Another couple of wasps showed up to sniff the meat. Grant swatted at them but they weren’t intimidated. He basted the last few spots of the rack and lifted it onto the second level of the grill. Sauce dripped and chattered on the hot irons. He tossed in a few handfuls of applewood chips that had been soaking in a bucket for good measure. He shut the grill and licked the sauce from his fingers.
A hummingbird appeared a dozen yards away, in one of the groves of the garden. It darted from flower to flower, looking mechanical, like one of those automated machines in the airplane manufacturing plant he had a stake in just south. He thought of Ezra. What a lost soul. He’d survived. No matter. That boy didn’t have the balls to seek revenge, nor enough evidence to convince someone else to seek it on his behalf. And Ezra’s word carried about as much weight as the yellow jacket’s buzz, only without the sting. The young punk would soon to be off to find his next big fish.
Grant removed the pistol from his back holster and sighted up the hummingbird, knowing it was a ridiculous shot. He squeezed the trigger and fired—pop, pop, pop—and to his surprise the hummingbird went down in the bushes. He walked over and found it scuttling around in the dirt. He’d winged it. A hummingbird with a pistol. Fit for a story. He leaned over and picked up the bird. It wriggled in his hand and stabbed him in the palm with its thin beak, enough to draw blood. He carried it up to the grill and opened the lid. Steam from the wood chips huffed out the smell of apple. He chucked the bird inside and watched its feathers smoke as it hopped pathetically around among the hot irons before succumbing.
But before he could drop the lid, a peculiar feeling overcame Grant. A numbness in his stomach. His neck. The feeling crept up and then throttled him. He felt his eyes bulge and he gasped for breath. His legs gave out and he fell to the patio. He looked up and saw the canopy of palms.
His vision clouded over and he was back in his childhood home, seated on the ground, putting together a building from a mismatched set of Tinkertoys. A comedy record was playing in the background and his father—set with that same notched forehead as his own—was sitting in his chair, watching, smiling. His mother was sprawled on the couch, also watching, her hair curled up in a bun except for a few strays which fell beside her cheeks. I can’t believe how smart our boy is, said Grant’s father. Someday he’s going to be something important. I just know it. She said, He definitely got something we don’t. But I don’t care so much about him being important. I just hope he turns into a decent man. Grant’s father chuckled and with a grunt got up from the chair. This world, he said, don’t reward decency.
Grant felt his father’s hands grasp his shoulders for an embrace, but then the memory stopped and once again he was on the patio, shoulders throbbing. He blinked twice. He heard the pop and sizzle of the meat on the grill.
Or was it the rain? Yes. Only a few stray drops, but now thousands, clattering against the patio, wetting his face. He felt emotion inside of him. Was it rain or was he crying? Death, he thought. It makes victims of us all.
TWENTY-TWO
Sybil pulled up the drive toward the mansion with the windows rolled down, even though it was pouring. The smell of rain after a dry spell was like nothing else. It was the smell of hope. She swung around the oval driveway and parked behind Grant’s big black sedan. She opened the door of her coupe and the scent hit her in full measure. She breathed in and closed her eyes before stepping out.
She walked to the porch and stood beneath the awning. Grant was probably on the back patio at that very moment, under an umbrella, grilling and plotting some way to exact revenge on the weather for ruining his party. For some reason that image of him made her smile. He was a terrible person and she hated him, but for a moment she left that behind. Maybe it would be like this for a while—her mind slipping into its old habits, her body slipping back into its old sentiments. Or maybe it would always be like that.
She reached into her purse and fingered the thick envelope of initial paperwork that her lawyer had advised her to fill out. Probably the last thing Grant expected was for her to present him with divorce papers. He’d likely imagined that she’d hold on as long as she could, in the hope that he’d change his mind.
It was as though a switch inside of her had flipped in the hotel room, after she’d come to her senses. All of this energy began to prickle through her fingers. She felt so invigorated. It was unbelievable. And she’d had a lot time to think over the last couple of days, because she hadn’t slept a bit. Hadn’t even felt the need to. It was amazing. She’d called her parents, her old friends. She wrote long to-do lists and filled notebooks with plans. She didn’t yet know exactly what she was going to do, but she had a general idea. First, she’d get back into theater. Start from scratch, no company too small. She’d find good parts and play them for free, and trust that the work would be enough to stave off the ridicule she’d surely receive, and the eventual lack of notoriety once folks grew bored of her career change.
Helen’s story might be beyond her reach, but there were other stories that needed to be told. When she wasn’t acting, she would scour local weeklies, be a student of the stage, get to know writers, travel around the country. She had money. She knew people who had money. She would find projects that needed to be heard, and champion them. She would be someone’s angel instead of waiting for one herself. She would work harder than she had ever worked before.
