she hadn’t pushed every socially acceptable boundary there was.

  But. Brett didn’t know about the birth control. She hadn’t confronted him about the credit card bill he’d asked Willa to pay. Why? Stress, maybe? Stress was a contributing factor to a hemolytic crisis. Not the major factor, and it was anecdotal, like most things related to G6PD. Soy was anecdotal, too; still, he avoided soy. Either way, she was giving him a little bit of time before she brought more stress, more conflict into their lives. Either that or she was just procrastinating an uncomfortable conversation.

  It felt to Penelope as though they were living in limbo. Waiting for Willa to leave. Waiting to see how their marriage would either come back together or fall apart.

  Penelope looked at Brett, who gave her a small whatcha gonna do shrug and waved his hand to the two hopeful, smiling faces in front of her.

  So? What else was she supposed to do? Her problems with Willa—whatever they were—were not her children’s problems. What the hell. At least there would be wine.

  Penelope retrieved a notepad from the top drawer. “Okay, make me a list,” she said, resigned. The kids whooped, and Linc kissed her cheek.

  Today, apparently, there would be a birthday party.

  Brett asked her to text Jaime and tell him to come at seven.

  “Why?” Penelope startled, a grocery bag in each hand. She placed them, carefully and while avoiding eye contact, on the counter and started putting away hors d’oeuvres—cheese and crackers, pesto spread, and crusty french bread.

  “I think they’re kind of dating!” His eyes were bright, happy. Penelope felt the nausea roll over her, but it faded as quickly as it had come. She didn’t want to see them together, of course not. But. Who knew what the future held—for any of them, really—but if by some miraculous turn of events she and Brett stayed together in Wexford, and Willa moved in somewhere nearby, and Jaime and Willa did start dating, or maybe even got married—

  “Penelope?” Brett held a bottle of wine in each hand, interrupting her careening train of thought.

  “What?” she snapped, too quickly and too loud.

  “Red or white?” Brett asked.

  Willa came home at seven with Jaime, who’d been instructed to keep her out for the surprise. She cried, her hands over her mouth, as if the idea of a surprise party was just completely unbelievable. As though there were fifty people in attendance.

  They had made dinner—roasted pork loin, orzo and mushrooms, blackened asparagus—on the indoor grill. Wine for all, seemingly never ending. Penelope remembered the dinner a week ago, with Brett, and how glittery and sparkling everything felt with Willa around. She b
rought a certain kind of undeniable energy to a room, and after an hour and two glasses of wine, Penelope started to forget about the birth control and the bills and the closet and the boundaries. Mostly.

  Willa was funny, witty, and beautiful, in a pink gauzy dress with long draping sleeves and a glittering crystal necklace. Jaime, Penelope noted with not a little heartbreak, was mesmerized. This was the Willa Penelope always remembered: alight, sparkling, loud, bawdy, fun. The one prompting the interesting conversations. The one with the most outrageous commentary.

  There were no toasts this time, just lively conversation, the kind that overlapped and turned without intention; the best kind, where everyone talked at once, and then everyone laughed, and Penelope at one point had her head on her hand, gasping, the kind of laughter that made no noise, which Tara once told her was the best kind. She tried not to be charmed—but as the night wore on and the wine flowed, she found that she couldn’t remember her anger.

  She could remember the reasons behind it; she could enumerate the infractions: the bracelet (maybe), the birth control, the credit card bill, the necklace, Jaime (was that an infraction—truly?), the cleaned bedroom and closet. But she couldn’t hold the anger—it kept sliding away from her. With every joke Willa told, she found her anger ebbing away until it was gone completely and all that remained was the hazy room, the burbling of laughter, the feel of Willa’s hand on her arm.

  Linc had made a cake, some kind of chocolate bomb with a liquid center, oozing and gooey, and they took their cake and wine into the living room.

  The only time Jaime touched Penelope was accidentally, when he followed her from the dining room to the living room and he ducked his head and whispered sorry with a smile, and she knew that the touch did to him what it did to her, though they both tried not to think about it.

  “You lived together after college?” Jaime asked, before eating a forkful of cake. The room quieted, or maybe it was Penelope’s imagination, but even Linc seemed to still, his hand halfway to his mouth. “Wow, this is good,” he said, unaware of the edge to his question or how they all knew not to talk about the time before—even Brett—just calling it the fire house. Years of hmmmmms and Oh, honey, I don’t quite remember when asked about her college years, or the years immediately following, gave everyone the impression that it wasn’t an enjoyable topic of conversation.

  But Jaime didn’t know any of that.

  “Pen,” Willa suddenly exclaimed, her voice pitched and excited. “Go get the photos!”

  Penelope blinked at her, blankly. “What photos?”

  “When I . . . organized your closet . . .” Willa’s voice halted but recovered, her cheeks flushed with the memory of the infraction, a tacit apology. “I saw the photo album of us. It says The Spires on the front?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Penelope swallowed, but then, instantly, she did. She could see it, in the bottom of her closet bin of memories (movie tickets and subway tickets and loose snapshots and Polaroids and brochures for museums), a small little flip-book. Ten photos at the most. Clipped together with a little round paper ring. A tiny weight, moved from house to house, rarely looked at, but never parted with. The things that went into the bin never seemed to come back out.

  “Please?”

  Penelope knew the photos were from the early months. Halcyon days—before they argued—when they felt flush with love, faces pinked with liquor and the feeling of being on top of the world. Before Grace. Before the fire. Before everything got complicated.

  The Spires.

  “I’ve never seen these photos,” Brett said, his voice injured.

