In Her Skin(7)

Mr. Lovecraft cups my shoulder and I jump.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “We’re here.”

“Right,” I say, stopping at a set of stairs leading to two huge front doors. I gaze up; the town house is three stories high. I start to ask if they live in this whole thing, but stop myself, because Vivi would know.

A man meets us in the marbled entrance. They introduce him as Slade. Slade is at least six foot three and over two hundred pounds, fit but puffy, wearing a jacket and jeans, and that jacket indoors in May means he’s packing heat. The skin under Slade’s eyes is gray, and he makes a meaty-lipped smile while he tries not to look at my chest. I wonder if those under-eye circles mean he stays up late watching porn.

Mr. Lovecraft explains that Slade “spent time in Iraq” and “recently transitioned” into “private client security.”

Slade tongues his gum into his cheek. “Nice meeting you, Miss Weir,” he says as he holds out his hand. I shake it limply.

“We’ve used security professionals like Slade for the last few years. Just a precaution. A lot of folks in our circles do it,” Mr. Lovecraft says.

“In our circles” means income bracket and “the last few years” means since Vivi vanished, and who exactly are the Lovecrafts taking precautions against? Seven years later, are they still afraid someone will climb through a window and steal you?

Slade waits for the Lovecrafts to tell him what to do next, but the Lovecrafts are looking at me like I’m a fish in a tank again, and maybe they’ve forgotten him already. When Slade shifts and makes a small noise, Mr. Lovecraft comes to.

“That’ll be all for now, Slade.”

“I’ll be in my room, then,” Slade says, bounding up a set of stairs, and do all rich people have sleepin bodyguards? We enter a room with a crystal chandelier dripping from a ceiling painted blue. Not the endless blue of the Florida sky, but mixed with streams of clouds. Where the walls meet the ceiling is trim like frosting, with fruit and baby angels in the corners made of the same white stuff, four of them, mouths open like they’re screaming.

“We’ve redecorated a bit,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, spinning as if she’s new to it herself. It’s hard not to gape at this house I am supposed to know, even if it is changed.

“Technically, she redecorated,” Mr. Lovecraft says, squeezing his wife’s skinny shoulders. They touch each other a lot. Momma’s boyfriends touched Momma a lot, and me sometimes, too, but I don’t remember liking it. Mostly it made me think about them bloated, dead on the ground.

“This atrium has become my favorite room in the whole house,” Mrs. Lovecraft says about this room that is the center of everything. In one direction, a polished stair rail leads up; in another is a kitchen with lights over a shiny island, and in another, a cozy room with a fireplace and a standing mirror with a curlicue gold frame and a puckered turquoise couch. In the fourth direction is an office with a desk in the middle and a file cabinet beside it. The desk faces a barred window looking out onto that same restaurant. I wonder if it’s hard for whoever sits at that desk to look at that restaurant every day.

“It’s been a long day for you. You must want a bath,” she says.

I stiffen; maybe they are perverts. More importantly, do I care?

My weirdness registers with her. She looks at Mr. Lovecraft again worriedly before saying, “Or not.”

Mr. Lovecraft moves about the first floor, pulling closed the heavy drapes, shutting out the city, the restaurant, and the night. I like the way he gives us space when we’re talking about me bathing. It’s probably just good breeding, but it feels like respect.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “You want me clean. It’s okay.”

She looks at me, puzzled. “That is, if you want to be clean. It’s up to you.” She looks over my body gently, imagining bad touches, and lowers her voice. “We can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through these last years. We know it’s going to take time for you to acclimate. That’s why we decided it would be better to wait for you to see Temple.”

“You sent her away?” I ask.

“No,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, looking up at the staircase as she says it. “She’s here. We just thought it would be a good idea to give you some space tonight. It’s late, and you should clean up and get some sleep.”

“I just thought I’d meet everyone, you know, tonight.”

“The truth is, this is hard on Temple, too. Not that she’s not thrilled that you’re back. We’re all thrilled. Your return changes our lives. The papers will want your story—‘The Return of Vivienne Weir’—so we’ll have to manage that. You’ll be going to school, sharing our home. It’s a lot for a teenager to adjust to.”

“We were friends,” I say. “Sisters, basically.”

“Well, of course. But that was when you were nine. Temple is sixteen. And you’re—”

“Sixteen,” I say.

“Sixteen. Time has passed. I’m sure you’ll be close again, but it might take a little while.”

From the stairs comes a creak.

We snap our heads. Temple Lovecraft is perched on the stairs, hugging her sharp flannel knees.

“Darling!” Mr. Lovecraft exclaims. “Come down and say hello to Vivi.”