Carmella vaguely remembered this. Her mind had held onto the horrible coughing and retching noises that her brother had made as their mother had strained to get the candy from his throat.
Elsa carried the platter of blueberry pancakes out to the back porch. Carmella marveled at her ability to just bring up Colton’s name like that. Was this one of their first steps toward healing? As Carmella headed onto the porch, she felt this urgent desire to ask Elsa what she thought about all of this — about their brewing new relationship as “sisters who actually got along.” But the question seemed too heavy. And maybe that’s how you got through difficult things: you pretended they didn’t exist until they went away on their own?
Was that possible?
Nancy appeared on the porch a few minutes later. She seemed a bustling ball of energy. She stretched her arms over her head, squeezed her eyes shut, then pronounced morning yoga as the only medicine she needed. “It keeps me young. And at fifty-nine, that’s all I need from anything,” she chirped.
Carmella laughed. She then lifted Zachery into his high-chair as Mallory returned to the porch. In recent days, Carmella hadn’t seen Mallory’s on-again, off-again fiancé, Lucas, at all, and she wondered what was happening with all of that. Again, Carmella questioned how Mallory, at twenty-four, could possibly know she wanted to spend the rest of her life with anyone. But then again, when did anyone come to this conclusion at all?
They ate the pancakes. Elsa told a story about Bruce coming by the Lodge the previous day. “He begged me to hide him away. Apparently, Susan Sheridan took on too many cases, and they’re so bogged down with work that Bruce can’t see the light of day.”
“Didn’t she just get married?” Nancy asked.
“She did. To her high school sweetheart,” Elsa affirmed. “Scott Frampton. You remember all that drama with his brother?”
“Yes. I have to say. Your father never trusted Chuck. When it came out that he stole all that money from the good people of this island, he just shook his head,” Nancy affirmed.
As they piled up the sticky plates, Nancy announced that she had plans for them that day. “The attic has been a mess for years. I always threatened Neal that I would clean the whole thing out. He told me we would get to it one day — and then he went and died and left me with a mess on my hands.”
“That’s our classic Dad. He always knew how to get out of work he didn’t want to do,” Carmella teased.
“The man was a terrific worker in almost every respect, but he was a pack rat, too,” Nancy added. “But if the three of us attack that attic, maybe we can make something of it. Right now, it feels like it’s the same state as my mind up there— messy, chaotic, and all dating back about forty years ago.”
Carmella hadn’t been in the attic since her teenage years. It was musty and sinister and heavy with dark foreboding shadows that threatened to break her renewed shell. Nancy drew open one of the windows, which lined the very top of the house, and a steady stream of sunlight burst through.
They decided to split up in order to conquer the mess faster. Elsa burrowed herself in the corner while Carmella headed for a stack of boxes, most of which contained old books. Downstairs, there was the soft cry of Zachery, then Mallory’s murmur, telling him it would all be all right.
Most of the books within Carmella’s pile were crime thrillers. Her father had loved them; he’d read two per week, many of which had similar synopses and similar characters. She had asked him once why he didn’t branch out to other genres, and he had basically insinuated that there was no reason to read a book that wasn’t a crime novel. She told this to Elsa then, and Elsa burst into laughter.
“He was obsessed. Remember how Mom always picked fun at him and said he wanted to be a detective?” Elsa asked.
“Kind of...” In truth, Carmella didn’t remember that at all. So much of her childhood was shadowed with trauma. Had she forgotten all of the good times?
A few minutes after Carmella had gathered the boxes of books on the second floor, beneath the attic entrance, Elsa hollered for her to come quickly. Carmella ambled back into the attic to find Elsa in front of a large trunk. Elsa’s face was stricken.
“What is it?” Carmella asked.
