Happily and Madly

by Alexis Bass

  The neighborhood is well behind me and out of sight. I’m almost halfway up the hill, when I see two figures coming in the opposite direction. I recognize them only by their silhouettes in the dim evening light, not only because of their height difference but because they’ve been there in the back of my mind since I saw them on the island, and since I saw them in the conference room at the Duvals’ office.

  I’m debating running the other way, but something about them seems different. They do not look rough, like they did on the island and at the Duval office. Now they are matching in dark jackets and unmarked black hats. They walk with confidence and good posture. They’re still several feet away from me when they make a sharp turn straight into the row of billowing trees along the other side, and they disappear into a cloud of darkness. I take a few more strides forward, until I reach the long tree that’s grown randomly on my side of the road, and hide in the shadow of its thick trunk.

  A few seconds later, a light appears, the glow coming from the open doors of an SUV. The two of them glance around, like they are making sure the coast is clear. Then they pull off their jackets to reveal white button-down shirts with dark red vests. They talk quietly as they remove their vests. The taller one takes off his white shirt entirely, while the shorter one only undoes the top few buttons. Next, they both remove their belts and swap them with holsters. I crouch lower into the shadows as I watch them slide their guns in place and put on their jackets.

  They climb into the SUV and after a few minutes, its engine starts, its lights come on, and it drives out of the trees and down the hill. The windows are tinted and the license plate is unmarked.

  Trevor and I used to be able to spot cops disguised as civilians, about to raid a bar for underage drinking, a mile away. They were always the guys dressed in colorful shirts, like they were staged to appear carefree. Their shoes usually gave them away—practical and too new. They also held themselves a certain way: they were too confident, they were too observant, they stood up too straight, establishing a sort of dominance. The argument was they weren’t necessarily trying to hide. But they did take some time to settle in before they brought out their badges and started approaching people, and in that time, they always seemed to give themselves away to us, the people who knew to look out for them.

  That’s what I’m thinking as I continue on my run, how I wonder what Trevor would make of what I saw. And if that’s what I should believe, even if it doesn’t make any sense. Because if they were the police, what were they doing with Archaletta that day? And if they were undercover, what does that mean for Edison and Sepp and the disappearance of Archaletta? What does it mean for me, since I lied?

  I stay on the path, follow it downtown, too keyed up to even bother stopping to admire the view at the top of the hill. The road winds parallel with Main Street, and I take it, jogging along the back sides of restaurants and bars and shops, on this road that’s only use now is for entrances to parking lots or to get to the freeway without the hassle of Main Street traffic. A couple servers come outside to smoke, a boy and a girl, both wearing white shirts with dark red vests and black pants. I cut right, off the road, and wander down the strip, all lit up, peering in windows, all around me the sounds of conversations and laughing, the air thick with the scent of sizzling butter from the restaurants and the smell of salt from the ocean. All the fancier, five-star restaurants have servers in nearly the same uniform. Crisp white shirt, dark red vest; crisp white shirt, black vest; crisp white shirt, hunter green vest.

  Wearing that would help them blend in down here.

  The problem is both undercover cops and criminals have cause for hiding in plain sight.

  “Maris, Maris!”

  I swivel around to see Chelsea waving at me. She’s with Trisha and the elation on her face would indicate that Edison has summoned them down here.

  “We couldn’t get a hold of you, but you’re here now—it’s perfect timing.”

  “Perfect timing,” I say as she rushes toward me.

  The three of us walk toward Faye’s Boutique. The confusion of what I saw is on a loop in my mind, making everything else faded and fuzzy, as it sinks in with every step I take and I feel the full burden of what it could mean if undercover officers were on the island and in the Duval offices.

  As we enter the boutique, I am almost as anxious as Chelsea to see him. Except underneath my nerves, there is that layer of anger that’s been set on fire since the last time I saw Edison. There’s still so much he’s keeping from me. And I don’t know what he knows, or what he doesn’t, or what else he’s hiding, but it’s too late, because I’ve already lied for him. I lied for him the way I would lie for Trevor, but with Trevor at least I knew the entirety of what I was helping to cover up.

  This feeling of unease only worsens when he greets us, charming and welcoming as ever, the way everyone likes him.

  Chapter 38

  Faye McMann is a close personal friend of the Duvals, according to Edison, which is why she’s invited us to her boutique after hours to peruse her collection for the party in Maine this weekend. Faye isn’t there; she’s in Milan, of course, but we are greeted by her favorite sales associates and personal stylists and tailors, according to Edison. They have a cheese-and-charcuterie board set out for us as well as champagne.

  Despite the story of Faye doing this favor for the Duvals, I think it’s really their subtle way of making sure that we’re properly dressed for the party—letting us know that even our most formal formalwear won’t be acceptable for this party, where gowns and tuxedos are the expected attire. The shop has white floors and walls and is impossibly stark. There are rows and rows of dresses, black and white and red and pink, some sparkly, some silky, some long, some short. Too many dresses to choose from. With Chelsea’s indecision, we may be here all night.