Her inspiration, in some ways—though it angered her to admit it—was Hudson. He had been her angel. A broken, fucked up, arrogant, deceptive angel, but still . . . she doubted she could’ve gotten as far without his help. She knew that she owed him nothing, but her feelings—as always—betrayed her. She figured the only way to get rid of that guilt was by helping others, but without making the same demands he’d imposed on her. It would be perfect payback for the ways in which she had, through Grant, benefited at others’ expense.
And once she felt settled, she would begin searching for love. She wanted a companion. Ezra would never take her back, and she couldn’t trust that she really wanted him, anyway. He was a fling—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful, and that she hadn’t learned from it. She was still figuring out what it meant to be this Sybil Harper. But when the time came, she wouldn’t wait for someone to find her. She’d go after it with the same abandon that she had her career.
This energy was strange. She knew it couldn’t last—she’d need sleep sometime—but she took it as a sign. She’d done the right thing, going off the medications, sleeping with Ezra, sabotaging things with Grant, ending this episode of her career. Her body seemed to know it, as did her mind. The future seemed to spread out before her, glowing.
She felt nothing short of fantastic.
She took her keys from her purse and jingled them around until she found the one. She slid it into the keyhole and was a tad surprised that it still fit. Grant hadn’t bothered to change the locks. Cocky bastard. She went inside and was met with the familiar smell of what had been her home. It tugged at her. Sorrow. Regret.
“Grant?” No reply. She peered into the foyer and walked through. The lights were on in the kitchen and there were plates of vegetables already prepared, empty highball glasses waiting to be filled. He’d lined up some red wines, even popped a few open and poured them into decanters to breathe. “Hello?”
She glanced out the patio doors and saw that the grill was closed and cooking. Grant was probably in the restroom or in his office making phone calls. She left the kitchen and hopped up the stairs. “Are you here?”
The master bedroom looked much as she’d left it, though she could smell other perfume. He’d had women here. No surprise. Hopefully they weren’t still here. She’d rather not see them if she could help it. “Grant?”
She stepped into the large arcade that housed the paneled oriel window, looked out on the grounds, and almost fainted. Before her was what she’d seen in all of those dreams. Passed out on the patio was Grant, next to the grill, which was sending a plume of stea
m and smoke up into the palms. She began banging on the window. “Grant!” she screamed. “Grant!”
He didn’t move. She ditched her heels and ran from the room and down the spiral staircase, almost slipping on the last few steps, then sprinted as fast as she could through the hall and kitchen. She thrust open the patio doors and rushed to his side.
“Grant.” She slapped his cheeks. They were hollow and ashen. His eyes looked blank. “Grant, honey. Talk to me.” She slapped him again. Nothing. She reached to his neck and tried to calm herself enough to feel a pulse. She searched around, digging her fingers into his neck. “No,” she said. “No no no.”
She knew CPR. She’d had to learn it for a part. She shimmied over to the side of his head and leaned him back and reached into his mouth to make sure that nothing was blocking his airway.
In what was probably only a second, a flood of thoughts filled her mind. Did she actually want to save his life? It could end here. She could call the medics, tell them she’d tried to do CPR and failed. But no, there were cameras; they’d know that was a lie. But couldn’t she fake it? Pretend to breathe into his mouth and go through the rest of the motions?
She’d be free to do Helen’s movie. She’d get his money and get out from under his wing. Finally do whatever she wanted. There’d be the funeral and events and she could take control of the narrative. She’d be his widow, share in the tragedy and be more respected for it.
If he lived, he’d probably hate her more. He might rather die than have his life saved by someone else, much less her. If he ever regained his senses, he might make her pay for the good she’d done.
He also might not. She couldn’t say for certain. Strange that it would be a risk to save a life. But it also could change him into a better man. It was probably the only thing that could.
But as she took in his pale face, all of those questions disappeared. She reached for her phone and dialed 911. She set it next to her and, as she listened to it ring, leaned over and breathed into him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my agent, Reiko Davis at DeFiore & Company, and my editor, Alexandra Hess at Skyhorse Publishing, for helping to shape and bring this book into the world, as well to Mark Pearson at Pear Press for his vision in making the novel an audiobook.
I’m indebted to handful of discerning readers. Miles Wray, Jodi Paloni, Mary Stein, Raymond Fleischmann, Erik Evenson, Robert P. Kaye, and Len Kuntz offered sharp and generous feedback at various stages of the process.
I’m grateful to the Tin House Writer’s Conference for their mentorship program and Matthew Specktor for his guidance on revising this book. I’m also thankful for the faculty at Vermont College of Fine Arts, specifically my advisors David Jauss, Nance Van Winckel, Clint McCown, and Abby Frucht.
The following programs and organization provided me invaluable support in completing this book: The Made at Hugo Fellowship through the Hugo House and the Writer’s Program at the Jack Straw Cultural Center, both in Seattle.
I could not have finished this book without the help of my family, whom I depended on for strength and backing throughout.
Finally, thank you to my wife, Jess. Your patience and kindness sustain me.
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