Lovely Girls(62)

My mind immediately went back to my loop of worries. Alex’s odd refusal to say where she’d been the night Callie died, and the fact that the police were focusing their investigation on her, and whether she would be charged with a crime. I didn’t know how I was supposed to deal with any of that, much less with the unwanted diversion of my parents showing up. My mother would insist on being treated like a very important guest in a high-end hotel, with her every need met the moment she had it. She would pretend that she wanted to help with dinner or spend time with Alex, but she wouldn’t do either. Instead, she’d expect everyone—Alex, me, my dad—to revolve around her and her changing whims. My father was a little easier. He spent his days watching professional golf on the television and reading military history books. But he’d also expect all of his meals cooked, and since he was philosophically opposed to renting a car, I’d become the on-call chauffer.

“I don’t know if this is a good time,” I said, trying—and failing—to think of a reason why we couldn’t have guests. Telling my mother that Alex was a person of interest in a possible homicide was out of the question. Instead, I went for a lie. “I’m having some work done on the house. The laundry room needs remodeling.”

“Oh, good, then it should be done when we come in February,” my mother said brightly.

“February?”

“Yes, after the holidays, we’ll be in the mood to go somewhere sunny. Somewhere warm. And I’ll be able to help you with the house.”

“I don’t need help,” I said quickly.

“I meant with decorating. You’ve never had the best sense about putting together a cohesive room. You’re always mixing up different styles. It’s jarring.”

I stood there, blinking, as her words penetrated into the fog of stress and worry I’d been living in. I’d run a consignment furniture store. My job had been putting together cohesive rooms. And mixing up different styles was one of the things I was best at.

“Also, Dad will be able to golf. You’re near Boca Raton, right?” she continued.

“Not really. I haven’t been that far south, but I think it’s about ninety minutes away.”

“That’s not too bad. He’ll want to golf with his friend Alan Dreyer, who has a vacation home there. I told him you’d drive him down.”

“This really isn’t the best—” I began, again wildly thinking of something I could be doing on a Sunday afternoon that would give me an excuse to get off the phone with her. Then the doorbell rang.

My relief at having a ready excuse was quickly followed by a sickly dread. The last time the doorbell had rung, there were two police detectives standing at my front door. Were they back? With a warrant this time?

“I have to go,” I said. “Someone’s at the door.”

She completely ignored me. “The second weekend in February, I think. The Lansings and the Browns will be down at about the same time, and I said we’d have them all over for dinner one night.”

The last of my patience ebbed away. “You’re coming to Florida to socialize with your friends from Buffalo who you see all the time, not to see Alex and me?”

“You don’t have to put it like that.”

The doorbell rang again. I headed toward the front door. “I have to go.”

“I need to know if those dates work for you first.”

“If you need an answer right now, then no. They don’t. Goodbye.”

I ended the call abruptly. Then I drew in a deep breath and tried to steel myself for whatever was on the other side of the door. What if it was the police? What if they were here to arrest Alex?

I exhaled and opened the door.

It wasn’t the police.

“Hi, Kate,” Emma said. “Can I come in? I think we need to talk.”



Emma and I sat at the kitchen table. I had opened a bottle of chilled chardonnay, and we each had a glass in front of us. Emma looked haunted. Her face was bare of makeup, and dark circles were smudged under her eyes. Even though it was a warm day, she had her light-gray cardigan wrapped tightly around her, as if she were freezing.

“How’s Ingrid?” I asked.

Emma shook her head. “She’s a mess. I don’t know how she’s going to get through this. Or if she’s going to get through it.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“She’s been sedated, just enough so she can do what needs to be done right now. Making decisions, funeral arrangements. But once that’s over, I don’t know how she’s going to cope. Gen and I are doing what we can. Making sure she’s never alone. Trying to get her to eat and sleep.”

I wondered whether I should offer to help, but I knew it was pointless. Any offer would be rebuffed. Whatever friendship I had shared with these women was over. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“I’m glad she has your support.” I took a sip of my wine and waited. Emma had a reason for showing up on my doorstep. I wondered how long it would take for her to get around to telling me.

Emma picked up her wineglass and rotated it slowly. “You must hate us,” she finally said. “I can’t really blame you.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. “But I don’t understand why you all turned on me.”