The Winters(49)

I smiled. We had only discussed the matter of children once, casually, over our last dinner at that fish shack. “Well, our brats won’t be spoiled,” I said, “if I have anything to do with it.”

“Another very good reason to marry you.”

“Maybe we should postpone the wedding. It’s not like we booked a hall.”

“No. No more waiting. Pick out your dress, and let’s get on with it.” He paused for a moment. “Dani’s not going with you to the city. She’s grounded until the wedding. And I’m going to lock up our liquor.”

“I have a feeling she never really wanted to go,” I said, quite honestly relieved. Perhaps last night was her way of sabotaging plans, even subconsciously.

“Why don’t you see if Louisa will go?”

“No,” I said, so quickly I had to backpedal slightly. “I mean, it’s really not a big deal, Max, picking out a dress. It’ll clear my head to have some solitude.”

Mostly, I didn’t want Louisa to know about this rift. She’d interfere, and I wanted to repair things on my own. Besides, she’d said she was going to talk to Max about the greenhouse. I didn’t want to be with her when she initiated the conversation, in case Max thought I’d put her up to it.

“I don’t like the idea of you driving to New York alone.”

I gave him a look. “I’ve piloted some very big boats for very big clients in very bad weather. I can certainly get a car to a large city with a GPS.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around me. “I remember that wildly independent girl. Do you have a dress in mind?”

“Something really fancy,” I said. “With a big tiara, and a huge train. How would you like to see me in that?”

“For all I care you can marry me in a garbage bag.”

I kissed him for that.

Max gathered his wallet and keys. “Don’t wait on dinner,” he said. “I’ll be late again. A meeting with the county executives.”

“Max, wait.”

He looked at me. “What is it?”

Ask, ask, ask.

“Why do you never bring me to events?”

His shoulders dropped, as did the corners of his mouth. “Oh no. Oh, my dear. I just assumed you didn’t want to go to those things. Plus, I wanted to give you some time to settle in, take this on bit by bit. Why, do you want to come to events?”

“Maybe. Sometimes.”

“Then you will. But not tonight. You’d gnaw off your arm out of boredom.” He kissed my forehead. “Good luck today. And things with Dani, they’ll get better. I promise.”

He left me in the kitchen to pick at the cold eggs.



* * *



? ? ?

I showered and dressed quickly, taking a coward’s early exit from Asherley to avoid Dani. As I headed to the garage, crunching purposefully across the gravel drive, there came that familiar sense that I was being watched. Tiny hairs on my neck lifted. I kept walking. I did not look up. If Dani were indeed up there peering down at me from the turret, eyes full of resentment, I would not give her the satisfaction of unnerving me further than she already had.

I sat in the car for a second to gather my thoughts, feeling sorry for her, for the way she had left the kitchen sobbing, even if it was theatrical. Doubts began to trickle in. More closeness, not more distance. An apology. Some forgiveness. A discussion about a fresh start. I reached for my phone. Maybe I should text her. I know your dad said you’re grounded, but if you still want to come, I’m waiting out front. Come. I’ll take the blame. Instead I scanned her Instagram, something that now came automatically to me when I wondered where her mind was or what she was doing.

There was a new post, from this morning. It was hard to make it out in the bright light of the car, but it looked to be a black-and-white candid of Rebekah. She seemed to be falling forward, laughing, hair piled on her head, wearing a dress. She had a fist under her chin, the other held up to block the person taking the picture, as though she was running a paparazzi gauntlet. The photo was artistically blown out so I couldn’t decipher the background. I opened it wider with my fingers. A stray dark tendril poked out from behind Rebekah’s blond hair and a doomy realization fell over me. Whatever filter Dani had added blurred out the edges of the face so that if you weren’t scrutinizing the photo as closely as I was, you’d think you were looking at an old picture of Rebekah. But this wasn’t Rebekah. It was a photo of her, and I was standing behind it. That was a lock of my hair, my arms. That was my ring on my hand. The caption read: “No one will ever replace you, no matter how hard they try.” The likes numbered in the dozens already, with not one commenter aware of the ruse. “Beautiful mama,” wrote one person, “RIP Rebekah we loved you,” “Thinking of you Dani,” and on and on.

My hand shook; I felt on the verge of throwing up. I went to dial Dani’s number, to scream at her to pull down the post, but to confront her was to admit I was a lurker, too mortifying to contemplate. And to tell Max was to admit to worse. Even the photo, with Rebekah’s laughing mask, and the position of my arms, implied antic complicity on my part. Max would be incensed. How could we recover any sense of normalcy?

I texted Dani to tell her I was heading into the city, that I assumed she didn’t want to go, but to stick around later because I wanted to talk to her about last night. Even if it meant admitting I snooped, I had to tell her to delete the post, and I had to do it in person, to show her how much it upset me, and how much it would hurt Max. Pulsing ellipsis indicated her imminent reply. One minute passed, then two, before it finally disappeared. She was giving me nothing.