Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  When I have nothing left in my stomach, I stagger to my feet and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You covered up three accidents to save your ass?”

  The rain is falling harder, and I have to get even closer to hear Honey. “The truth won’t bring them back, Ann. It’ll only cause more damage. Kris and I will be ruined. My family will be abandoned. They’ll have nothing.”

  Honey pulls herself together again, her words even and calm. Her cool demeanor sends me over the edge, and before I know it, I’m on top of her, screaming. The handler pulls me off before I can do any real damage, and I thrash and kick in his grasp. Honey manages to remove the gun from the handler’s back pocket and slams it down on my head. My vision goes white, and I think I’m about to pass out from the pain. The handler lets me fall to the ground, and I hold my head in an attempt to calm the agony, to turn my surroundings right side up.

  When the world stops spinning, I realize Kris is screaming.

  “Honey, what are you doing?” Her eyes are wild, her arm outstretched. My gaze follows her arm, and that’s when I notice Honey above me, a cocked gun pointed at my face. She’s close enough that I can feel her breath.

  “You’re going to kill me, too?”

  “You hit me first,” she replies. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re not thinking about how this situation will affect me if it gets out.”

  I burst into a deep belly laugh. “You’re holding a gun to my head, and all you can think about is how this affects you? You really are a terrible person, aren’t you?”

  Honey’s grip starts to tremble.

  “Honey, just calm down.” Kris’s voice quivers. “Ann is your friend. She’s not going to tell anyone.”

  I laugh again. I feel like a maniac. “If I get off this island, I’m telling anyone who’ll listen. I’ll tattoo it on my forehead, run an ad in the newspaper.”

  Kris turns to me, her face panicked. “You’re not helping.”

  “You know what?” I say, keeping my eyes on Honey. “Go ahead and do it. I want you to live with this for the rest of your life. I want you to remember this moment.”

  Honey is right: I’m not thinking clearly. I should be trying to negotiate with her, save myself. But the truth is, once Honey brought me to this field, I never stood a chance.

  I wait for the sound of the gun, but it doesn’t come. Honey remains immobile, the gun in her hand shaking.

  In her moment of hesitation, I kick her in the chest, sending her backward. The gun flies out of her hand, skidding across the pavement. The handler lunges for it, but I’m closer, and I get to it first. Before the handler or anyone else can touch me, I point the gun at them. I stand. And my hand doesn’t shake—my dad taught me better than that.

  Honey is lying on the pavement, coughing. Kris and the handler look at me, their eyes wild. I don’t actually have the heart to kill someone in cold blood, but I need a little time to figure out what to do. How to get out of here.`

  “Ann,” Kris says with her hands in the air. “Just put the gun down. You’re not going to kill anyone.”

  “You don’t know me, Kris,” I lie.

  No one moves.

  “Move back, now,” I say through gritted teeth. My mind is buzzing, and I can’t get it to slow down. I need a plan. What am I going to do?

  A phone. I need a phone to call the Hawaiian police. But can I stall Honey, Kris, and her handler until the police get here? How long would it take if they have to travel by boat or plane? Fuck it. I don’t have another option.

  “I need a phone,” I yell. Kris and the handler exchange glances.

  “We don’t have one,” Kris stammers.

  I aim just to the left of Kris’s foot and pull the trigger. Even through the rain, the bullet sounds like a bomb. My ears ring. Kris screams and tumbles backward. For the first time, the handler looks genuinely frightened. Truth be told, I’m also frightened of what I might have to do.

  “Okay, okay,” Kris screams. She nods to the handler, who rummages in his back pocket and tosses me his phone.

  I catch it with my free hand. It’s an iPhone. I press and hold the side and volume buttons until the emergency screen pops up, allowing me to sidestep the lock screen. I try to drag the Emergency SOS slider, but it’s too slick from the rain. I drag once, twice, three times, but it’s not working. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  With the gun in my right hand still firmly on Honey, I lift up the bottom of my gown with my other hand so I can wipe the screen with my semi-dry leg. The screen clears, and I’m able to swipe. I let out a small cry as the call goes through, connecting me to the nearest Hawaiian precinct. Just as the words Phaux Island escape my mouth, I’m tackled to the ground. I feel my brain knock against my skull as my back meets the pavement. My hand tightens, and the gun goes off.

