Nick distributed the last bit of wine. He smiled shyly at Cassie. “That sounds lovely.”
Hank started clearing.
“Let us help you,” Cassie said, but Hank insisted she stay put, squeezing an arm around Cassie’s shoulder. It was a quick gesture of intimacy, and Cassie could feel Tate’s eyes on them, a jealous gaze that made Cassie tingle.
Once the table was cleared, Hank and Nick set to work on the dishes in the other room. Elda groaned as she stood. “Time for my beauty sleep.”
Tate offered her cheek up to her sister, yawning. “I’m wiped too.”
“I never knew you hated Thanksgiving.”
Tate shrugged.
“ ‘Loathe’ ”—Elda swayed above Tate—“has nothing to do with that horrible fight, though.” Cassie could tell she smelled blood.
Tate crossed her arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come off it. I was home from New York. You were, what, nine? It was the November before she—”
“I’d like to go to bed,” Tate said, but she remained in her chair. Elda loomed over her.
“He comes home drunk. She’s high as a kite. They get into a screaming match over who was supposed to feed you dinner. She comes at him with a crystal vase and he calls her a psychopath.” Elda was clutching the back of Tate’s chair. “Admit it! Admit they were horrible. Admit they were horrible to me, and, God, to you, too, honey. What was your nickname? The Tub. Who does that to a little girl?”
Tears brimmed in Tate’s eyes. All Cassie could think of was how wrecked Tate had been the night before. Cassie didn’t think either of them could survive that again. “It’s been a long day,” Cassie heard herself say. “Let’s turn in.”
Elda and Tate both startled at the sound of her voice. Their faces wore the same tired, resigned expression. Elda tilted her head, then sighed and flapped a good-bye before stumbling out into the foyer.
Cassie gripped the stem of her wineglass and gulped the last traces of the red. Tate leaned over the candle stumps and blew them out. The black wicks sent trails of smoke up to the ceiling.
The rain started after ten, accompanied by the occasional rumble of thunder. Cassie was on her bed, going through the weekly letters June had sent her over the last four years. June hadn’t missed a week—except for when one of them was visiting the other—and all the envelopes bore the postmark “St. Jude.” Cassie reopened a few of them, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sadness her grandmother’s slanted script called forth. The letters were just as she remembered: accounts of small-town life, of the garden, of the books June had read. Cassie simply couldn’t reconcile their content with Betty’s supposition—or Mrs. Weaver’s or Mrs. Deitz’s—that June had spent the last years of her life gallivanting around the world.
She heard a knock at the door and placed the letters aside. Nick lifted a finger to his lips as he entered, wearing the same pajamas he’d had on that morning, buttoned all the way up to his neck, despite the heat. She felt herself blush; she hadn’t expected him to be this forward, especially as he shut the door behind himself. But then she saw that he had something clasped in his right hand. He waved it at her triumphantly, but his voice lowered to a whisper. “I found something,” he declared, and he came to her on the bed and pressed the sixty-year-old paper into her hand.
It was a letter, postmarked from Chicago, November 1955, addressed to June Danvers. Cassie held it beside the bedside lamp as she slipped the single piece of onionskin out of its envelope.
Dear June,
You said I shouldn’t write about such matters. You said the past will stay in the past. But I think that more likely to be a wish than the truth. Please believe me when I say I’ve tried to forget. I know you made me promise never to speak of it again, but no matter how long I live, I will never forget that horrible night, and what you chose to give up for my freedom.
I cry for you. Every night, June. I miss you, that’s part of it. But I’m also crying for the life I made you choose. For your baby. For the fact he’ll never know the truth. You say there’s no reason to ask for forgiveness, but as long as I live, with every breath I take, I’ll be asking for it. You can burn this if you have to—I know how angry it’ll make you. But I had to tell you, June. I had to say I’m sorry.
Lindie
Thunder grumbled overhead as Cassie lifted her head from the page. “What does it mean?”
