The House in the Pines(44)

Aubrey shakes her head. There’s a wince to her demeanor. “I know how it looks,” she says, “but there’s nothing going on between me and Frank.”

“Whose idea was it to come here?”

“His. Definitely his.”

Maya flinches but tries not to let it show.

“He started asking me about myself as soon as I got in his car yesterday,” Aubrey says. “And the second I said I was into magic, he said there was this book I should read.” Her eyes flick down to the book, its binding dangerously close to the puddle from Frank’s cup. “He said I should pick it up from the library at seven.”

“Yeah, well—doesn’t mean you had to show up.”

“I was curious. I thought I was just picking up a book. I know how Frank made it sound just now—like I just so happened to drop by as he was leaving work. But he’s bullshitting you, Maya. He set it all up. The library book was just an excuse to see me again.”

Maya clenches her jaw.

She can see that Aubrey doesn’t like telling her this. She’s not saying it to be hurtful, and that look on her face—the one Maya had mistaken for remorse—is actually pity. Aubrey feels sorry for her. And this is so much worse. They’ve had disagreements over the years, but until now, neither has truly wounded the other. “Oh, please,” Maya spits. “You showed up at my house all”—how to say this?—“dressed up when you knew he would be there.”

Aubrey doesn’t try to defend herself. “I wanted to know what his deal was,” she says. “You’ve been acting weird since you met him, and now I can see why. He’s weird, Maya. He’s controlling. And if I had to guess, I’d say he was the one who suggested you defer at BU?”

Maya doesn’t answer. Why should she? She’s pretty sure deferral was her own idea anyway. She wonders if Aubrey is enjoying this, if it delights her to point out how easily she captured Frank’s interest.

“Listen,” Aubrey says. “I’m not the bad guy here. I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend.”

“Why not? Isn’t Frank better than whatever lame townie you’re going to end up with?”

Aubrey stands, picks up the book, looks down at her frozen Dunkaccino. The cup is almost full, but the drink is melted. She stares at it a moment, then shakes her head and throws it away. On her way out the door, she says to Maya, “You don’t get it, do you?”





TWENTY-FIVE




Dawn sprang in like lions through the windows. Brenda had left for work at 4:30 a.m., so there was no one to wake, and Maya strode freely up and down the hall outside her old room in a T-shirt and purple sweatpants she had found in the basement. Moving helped her think. She understood her father’s story now, but not what it meant in terms of Frank. Was it that Maya, like Pixán, had forgotten something important?

Or was it something else? Something more obvious?

Looking back on herself at seventeen was almost painful. She’d sat alone day after day at the library, so absorbed in the mystery of her father’s book—translating it, taking notes, flipping carefully through its brittle pages—that she hadn’t noticed the creepy part-time librarian who must have been watching her from behind the reference desk.

As she read the book, he had read her. It must have been easy. Anyone could see that she held those pages close. Of course Frank had used them to get to know her. He would also, as a library employee, have had access to her lending history and seen that she was interested in Guatemala. The Frank she knew could have easily made up the story about sneaking up a Mayan pyramid at dawn. She doubted very much now that this had happened, or that he had ever been to Guatemala, period. He must have figured it would impress her to say he had, and he’d been right.

But he hadn’t stopped there. When he’d learned the book was written by her dead father, Frank’s interest grew. Now she wondered if this was part of why he’d chosen her. Like Cristina, estranged from her parents, Maya had a hole in her life—and Frank had seen it as an opportunity.

He wanted to take up space in her life, to be the most important person to her—and he wanted it immediately. If she wasn’t available when he wanted her to be—if she had plans with Aubrey, say—then he was going to make her late, punish her somehow.

The first time he asked Maya to tell him about her father was on a hot, lazy day as they sat in the grass on the town common, sipping on cherry slushies.

What do you want to know? she’d asked.

His story.

And he would have known that stories were all she had.

The one she told him was her favorite, one her mom had told her when she was young. Brenda had often told it to her before bed, and like so many stories told this way, parent to child, it had taken on the quality of a fairy tale over the years, polished smooth over countless tellings. Some details faded while others grew exaggerated, but the heart of it had stayed the same.



* * *



—

The story went that Maya’s mom knew almost nothing about Guatemala before she went there, and this was part of what drew her to it. She was twenty-two years old and had never stepped foot outside the US. All three of her brothers had moved to other states, leaving only her there to care for her parents, still grieving the death of their elder daughter, as they aged. Part of Brenda had always known she’d never truly leave Pittsfield, which was maybe why another, less dutiful part of her had been desperate to get away. And Guatemala seemed to her about as far from Pittsfield as she could get.