  I can’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Someone is on top of me. Motionless. When I force my eyes to focus, I see Honey’s head on my chest, her blonde hair dark and syrupy from the rain.

  “Honey,” I whisper. Kris comes to her side and helps to lift her torso off of mine. And that’s when I notice the blood. In the middle of Honey’s chest. Dark and angry, spreading quickly. Honey reaches for the wound before meeting my gaze. Her eyes bulge, and her lip trembles.

  “Honey,” I say again. “It’s okay, the police are coming. You’re gonna be okay.”

  Kris lays her on her back, and I tear off the end of my gown to stanch the blood. But I know it’s useless. Blood starts to trickle from Honey’s mouth.

  “Oh my God,” Kris says as she backs away, her hands over her face.

  The handler is by my side now. He takes off his shirt. “Use this too,” he says.

  I place it against Honey’s wound, trying not to look at her face. But she reaches for my hand, now greased with blood, and I’m forced to meet her gaze once more. Her eyes are streaming, and despite everything, I feel mine fill too.

  “Hang on, Honey.”

  And just when I hear the sound of another car approaching—it could have been minutes, or it could have been hours—I watch the life fade from Honey’s eyes for good.

  64

  Reese

  Before you die, they say your life flashes before your eyes. That’s not true. It’s more like snippets. Stills from a moving picture.

  I saw myself when I was six or seven, locked in my mom’s trailer. The first time I ran away, spending the night in a shabby apartment with the first willing guy I met at a bar. Sleeping in a run-down, abandoned house with a crowd of people in sleeping bags, high as a kite. My first morning sober, when the shakes were so bad I couldn’t hold a glass of water.

  And then some happy memories too. My first AA meeting. Trying on a pair of ballet slippers. The moment I was accepted into the Nashville Dance Company. The sight of marigolds. My endless string of lovers—intimate kisses, fumbling in a parked car, my relentless search for a miracle.

  And Ann.

  And in those last few moments, before the world went black, I realized I had witnessed a miracle.

  It just wasn’t the type of miracle I had expected.

  Epilogue

  Ann—Six Months Later

  I climb the steps to the brick house at 5925 O’Brien Avenue. The wooden steps are rotting, derelict. They creak with the tiniest bit of pressure. Before I open the door, I hear the murmur of voices. Laughter. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and cheap coffee. The sun is warm on my back today, the most beautiful of summer days, and my hand hovers above the doorknob.

  Reese is gone, but a part of her will always be with me. In certain places, at certain times, her presence is stronger. And on the steps to the O’Brien Avenue meeting house, it’s almost as if she’s standing beside me. After another deep breath, I step inside.

  The house has changed a bit over the years—different posters on the bulletin board, a new coat of paint on the walls—but it’s mostly the same. A humble foyer with a white linoleum floor that leads to
two meeting rooms, one on the left and one on the right. A table in the middle of the foyer with coffee and Styrofoam cups. A dark-haired man sits at the table. His face is worn, but with his sharp jawline and high cheekbones, he still makes your head turn.

  “Am I too late?” I ask.

  “Nah, it’s just getting started,” he replies. “Go on in.”

  When I open the door to the meeting aptly named the “Back Room” group, about fifty heads swivel in my direction. Before I stopped going to AA, this group was always my favorite. Partially for sentimental reasons—it was my first—but also because it was bigger than your average meeting. It’s easier to be anonymous among fifty than ten.

  But not if you’re late, like I am now.

  I mouth the word sorry to the woman running the meeting and take a seat near the door.