Nick’s eyes were wide. He flicked at the postmark. “November 1955. That’s not long after Erie Canal.”
She sat on the bed and reread the letter, picking out phrases and wondering at their meaning. “Are there any others like this?”
He shook his head. “That’s the strange part. There are dozens of letters from Lindie, starting a few months before this and lasting through the late sixties, all sent from this Chicago address. They’re the kind of letters you’d write home from camp—‘I saw this, I did this’—except for this one.”
“This is the address I used when I wrote Lindie.”
He nodded. “From the other letters it sounded like she moved there sometime in the summer of 1955.”
“I wonder if she left St. Jude because of whatever she’s talking about here.” The thunder was rolling closer; lightning flashes heralded its cry. “What do you think they did? ‘That horrible night.’ Why is she crying for June’s baby? What’s the truth he won’t know?”
Nick sat down beside her. “Maybe who his father is?”
He was much closer now. Cassie searched his eyes. “It really could have something to do with Jack.”
“It could.”
“Or it could just be, I don’t know, girl stuff. They snuck out one night. They raided the liquor cabinet.”
“ ‘I will never forget that horrible night, and what you chose to give up for my freedom.’ ” Cassie found herself watching Nick’s lips mouth the words. She couldn’t shake the memory of the kisses they’d shared in the ballroom. So he had told Tate this attraction was purely physical; maybe that could be enough.
When he got to the end she said, “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
He blushed, as though he’d finally realized they were sitting alone on her bed together.
“I won’t tell Tate you’re the one who found it.”
He waved the offer off, but she could also sense his relief.
She cleared her throat and glanced toward the door. “And you should probably go.” He looked startled, wounded, which surprised her. She elaborated. “So she doesn’t catch you in here.”
Lightning flashed open the darkness. A thunderbolt clapped. “I might not care if she does,” he said. Lightning again. In the moment between when it flashed and the thunder rolled closer, a jolt of pleasure danced over Nick’s face, as if he was seeing her for the first time. He put one hand up to Cassie’s head, cradling her cheek and her ear and her skull. She could hear her own pulse whooshing, as if she was a seashell. And then they were leaning toward each other, his lips on her lips, his chest on hers. And then they were lying down, and the kissing—oh, the sweet kissing—was slow and soft, as though each of them had been made just for it.
What came next was easy and fun. Their bodies were warm against each other as they pulled off their clothing—her shirt, his pants—and they laughed and whispered as they grew fearless. Then she could see all of him. Lightning flashed. Thunder growled. He lifted himself above her. He looked down over the wash of her nakedness as if she was a wonder. He touched the skin of her arms and thighs and belly, his eyes drowsing hungrily as if he’d never felt anything so soft. And when he was inside her, a part of herself relaxed, a part she hadn’t even known she’d been tensing.
Their clothes tangled on the floor and their limbs tangled in the bed. Cassie let herself laugh. She let herself kiss and laugh and hold him. She let herself be held.
That night, for the first time in months, Cassie slept without dreams. Two Oaks didn’t bother her; even if it had tried, she wasn’t
interested. She was too aware of Nick breathing behind her—his hand on her hip, his tangy breath in her ear, the warm lump of his sex against her lower back. Sometime in the night, he kissed her, and then she kissed him back and soon found herself astride him, and they moved and moaned together until they were both spent, and slipped back into sleep. His pulse and breath and hunger pinned her to reality, and the dream people didn’t care to argue.
Cassie woke early. She was surprised to discover herself alone. The light was thin; drizzle pattered the windows. Her head was foggy, her teeth fuzzy, her lips bruised. She put her hand over her naked chest and felt the abundance of her heart. She remembered Nick, every square inch of him. She covered her face with her hands and felt her avid breath against her palms.
Where was he? She wouldn’t let disappointment or regret set in, not just yet. He’d gotten up to take a shower. He’d snuck into his bedroom to protect her from Tate. He’d decided to show Tate the letter from Lindie after all.
