The Perfect Couple(25)

Karen can’t find her oxy. The pill bottle was in her Vera Bradley cosmetic bag along with her lipstick and a Revlon mascara that was rendered useless when she lost her eyelashes. Where… Karen tries not to panic but those pills are the only thing keeping her going. Without them, she will curl up in bed in a fetal position and howl with pain.

Karen’s gaze sweeps the gleaming marble, glass, and mirrored surfaces of the guest bathroom. There’s Karen’s toothbrush in a silver cup. There’s the miraculous body cream. Karen pulls open the little drawers, hoping that maybe Celeste tucked her things away so that she would feel at home.

And yes—in the third drawer, there are her pills. Oh, thank you! It seems like an unusual place to put them, but maybe Celeste didn’t want the summer housekeeper to stumble across them and be tempted. Karen thinks about chastising Celeste for pawing through her things. Everyone deserves a modicum of privacy, a secret or two. But mostly, Karen feels an overwhelming relief that is nearly as powerful as the pills themselves. She taps two oxy into her palm, fills the silver cup with water, and swallows.





GREER


She checks her e-mail to review the timetable that Siobhan the caterer sent her and, unfortunately, she sees a new e-mail from Enid Collins, Greer’s editor at Livingston and Greville, with the subject line URGENT.

This makes Greer laugh. Enid is seventy-seven years old. She has eleven grandchildren and one great-grandchild and she still marks up Greer’s manuscripts with a red pencil. Never once in the twenty-two years that Enid has been editing Greer’s novels has she ever used the word urgent. Enid believes strongly in letting ideas marinate—for days or weeks or months. There’s nothing Enid despises more than a rush.

Greer checks the e-mail even though the definition of urgent is transpiring right outside the window of Greer’s sitting room: the rental people are setting up chairs, the band is doing a sound check, and sixty people are due to descend on Summerland for the rehearsal dinner, among them Featherleigh Dale.

Dearest Greer, the e-mail begins (Enid composes all of her e-mails as formal letters).

I’m sure you will understand how it pains me to tell you this, since I have long been a champion of your work, your very first champion, if you remember.

Yes, Greer does remember. She was out of her mind with boredom when she was pregnant with Thomas—Tag was at the office day and night back then—and so she’d started writing a murder mystery set in the sixth arrondissement of Paris entitled Prey in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She had sent it off to Livingston and Greville, the publishing house that brought out the mysteries Greer most enjoyed herself, and, lo and behold, she received a letter of interest from an established editor named Enid Collins who said she would like to publish the book and might Greer be able to meet and discuss terms of payment and editorial changes? This had launched the Dolly Hardaway murder mystery series, the most successful of which, The Killer on Khao San Road, was made into a movie that had somehow attained that elusive thing known as cult status.

But since we have been bought by Turnhaute Publishing Group, my autonomy has been greatly diminished.

Is it really the fault of the corporate Goliath of Turnhaute, fondly known as Turncoat, Greer wonders, or is Enid being pushed out because of her advanced age? Her driver’s license will be the next thing taken, Greer supposes.

My editorial director, Mr. Charles O’Brien, also read your manuscript and he has deemed it “unacceptable.” He has asked me to let you know you have a fortnight to rewrite it entirely. He suggests you use an alternate exotic locale, one you can describe with more “colorful detail” than what he calls the rather “pale” version of Santorini you present here. I’m sorry to be so blunt and to bear this dreadful news, my darling Greer. But a fortnight makes your new due date July 21, and I felt it best to be direct in light of that looming deadline.

With best wishes,

Enid Collins

Hell and damnation, Greer thinks. Her twenty-first manuscript has been… rejected, then? Who is this Charles O’Brien and what does he know? Charlie, old Chuck, an Irishman. Greer can’t bring to mind an Irish writer she has ever admired. She has always despised Joyce, pretentious sod, writing in code and asking his readers to follow the twists and turns of his demented mind. She finds Wilde predictable, Swift histrionic, Beckett inscrutable, Stoker overrated, and Yeats dull.

Her cell phone pings. It’s Benji. Roger has questions about the seating chart. Where are you?

In my sitting room. Witnessing the end of my career.

What had old Chuck O’Brien said about the book? Pale. He had called Greer’s description of Santorini pale and suggested Greer use a different exotic locale.

It has been over thirty years since Greer set foot on Santorini. She chose it only because back in August when Benji proposed to Celeste, he mentioned he would like to honeymoon there. Greer’s own memories of the place were brilliant. She recalled stark limestone cliffs and a red beach, colored by iron deposits; robust, bushy-haired Greek men selling freshly caught fish in woven baskets; she remembered the deep aquamarine of the Aegean Sea, whitewashed churches with cobalt-blue domes, the winding streets of Oia, the seafood restaurants where the water practically lapped onto one’s feet and everyone was offered the same wine, a lovely, crisp white that was made on the east side of the island. Greer and Tag had chartered a catamaran, and Tag had sailed them around while Greer sat under a canopy wearing a floppy straw hat and Jackie O. sunglasses. They had swum into the beaches from the boat and paid the cabana boys two drachmas for chaises and an umbrella. Greer had left the island with recipes for garlicky tzatziki, grilled chicken with lemon and fresh oregano, and of course her famous lamb souvlaki.