Nancy stepped out of her corner and peered into the trunk along with them. There, at the top of the pile of things, was an old sweatshirt meant for a little boy. On the front, read SPIDERMAN. Memories washed over Carmella. This had been Colton’s sweatshirt. He had worn it non-stop when he’d been six, seven, and eight years old. Their father had suggested that because he didn’t wash it enough, that soon enough, Colton himself would be able to walk up walls.
“What else is in there?” Carmella breathed, trying to keep the lump forming in her throat at bay.
Elsa removed the sweatshirt gently to get to the stuff beneath. Letters, drawings, old toys, more clothes — it was an entire trunk set aside for the memory of Colton. Carmella dropped to her knees as her emotions took over. Her memories were on fire. This was a world she’d known so well. The tiny dinosaurs which she had played with herself, as she’d been only one year older than Colton. The clothing, much of which had been hers before it had been passed down to Colton — unisex stuff, like jean overalls and plaid shirts. Carmella inhaled, hoping to find some semblance of Colton’s scent, but it had been too long.
“Do you remember this doll?” Elsa asked. She lifted the baby doll from the base of the trunk and pointed its face toward Carmella’s.
“Oh gosh. Yes. Colton was obsessed with it.”
“We could never figure out if it was a girl or a boy,” Elsa commented as she pushed the hair away from the doll's face.
“And Colton said it didn’t matter because he was the baby’s father and he would care for it no matter what,” Carmella agreed.
“What a kind little boy,” Nancy breathed.
“He really was. He was so patient, quiet, and loving,” Elsa murmured softly.
“We only had a few fights that I remember,” Carmella said. “I remember once, he messed up the hair of one of my Barbie dolls, and I totally freaked out.”
“You did! You screamed in the next room, and I came running and then told you how much it didn’t matter,” Elsa said.
“I could never understand why you never thought it was a big deal! They were like my children.”
“I know. It must have been so traumatic for you. But I was already, what, thirteen? Nothing like that mattered to me anymore.”
“You grew up so fast,” Carmella noted.
“So did you.”
“I guess we had to, after the accident,” Carmella murmured, casting her eyes back down to his Spiderman shirt.
A moment later, Carmella found a stack of papers at the bottom of the trunk and lifted them. At the bottom was a drawing Colton had made with thick crayons. Maybe an outsider would have thought the drawing was just some blobs, but Carmella knew differently. It was three figures — Elsa, Carmella, and Colton: the three musketeers.
“I had no idea they set aside this whole trunk for his memories,” Carmella replied, perplexed. The paper shook in her hands.
“I’m so glad they did, though,” Elsa whispered.
Carmella swallowed the lump in her throat. Her thoughts raced. “Mom wouldn’t look at me those last few years. I just — I can feel all that now, and...”
Elsa gave her a sharp look. “What are you talking about?”
Carmella dropped her eyes to the ground. “Mom. The accident. You know.”
Nancy dropped back the slightest bit. The air had shifted. Carmella had said the wrong thing, yet again.
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Elsa said pointedly.
Carmella shrugged and placed the stack of papers back in the trunk. What Elsa had said stung, but it gave more fire to the flames of Carmella’s near-constant fear: that she was misunderstood and always would be misunderstood.
“Well. It’s so painful to know I’ll never get to know your litt
le brother,” Nancy lamented, an attempt to smooth things over.
“He was really the best,” Elsa said.
Again, Carmella’s heart felt squeezed with sorrow. It had been her fault. It had all been her fault.
She stood up, suddenly dizzy and said she wanted to grab a glass of water. She headed down the stairs and wandered toward the kitchen, where she fell against the counter. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
It was true what Elsa said: that nobody had ever verbally said she was to blame for the death of Colton. But Carmella had felt it in everything that had happened in the years afterward. Words never had to be spoken; she could feel it in her bones. And even Karen had said it, over dinner — that Neal and Elsa treated Carmella like a second-class citizen in her own home.
Or had that all been in her head?
Gosh, it was too difficult to see through the dense years behind her. It was difficult to fully know what was real and what was imagined, as she’d built up her entire identity around the past.