She wanted to stay in bed until he came back, but practicality took over as she noticed the dark circle on her ceiling. It hadn’t been there the day before. She could remember, now, the gentle sound of the rain pattering on the roof all night.
The roof. She sat up.
Out in the hall, the doors to Tate’s and Hank’s bedrooms were wide open. She should have made a house rule against exercise before 7:00 a.m., although how were you supposed to know to even make a rule like that? She strained to hear their downward dogs above her and considered just going up. But if she did, she’d feel compelled to open the closet above her bed, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to face that reality just yet.
“Oh.” Hank was standing at the far end of the upper hall, frozen at the sight of Cassie. Her expression was disturbingly, uncharacteristically solemn. She looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink.
“I was going to join you guys. Can’t get enough of that burn.” Cassie flexed her bent arm.
But Hank was gaping. Cassie wondered if she had some kind of horrible sex remnant on her face. Or what if Nick had told them a tale of regret? What if he was downstairs right now, mocking her sex face and they were all laughing?
Hank’s phone chirped with a text. She offered a murderous “shit,” then jetted back the way she’d come and down the servant stairs without a second glance at Cassie.
Cassie took a quick trip to the bathroom—no sex remnants to be found anywhere but where they should be, thank goodness—and headed to the stairs. She couldn’t see or hear any of them, but she could feel them. Their anxiety rose from the first floor like heat shimmering off a tarred highway.
They were, all four, in the front parlor. Only Elda, settled on the corner of the yellow couch with one of June’s afghans tucked around her shoulders, glanced Cassie’s way.
It was darker in the parlors than usual, darker even than on a regular rainy day. Then she noticed the sheets up over those windows that didn’t have curtains or shades. Even the windows in the foyer and the glass in the front door were covered, and in the round office.
Nick was huddled over his laptop with his phone tucked under his ear. His smartphone sat in front of him. Cassie cleared her throat. But he didn’t so much as glance in her direction. Hank paced behind him, tapping at her phone and cursing. Behind her, huddled into the ancient armchair where Cassie had settled the first day Nick had come into her house, Tate was folded into her duvet like a rag doll. Cassie could hardly believe this was the same flawless woman who’d been in her house for the last five days, not to mention the star who’d graced television and movie screens for decades. She looked haggard, wrecked. Even her hair was ruined.
“What happened?” Cassie asked.
Silence.
To no one in particular, Elda said, “She wants to know what happened.”
Tate folded further into herself, eyes down, arms hugging her twig-like form. Hank glanced up briefly before dismissing Cassie again. Which left Nick. He eyed Cassie from his conversation—“Yes, I’ll do that. Yes, of course I am. I know. I will. Good-bye”—and checked the screen before lifting his eyes to Cassie.
“Someone,” he began coldly, “took it upon themselves to tell the press that Tate is here.”
That’s why windows were blocked out—of course. Cassie walked to the nearest one and lifted the sheet, and, sure enough, just on the other side of the property line, on the sidewalk, stood a line of paparazzi, too many to count, with too many cameras strapped to their bodies. It was raining. She thought, protectively, of her own camera, which she’d never subject to such a raw day. But she supposed these people didn’t care. Their flashes lit up like diamonds at the movement in the window. She dropped the sheet.
She turned back to find her visitors watching her. “But why does it matter if Tate’s in Ohio?”
Hank and Nick both ventured careful glances at Tate, who pointedly dropped her eyes.
“This someone,” Nick went on, “also told the tabloids that Max and Tate are splitting up.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cassie said.
“See?” Hank said. “She’s sorry.”
It dawned on Cassie that she should qualify her apology. “I’m sorry someone went to the press. No one should be sharing your private life.” She tried to catch Nick’s eye, but he looked away.
“What’s awful,” Hank said, “is that Tate felt safe here, and now she—”
“Hold on. You don’t think I had anything to do with it?” That was obviously what they all thought. Cassie felt Elda’s eyes on her, and met them. “Elda, come on.”