  “Let’s see young Penelope and young Willa!” Jaime urged.

  “I don’t even know exactly where they are,” Penelope faltered, knowing already that going along would be easier than resisting, so the protest felt half-hearted. Her stomach knotted; the cake felt like a lead ball. She set her plate on the end table and scanned the room. Linc and Tara gave her a look—you promised to be nice!

  “I know exactly where they are!” Willa exclaimed, standing, going up on her toes and holding her hand out to Penelope to help her up. Penelope waved her away and went upstairs to retrieve them.

  She returned downstairs, the small five-by-seven photo book in hand all yellowed and faded with twenty years of exposure to the air, but still, all of them at their peak, or so they believed.

  The Spires. Someone had cut letters from magazines, pasted them carefully on the cover, so it looked slightly kidnapper-chic, just badass enough. She ran her fingers over the lettering. She didn’t remember doing it—seemed like something Bree might have done.

  Willa paged through the book, her face unreadable as she flipped. In order: the group of them on the front porch on moving day, Jack’s arm slung around both Willa and Penelope, Flynn watching the three of them with bright, stark hope; the perpetual game of Risk they had going that seemed to continue the next day like no one had tipped the board over in a rage the night before (except for that one weird night with Bree—they all tried to forget about that one); the Fourth of July party on the patio.

  Linc and Tara peered over her shoulder. Brett and Jamie casually waited their turn but smiled at the commentary.

  “You look exactly the same, Mom!” Linc said.

  “Willa looks different,” Tara said.

  “Oh, well. I was fat then,” Willa said, shaking her head.

  “What! You were never fat,” Penelope insisted.

  “I think I was at least twenty-five pounds heavier.” Willa’s voice turned dismissive.

  Penelope flipped back to the photo of the five of them outside the church, the bell tower behind them. Their album cover, Jack had said. Willa’s face was rounder, her cheeks ruddy with cold. Her eyes wider.

  “God, remember that Independence Day party?” Penelope asked.

  Willa studied Penelope, her face unreadable. “I think so. We had a lot of parties, you know?”

  “Okay, but with the eulogies?”

  “Wait, Mom, did you say eulogies?” Linc asked, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

  Penelope snorted, holding the back of her hand against her mouth. “Yes! Oh, it was probably so dumb. I don’t even know who started it. Probably Jack.” She rolled her eyes and looked over at Willa, expecting her to meet her gaze with the same level of derision, but her face remained passive, blank. “We all eulogized each other. Someone said that I joined the Vegas showgirls, and I said that Jack died in a sailing accident. How did you die?”

  “Oh God, Pip, that was ages ago. How do you remember all this?” Willa waved her hand around, dismissive. She’d been so anxious for Penelope to retrieve the photos, and now she seemed almost irritated by it.

  “No, seriously! We always talked about it after. Jokes about our invented deaths. I can’t remember yours.”

  “Pip, I can’t either! I can barely remember what you’re talking about!”

  In the next photo, Bree was filthy from head to toe, and the rest of them—were they singing? The five of them holding various instruments they didn’t know how to play—that was the joke. See, Jack played a guitar, but for pictures, Flynn always held it; Bree came flying in the door one day with a little metal triangle, and Jack claimed it as his. Willa was the singer, the voice of an angel; she was the only one they took seriously—they couldn’t bear to not hear her voice, even if the rest of the band was a sham. Flynn—the resident dumpster diver—found a ukulele in the trash, and Penelope ended up with it. She couldn’t remember if she chose it.

  “You should sing tonight!” Penelope said with sudden inspiration.

  “I can’t sing anymore. I haven’t sung since . . .” Willa let her voice trail off and motioned toward her face. “The smoke.” The room fell silent, and they waited. Even Penelope’s kids knew they never talked about the fire, even if they had never known why.

  Brett knew there had been a fire and someone died. He thought her unwillingness to talk about it stemmed
from love.

  “I didn’t know that,” Penelope said, dumbfounded. Willa’s singing was as much a part of the Church House as, well, the church itself. A high lilting, echoing off the high ceilings of the church. “God, what was that song you always used to sing? It was this low, sexy thing. Something from the seventies, maybe? Jazzy, you know. I can’t remember?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; it was so long ago, Pip.” She ate a forkful of cake, her cheeks full and flushed.

  “How can you not know? It was constant, and God, you were great at it. Like, it was beautiful. The acoustics in the church were amazing. It had these really high notes and then this thrumming, sexy baseline,” Penelope said, watching Willa’s face carefully.

  “I said I have no idea, Pip—let it go.” Willa’s voice took on an edge, and she stood, brushing a crumb from her dress. She disappeared into the downstairs powder room, and Jaime caught Penelope’s eye. She gave him a small shrug. Linc forked a piece of Tara’s cake off her plate, and she swatted at him.

  By the time Willa returned, the mood in the room had smoothed over. Brett was telling a story about college—he’d gone to a liberal arts college outside Philadelphia, small and intimate—and a roommate bar fight that ended at the county jail. Jaime was laughing, but Penelope was distracted. Willa had composed herself and was listening to Brett, rapt, but Penelope couldn’t shake her uneasiness. How could Willa not remember the song? Or the way she “died”? It seemed no different than not remembering who had blonde hair or that Bree was a virgin or Flynn was gay or Jack was . . . Jack. All the parts of them had fused together to make the Church House and their year together a fulcrum in their lives.

  Jaime had left with kisses on both their cheeks, and Brett had helped a bit, doing the dishes before going to bed. Linc and Tara were long gone, up to their rooms, their phones, their friends.