Elsa appeared in the doorway. Her voice was bright as she suggested that they open a bottle of white wine and take a break from the attic. Carmella forced herself to nod and smile, but she felt strangely battered and bruised. Would she and Elsa ever actually overcome everything that happened? Or would Elsa always brush it all away and tell Carmella she was wrong to have the feelings she did?
In any case, when Carmella arrived home that night, she did something she’d never done before: she searched the internet for local therapists and prayed that somehow, someway, she would find a way through the cloud of grief and guilt in her mind.
It was the first step toward something. And when she texted Cody about it, he texted:
CODY: I am so glad you’re watching out for yourself for a change.
CODY: So, so glad.
CODY: Life is a messy thing, and none of us make it out of it alive without self-care. But it’s better to do what we can, while we’re here, to make ourselves happy. To make ourselves feel love.
Chapter Ten
The first therapy session went less than stellar, to say the least. Carmella stood in the splendor of the sun afterward and considered some of the words she’d said, along with what the therapist had said in return.
“Have you considered telling your sister some of these feelings?”
“Have you considered the fact that your sister doesn’t know all the pain she and your father and mother caused you?”
“Is it possible that some of this is all in your head? People can only really know things about you that you share with them. We’re all in our heads, all the time. We’re all living out our own personal stories. We have to let people in.”
But Carmella was resistant. She couldn’t imagine saying anything like this to Elsa. It felt accusatory. They were on the mend, weren’t they? They were finally trying again. It had to be enough.
When Carmella returned to the Katama Lodge for another round of appointments, she found the place in a state of chaos. Mallory stood at the desk with her hair all mussed, as though she had tried to tug it out of an elastic but only half succeeded. Elsa burst past, locked eyes with Carmella and said, “We have a crazy situation incoming.”
“What’s up?”
Elsa beckoned for Carmella to enter her office. She slammed the door closed and exhaled soundly. Carmella half-considered coming out with what she’d just done — gone to therapy for the first time, but then thought better of it. This was clearly not the right time.
“You know that actress? Helen Skarsgaard?”
“Yes, what about her?”
“Well, she’s just contacted us about coming to stay at the Lodge,” Elsa blurted out in a panic.
Carmella’s eyebrows went skyward. “Wow. That’s huge.”
“We haven’t had a big celebrity like that at the Lodge in decades,” Elsa said. “It’s always such a mess when things like this happen. And Helen is especially difficult because she always brings in buckets of paparazzi. We have to hire new security. We have to be on guard. She just went through that huge divorce. I’m sure you read about it in the tabloids?”
“I saw something about it,” Carmella admitted. “She was married to that politician, right?”
“Yes, from France,” Elsa muttered. “And now, apparently, she’s a wreck and she wants all the healing and comfort we can give her. In the meantime, our mental health is about to go down like a battleship.”
Carmella could have chuckled at that. After all, her mental health felt about as lackluster as ever. How could it possibly go south even more?
“Where is she staying?”
“We’re going to put her in the largest cabin by the water,” Elsa replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear continuing to shuffle through paperwork on her desk. “It’s the best one. Nicole Kidman stayed there in the ‘90s and said it was a dream come true. Hopefully, Helen will feel the same? Oh, and we’ve already begun to organize her schedule— massages, sauna time and plenty of meetings with Janine, who’s already planning her dietary schedule for the week. But what worries me most is the paparazzi. I don’t want Helen to have a difficult time of it, and I really don’t want the other guests to be affected. I just keep thinking about all of them running through the woods around the property, trying to catch a glimpse of Helen. It’ll be a nightmare.”
“It’s going to be fine. Think positive,” Carmella affirmed, although she wasn’t sure she really believed in the concept at all.