Elda held up her hands. “I’m Switzerland.”
“Tate,” Cassie said, approaching her—Hank stood aside, her hand on Tate’s shoulder as though shoring her up—“you can’t think I did this. You spoke to me in confidence, a confidence I respected. But even if I hadn’t kept your secrets—which I did—I wouldn’t know how to contact the press. I don’t even know who I’d call or e-mail or whatever.” She turned to Nick. “I don’t even use my landline. You know that.”
There was an icy silence.
Nick’s jaw flexed. He leaned over his computer and typed in a URL, shaking his head at whatever appeared onscreen. She craned to see.
Her pictures—the ones she’d taken over the last few days. She recognized them instantly. Three, four rolls’ worth—she couldn’t get a precise count on the thumbnailed shots as Nick scrolled through. But she knew them at once. She’d made them: Tate sobbing on her bed. Dozens of these, shots of the disarranged, desperate movie star, weeping for the end of her marriage. Another series of Elda and Tate together: Elda looking pissed, Tate looking pissy. Elda posing in the front parlor with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Another of Tate and Nick talking, his hand on her arm. Someone had commented on that one: “New lovah for Tate?”
“What the hell is this?” she asked.
Nick crossed his arms. “You tell me.”
“You think this was me?”
“You took these pictures.”
She prayed her voice wouldn’t shake. “I didn’t do this, Nick.”
“Leave her alone.” Tate’s voice was a thirsty rasp. “You should have made her sign a nondisclosure.”
Nick nodded. “It’s on me, Tate. Margaret wouldn’t have fucked this up.”
“Oh my god,” Cassie blurted. “Do they know about Margaret?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Do they know what about Margaret?”
Cassie tried to backtrack. “What Hank told me.”
Hank’s eyes grew wide.
“About…you know. The affair.”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Hank said quickly.
But Nick wasn’t listening. He was tapping at his computer. Then he stepped back, arms spread wide, as though he’d won the jackpot. Cassie came toward him, trying to catch his eye, but he was looking everywhere but at her. She reached out to touch him, but he withdrew as if she was on fire. She wanted to howl then, deep from the growing
, gnawing hollow inside herself. The women were watching her every move and he wouldn’t even look at her.
She bent over the screen and read silently to herself, trying to ignore the trail of her own photographs that tiled the article above and below, and already had millions of shares.
June 18
EXCLUSIVE: TATE AND MAX ARE SPLITSVILLE!
After seven years of wedded bliss, “perfect” couple Tate Montgomery and Max Hall are calling it quits. Why? A source close to Montgomery points to Tate’s recent firing of longtime assistant Margaret Philips. “Margaret was a source of jealousy between Max and Tate. She drove a wedge in their marriage. Is it possible there was cheating? Definitely.”
It’s been a rough few months for Tate. Back in April, she canned Ms. Philips, two days after a reportedly loud argument broke out after a dinner together at Sushi of the Valley in Van Nuys. Then, on June 10, her father—Hollywood icon Jack Montgomery—died, leaving his entire estate, the source confirms, to a previously unclaimed heir (the legal documents naming this heir were not available at press time). In a puzzling turn of events, Tate has retreated to the small Ohio town where her father and mother filmed the movie Erie Canal in 1955, a movie that began their legendary romance. Photographs released from an anonymous source within the camp show her looking distraught and unhinged and show her eccentric sister, Esmerelda “Elda” Hernandez, drinking directly from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“[Tate] was blindsided by her father’s will,” says the source. “Now that she’s lost Margaret, her father, and Max, she’s truly alone, and desperate to get back the only thing she can hold on to—her father’s money.”
Reached via telephone, Max Hall declined to comment, saying he’s “focusing on Aloysius’s latest album, which the band and I are thrilled to be recording at the legendary Abbey Road Studios.”
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