  While we recite the Twelve Steps, I take an inventory of the room. At one side are a dozen teenagers, rolling their eyes, looking bored. They’ve been ordered here by a judge, no doubt. In the middle of the room is a larger group of men in their forties and fifties, wearing a mixture of golf shirts and casual tees. Scattered among the men are several women in their Sunday best, AA’s Big Book squarely in their laps. I recognize a couple old-timers at the front—hippies with tie-dye shirts and white beards that have been growing since I met them ten years ago.

  And there are probably a few people like me—young professionals in blazers and tailored pants, even though it’s a Sunday. And like me, they are probably going to the office after the meeting, just trying to get ahead.

  Despite my help in the arrest of Kris Harris, and the very public takedown of Last Chance, I’m still on thin ice with the other partners at my firm; I have a way to go before I earn back their trust. Ned, on the other hand, is a few months away from a promotion. He handled my clients well while I was gone, and he has a real knack for the position—although after recent events, Ned is thinking about returning to criminal law.

  “It draws you back in,” he told me on the flight back to Nashville in his antique plane, his new watch displayed proudly on his wrist.

  About an hour before the Hawaiian police arrived, Ned had turned up with the FBI. The large star I’d seen in the sky on the way to the marigold field wasn’t a star at all; it was Ned. After Lamb’s parents reported him missing, the FBI had been convinced something criminal was occurring. When Ned didn’t hear from me, he got Pat to alert the FBI and speed things up. They obtained a warrant to collect all video and audio footage from Last Chance and loaded a plane as quickly as they could. Ned was to join them, as he could point the FBI in the right direction for evidence.

  Once they landed on the island, one of the handlers at the mansion drove Ned and the FBI to the marigold field, where they arrested Kris. After that, it wasn’t difficult to collect evidence. The video and audio footage contained several condemning conversations about Reese and Lamb’s death. And those who knew what had happened to Reese and Lamb—even Henry and the handlers—corroborated what was on the tapes. Lamb’s body was never found, but Reese was recovered from beneath the marigolds. A coroner’s report confirmed her injuries were consistent with vehicular death.

  Kris hasn’t once spoken publicly about the case. Due to flight risk and financial resources, she wasn’t granted bail. She spends her days—silently, keeping entirely to herself, from what I hear—in the Tennessee Prison for Women. With the constant national headlines on the case, as well as Nick’s attempts to sell the story to Hollywood, it’s probably better she’s not out in public. I haven’t visited, and I don’t plan to. I don’t plan to communicate with anyone from Last Chance ever again.

  In an attempt to move forward with my life, I told myself I wouldn’t obsess about Honey either. I would attend her funeral, say good-bye one last time, and then put that chapter to bed. I considered skipping the funeral altogether, but even in spite of her colossal betrayal, she had been my friend for almost thirty years. She was the last person on Earth who knew me in every stage of my life, who watched me overcome all my hurdles. She knew my parents. She knew Reese.

  So wearing large sunglasses and an oversized hat, and from a considerable distance, I watched her casket descend into the Earth. I listened to her husband—my ex—profess Honey’s innocence in the whole matter and lay the blame on Kris. With the news cameras in the background, I listened as he described Honey’s loyalty, her generosity, her larger-than-life personality. I listened to so many lies, reminding myself that I too once believed the same. And then, shoulders back and eyes ahead, I walked away.

  I focused instead on giving Reese a memorial. A proper memorial, as a funeral has to wait until the trial is over. I selected a location that matched her grace and her legacy: Nashville’s most prestigious dance auditorium. Over five hundred people came to pay their respects. Attendees were elbow-to-elbow, literally spilling out of the doorways. Some were prurient followers of the case. Some were longtime ballet fans. Many, though, were people Reese knew in the AA program. Dozens and dozens of men and women whom Reese helped along the way in recovery.

  The theme of today’s meeting—faith—is announced after we finish reciting the Twelve Steps. The first speaker shares his story. I try to focus my attention on the narrative, but I can’t help scanning the room once more. My eyes land upon a young girl—early twenties, by the looks of her—I didn’t notice before. She’s in a corner, alone, her head of red hair propped against the wall. Her skin is sallow, a sheen of sweat shimmering to the surface. By the shake of her hands, I can tell this is her first meeting.