Over the next few days, Elsa, Carmella, Nancy, Janine, and Mallory spent ten-hour days at the Lodge to ensure everything was fully prepared for the incoming celebrity. More staff members were hired and prepped; they had several meetings per day to ensure that security was in check. And by the time Wednesday, the day of the reckoning, arrived, they all admitted that they were about as ready as they ever would be.
They sent along one of their drivers, along with two security guards, to the nearby airport, where Helen’s private jet landed just past two. Carmella stood out on the back porch of the Lodge and watched the road like a hawk. Sure enough, even before Helen arrived, several dark vehicles — assuredly filled with tabloid journalists lined the roads. She spoke with their security guards to ensure they headed out to chase them off.
But they would be back. They were like insects after their next meal.
When the Katama Lodge vehicle arrived back with Helen inside, the security guards lined her on either side and marched her toward the foyer. As they walked, three tabloid journalists rushed toward them with cameras flashing. Three other security guards ran from the side of the Katama Lodge and blocked their path and their cameras. They backed off, grinning wildly like hyenas.
Carmella headed into the side entrance and then appeared at the foyer desk alongside Mallory. Mallory shook with excitement as Helen entered. It was strange to see this woman off the large cinema screens. There, in person, she looked fresh and bright, with porcelain skin and blonde, bouncy curls. She wore massive sunglasses, despite the overcast nature of the day, and she wore an oversized body suit, which made her look all the more slender and skeletal. If Carmella had to guess, she’d lost a bit of weight in the wake of her separation and approaching divorce.
Helen’s smile was slight. She didn’t remove her sunglasses as she greeted Mallory. Mallory placed a key in her outstretched palm as Helen asked, “And you plan to have security around my cabin at all times, correct?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Mallory replied. “We’ve committed ourselves to your health, wellness, and safety, 24/7, Ms. Skarsgaard.”
“Thank you,” Helen breathed a sigh of relief. “It means so much to hear you say that.”
The security guards led Helen off to the front of the Lodge, where a trail led her to the seclusion of her cabin. Carmella and Mallory made heavy eye contact and then exhaled in unison.
“Let the games begin,” Mallory deadpanned.
“Now I feel like I’m in an episode of Game of Thrones! It’s good pr
ess for our Lodge, at least,” Carmella teased, winking at Mallory.
“Yes. And it’s really so incredible that an A-lister celebrity picked our lodge to help her through such a rough time,” Mallory said.
“But still, the stress is....”
“Insane,” Mallory finished.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Carmella finished up with a client and then took a walk toward the kitchen, where she found their chef in a state of panic.
“Everything has to be perfect for Miss Helen,” she muttered inwardly. “But I’m missing pine nuts. I can’t believe I didn’t buy pine nuts? It was right here on the list!”
Carmella didn’t have another appointment for the next two hours. “I can run to the grocery store. I don’t mind.”
The chef looked at her as though she had three heads. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” Carmella replied with a shrug.
“You’d be saving me. I owe you forever.”
Carmella laughed inwardly at the drama over some pine nuts. She headed to her office, grabbed her keys, and then slipped into the front seat of her car. As she rushed out of the parking lot, she spotted several more paparazzi members there between the trees. They spoke together in a circle, probably bored out of their minds and wondering what to report back to their magazines since they couldn’t get close enough for any good shots.
Carmella drove toward the grocery store just outside of Edgartown. Once in the parking spot, she opened the mirror above the car seat and fixed her eyeliner and mascara, which had grown messy with the heat of the day. She then grabbed her purse and headed into the chill of the air-conditioned store.
Carmella had a number of items to pick up for herself, as well. She grabbed some lemons, an eggplant, some feta cheese and tomatoes, and then headed for the wine shelves, where she clucked her tongue and assessed the wide selection. She’d spent the majority of the week with her family but had decided to spend the day at home to stew in her own thoughts. Her therapist had assigned her to write a letter to her childhood self — a kind of “you don’t know this yet, but...” letter, one of forgiveness. She had absolutely no idea how she would conquer that. Her emotions were a tangled mess of knots.
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