  Karen has already begun and is standing in a long navy gown on the fitting platform in the dressing area, admiring herself in the full-length mirrors hitting her from all sides. Sepp is there, too, toting his own bottle of champagne, serving himself whenever his glass runs low. He helps Edison, whose job after we’ve picked out our dresses is to snap photos of us in our favorites to send to George, so his opinion counts even though he stayed behind to be with Phoebe.

  I try on a red silk dress for fun, since I’ve already decided on the long black dress with a subtle ruffle around the neckline and pockets in the folds at the waist. I peek out from behind the curtain and shake the drapery of the dressing room next to mine.

  “Chelsea? Can you help me with this zipper?”

  There’s no answer. The whole dressing area is empty. I hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. Sepp is leaned against the wall on the opposite end of the room.

  “Karen went to the counter to pick out jewelry. They all followed. We’ve lost them to shiny objects. But I can help you with your dress.”

  I step out from my dressing room and wait as Sepp sets down his champagne bottle and glass. I hold my dress against me as he slowly zips it up in the back. He offers his hand to walk me toward the center of the dressing area and onto the fitting platform.

  “I don’t like it,” he says.

  “Tell me what you really think,” I say.

  “It’s too delicate. And definitely too red.”

  “It fits well,” I say, letting my hands glide down my sides. He watches me but is quick to look away.

  “Silk reminds me of bedsheets,” he says, walking over to retrieve his bottle and glass. He stops by the tray to get a glass for me and starts pouring.

  “I’m not supposed to drink while I wear the merchandise.”

  He brings me a full glass anyway. “I won’t tell.”

  I take a slow sip, careful not to spill. Sepp takes one long drink and nearly finishes his glass. I like Sepp like this, loose and predictable. Unsuspecting.

  “Remember the night we were all at the Duval offices?”

  He shrugs his left shoulder. “It wasn’t that long ago, wa
s it?”

  “The last time we had champagne together?”

  “Did anyone actually get to drink any of that champagne? It sprayed everywhere. My hangover the next morning was very clearly a tequila hangover.”

  “What were we celebrating again?”

  He holds up his half-empty bottle and his almost-empty glass. “When are we ever not celebrating?”

  I pause to take another sip. “Who were those guys you met with that day? I saw them through the glass doors. They looked too young to be important.”

  “Hey, they’re older than I am, and I’m pretty fucking important.”

  “They were important enough to spray champagne. Drink half a bottle of tequila.”

  “They weren’t that important,” he says. “They only thought they were. Such big heads on those guys.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I joke.

  Sepp doesn’t laugh; he’s too busy tipping back his head, polishing off his glass.

  “So who are they?” I say.

  “Just a couple of assholes looking for their lucky break.” He pours himself another glass, almost overfilling it, catching it right in time. “Why?”

  I shrug. If Edison told Sepp about meeting me behind Chelsea’s back, did he also tell him that I was there on the island? Sepp watches me carefully now, like he is still waiting for a proper answer.

  “Will you help me out of this?” I step off the platform and push aside my hair, giving Sepp access to the zipper.

  “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that.”

  I roll my eyes as he frees his hands and lets down the zipper.

  Edison enters the dressing area carrying an assortment of hangers, holding them high so the dresses don’t drag on the floor. His eyes widen for a moment at Sepp standing so close to me, my bare back peeking out from the opening in the dress. Sepp walks over to help him untangle some of the hangers and spread them out in Chelsea’s and Trisha’s dressing rooms.

  I disappear behind my curtain to take off the dress. There’s a knock on the wall. I clutch the dress to keep the front from falling and pull back the curtain an inch.

  Edison holds out a long silvery dress. “Chelsea saw this one and thought of you.”

  I take the hanger from him and let the dress dangle in front of me to get a better look at it.

  “Are you sure?” This dress is stunning. It is sparkly without being overstated. It’s brilliant in the way it catches the lighting. It’s made of material that looks heavy but feels lightweight. Why wouldn’t she want this one for herself? Why would she see something this beautiful and think it belonged on me?

  He nods. “She said she thought it was perfect for you.”

  I am still too stunned to speak.

  “It’s going to look great,” he says, giving me a small smile with Edison’s charm behind it before he shuts the curtain.

  “That’s the one!” Sepp yells when I come out wearing the dress. Trisha and Chelsea make a big fuss, clapping, having me twirl, taking dozens of photos for George. Chelsea waves over one of the sales associates and asks her to bring out shoes that will go with the dress.

  “What dress are you getting?” I ask her.

  “I can’t decide,” she says. “Surprise, surprise.” She shows me the three she is debating between, and I have her try them on again. I ask the sales associates to get her shoes. I clap when she comes out, guilt surging inside me as I help her weigh her options, suggest hairstyles to go with each dress, ask her which shoes she prefers. Acting like a sister doesn’t come natural to me the way it does to her. And being kind to her now feels incredibly deceiving. I don’t like this kind of lying.

  When we leave, Edison hugs each of us goodbye. He lingers a little in front of me, scanning my face like he’s searching for something. I wonder if he can tell that I’m keeping something from him. Or if he’s so used to holding a veil over the truth that he doesn’t know to look for lies in other people.