  “To me, faith is like skating on a frozen lake,” the man continues. “You can either skate with the constant fear of falling, or you can skate with the belief that you’ll make it to the other side.”

  The girl glances up at me then. Her eyes are rimmed with black liner. The whites are crisscrossed with red. But the irises—the irises are the color of the ocean. A breeze blows through the open window, and I catch the faintest scent of salt air. An image of the field on the island comes to me then, the flowers swaying in the breeze, wild and overrun.

  “Your attitude won’t affect your chances of falling, but isn’t life so much better when you believe you’ll make it through?”

  I rethink my plan to go to the office after the meeting. Maybe I’d have time for a cup of coffee. To introduce myself. Nothing too intimidating, just a casual conversation. To give back what I’ve received so many years ago. From another woman with eyes the color of the sea, eyes that still watch over me from somewhere beneath the marigolds.

  For Further Discussion

  How do you feel about the fact that neither Ann nor Reese end up with a partner, given the goal of reality dating shows like The Bachelor is to walk away with a marriage proposal? How do these types of shows and Last Chance reflect or amplify certain social pressures?

  The story references physical watches and time—or lack of it—frequently. What does time symbolize?

  Why do you think the author chose to open the book with Magda putting makeup on Reese? What does makeup represent in this novel, and how does it parallel with reality television and constructed societal roles?

  Although he plays an important role in Ann’s history, Ann’s ex-boyfriend from college is never named. Why do you think that is?

  Both Ann and Reese are in recovery from alcohol and drug addiction. Why do you think the author chose to portray characters in recovery as opposed to characters in the midst of addiction? How are addicts normally portrayed in fiction and popular culture?

  The relationship between Honey and Ann is complicated. Do you think Honey genuinely cared for Ann, or was Ann merely a means to an end?

  Marigolds are known as “companion plants.” In other words, they help adjacent plants and flowers grow by repelling bugs and insects. With this in mind, discuss the meaning of the title of the book, Beneath the Marigolds.

  What role does Bear’s death play in the book? How does it mirror Reese’s fate?

  T
he deaths in the book—Bear’s, Lamb’s, and Reese’s—have reverberating effects on Ann, Kris, and Honey. How does each character react to these events, and how do these reactions reflect the characters’ moral compass? How do the characters change—or not—after each death?

  What’s the significance of the red-haired woman in the AA meeting in the epilogue? What do you think happens to her, and to Ann, after the novel concludes?

  Acknowledgments

  I must start with my brilliant editor, Helga Schier. Thank you for your expert guidance, creative vision, and steadfast support. You are every author’s dream. Many thanks to the rest of the CamCat team, including Maryann Appel, Bill Lehto, Meredith Lyons, Laura Wooffitt, and Sue Arroyo. Sue, thank you for believing in this story, encouraging me to submit my manuscript to your fabulous team of storytellers, and being an all-around fantastic friend and role model.

  Thanks to everyone who read early drafts of my novel: Nina Fortmeyer, Cheryl Rieger, Meredith Lyons, Arl Farris, Sue Arroyo, Lily Wilson, and Kathleen Cosgrove. Melissa Collings, I’m giving you a special shoutout, since you read at least three iterations of this book and spent countless hours on the phone with me. Thank you for always telling me to keep going.

  I am so grateful for the support of my amazing writing group: Cheryl Rieger, Meredith Lyons, Sue Arroyo, and Melissa Collings. Thank you for spending your Sundays with me, discussing writing, good books, and the vicissitudes of life. I’m not sure how I got so lucky.

  My thanks go to Arl Farris, who answered all of my questions about police and legal procedure. To Jessi Tremayne, who answered all questions regarding criminal law. And to my sweet father, who ensured that Ann was a believable corporate attorney. I’d also like to thank his clients, as they will be receiving this book as holiday gifts for years to come.