  Chapter 39

  The Duvals send a car in the morning to pick us up and take us to their private jet. Unsurprisingly, there is a runway for private planes not too far outside of Cross Cove. The car pulls up right next to the plane on the runway, and the Duval staff loads our luggage.

  The Duvals are already settled in, along with the nanny they hired to stay with Phoebe during the party, Rosie, from London. “Like Mary Poppins,” Sepp jokes, not caring that no one laughs until Rosie does, giving us all permission. George and Trisha warm to her and her vast knowledge of sleep training and her fifteen years as a nanny to the duke of some European country I’ve never heard of, and her last ten years spent with a family in Zurich that relocated to New York, and her degree in childhood development from Kingston University.

  It’s a short ride, barely an hour. Up and then down. Fast and full of luxury. Large leather seats that recline with extended footrests. A full drink cart with finger foods I can’t pronounce. I enjoy it, all this fuss. Chelsea has a glass of champagne and turns so giggly Trisha gives her a stern look. It makes her sit up straighter, and a worried look spreads across her face, like she thinks she might have embarrassed herself or been as obnoxious as Sepp without having the privilege that comes with being Sepp. I smile at her, and so does Edison, a subtle reassurance, but the glow doesn’t return to her face until George winks at her and mouths something that I can’t make out but has Chelsea looking like herself again, because George knows exactly what to say to make her feel better.

  There are two limos waiting for us when we land, one to take me and the New Browns and Rosie to our cottage, the other for the Duvals and Edison. The Hanover Estate is large and vast and full of private residences. Warren explains that a limo will pick us up in a few hours to take us to the location of the party.

  The limo drives us through what looks like a narrow country road, except we glide smoothly over it like it’s freshly paved. We arrive at our cottage, with a vaulted ceiling and gas fireplace, and enough rooms for us all to have our own, even Rosie, who will be staying across from Phoebe’s room, where there is already a crib and a changing table and shelves full of picture books. Our cottage is backed up against a forest, but we are still high enough to see the view of trees that move into a valley that stretches for miles. It’s decorated like a rustic cabin, full of plaid and exposed wood.

  Chelsea and I put on our makeup and take turns curling each other’s hair before we get dressed.

  There’s an undercurrent of excitement running through me, as we talk about the possibilities of the night, what the party might be like. We try to imagine it; we don’t know where to begin. The limo picks us up right when the sun starts to go down. Phoebe is already asleep when we leave. Our limo driver is wearing a white mask. We all stop in our tracks when we see him, thinking it’s bizarre, but then he lets us know that our masks for the masquerade are inside the limo, courtesy of the Duvals.

  “I had no idea it was a masquerade,” Trisha says enthusiastically.

  This is an adventure first and foremost. The anticipation builds within me, and I am as excited as Chelsea.

  We sort through the masks. George’s is the most obvious. A black mask to go with his tuxedo. Chelsea chooses the lavender mask matching her dress, with a white flower stemming off the right side. Trisha opts for the mask made of white lace, and the metallic lace mask is for me. Just like that, we are all in costume. With our faces hidden, we could be anyone.

  We ride down a smooth path barely wide enough for two cars. The hedges are right up against the left windows for the beginning part of the trip. And soon, we are careening through a plush green valley, with tall and thick oak trees that make outlines against the fading sky. We move through an area thick with trees, casting a dark shadow over us.

  Light appears ahead, streaming from the towering house in front of us. It’s expansive, with large columns and shutters, standing atop an enormous brick staircase.

  We arrive at the same time as another limo, and the Duvals’ limo is directly
ahead of ours. They are waiting for us in their matching black suits with matching black masks. Karen’s dress is long and gold; her mask is made of thread so thin it looks like little golden wires.

  Edison takes Chelsea’s arm, and Sepp offers me his.

  There is a delicious thudding in my chest, a fluttering in my stomach, as we finally move up the stairs, and I get closer to finding out where we are going.

  Chapter 40

  The security to get into this party is intense. We are funneled through a line, bumped up a bit by one of the men in maroon working the door, seeing Warren and understanding who he is enough to let him skip ahead of the line, but all the same, we must show ID, get checked off two lists, have our handbags searched, and have a metal detector wand scan our bodies. The women behind us talk about how the entering procedures are a pain but that this isn’t nearly as bad as attending an event at the White House. Her friend counters, saying the royal wedding was much more of a hassle. The woman adds, “At least we know it’s safe here.”

  Inside, the foyer is grand with mountain-high ceilings and creamy marble floors and a chandelier that’s made of small slices of crystal. It is as crowded as Edison said it would be. There are so many black suits. So many dresses that sparkle. Everyone’s faces are half-covered, decorated in masks to match their clothing.

  I almost fall backward, looking up at a floor-to-ceiling Renaissance painting of an angel and a man wrapped in an embrace. It’s not only exquisite, it’s large and looming—overwhelming in its beauty.

  Sepp sighs. “You’re easily impressed.”