People Like Us(63)

Bernie winks at me. “The crab quiche is not to be missed,” he says. Then he kisses Nola on the cheek and follows his wife up the stairs. Beyond the staircase is the kitchen, at the back of which is a pair of glass doors leading to a thin sandy strip and a border of rocks, and beyond that, a sudden drop to the sea.

I wait until they’re gone and then turn to Nola curiously. “Room for everyone?” I want to ask about her mother’s bizarre question about the weekend, but I wonder if the answer isn’t as simple as “alcohol.”

She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be Tranquility if it weren’t teeming with obnoxious well-wishers and rando acquaintances leeching off you, would it?”

I follow Nola into the kitchen. I feel self-conscious walking on the spotless white tile floor and I slip my boots off and dangle the laces over my fingers.

She eyes me almost with contempt. “It’s just a floor. It’s used to being walked all over.”

“I can’t help it. It’s cleaner than the dining hall dishes.”

“Because Bates’s kitchen staff is lazy.”

I’m actually a little appalled at this blatant display of elitism. Nola doesn’t say things like that at school. I guess everyone acts differently at home. I’m as guilty of that as anyone else. But no one’s even around to see it. She piles a plate with seafood salad and cold potatoes and grabs a Diet Coke, then leaves me alone with the enormous refrigerator. It’s difficult to know what to do with it. It’s two feet taller than I am and about as wide as my arm span, and every inch is packed, probably in anticipation of the coming holiday feast. I don’t know what’s off limits, so I follow Bernie’s suggestion and make myself a plate of quiche and potatoes. When I turn around, I see Nola calmly pouring two generous servings of rum into quaint little glasses shaped like mason jars.

I glance reflexively toward the staircase. “Is that a good idea?”

“They don’t care.” She loads the drinks and plates onto a tray and heaves her bag onto her shoulders, and I follow her up the stairs, down a long hallway, and up a second, smaller spiral staircase to her room.

Nola’s bedroom is a little tower perched atop the rest of the house. It overlooks the sea from one side and the village on the other, and the view is breathtaking even with just the sliver of moonlight. We sit on her bed in the darkness, watching the silent water crumple and crash against the rocks outside, and a foreign sense of calm settles over me. I decide I’m going to stay here. I’ll live in the crawl space or the servants’ quarters or something. I’ll become a dishwasher. Not lazy like the kitchen staff at Bates. The real deal. I’ll get in with Marla, plead my case to her first thing in the morning. I’m not sure about Mrs. Kent, but Bernie seemed like a decent guy. Good plan. Or I could just declare myself an indefinite guest and become one of those Tranquility leeches Nola spoke of with such disdain. I turn to Nola to crack a joke about it, to find her hovering with her face just inches from mine. I startle so suddenly I nearly fall off the bed.

“What the hell?”

“I drank my rum and Coke too fast and now I have to pee.”

I stare at her glowing eyes in the darkness. “Then pee.”

“Okay.” She rises unsteadily. “You didn’t drink yours,” she points out.

“Because I don’t like diet soda or rum. Together they taste like synthetically sweetened liquid butterscotch candy.”

“Okay.” She takes my glass with her and leaves, presumably to go to the bathroom. I dig into my overnight bag and change into a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved Bates T-shirt, then brush my hair out and weave it into a braid. I’m relieved to see that there are two twin beds in this room, each with a frosting-pink comforter and cream-colored canopy and dust ruffle. It looks like the room was decorated when Nola was five and hasn’t been altered since. I settle my things under one of the beds and am about to peel back the covers when Nola emerges from the bathroom with an empty glass in her hand, walking a little unsteadily, wearing nothing but a bathing suit and striped knee socks.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.

“Night swim,” she says. “It’s tradition.”





21


I’m getting over a monster cold and it’s barely above freezing out,” I remind her.

“So? People swim in the Arctic in the dead of winter. You don’t stay in for long. It’s about the ritual, not leisure,” she says, tugging at my arm.

“I’m not going out there without a coat and hat,” I say firmly.

She shrugs. “Fine. Hold my towel.”

I tiptoe down the stairs after her, feeling trapped. If we get caught, I’m going to be the bad influence, the one who got the Kents’ precious daughter drunk and flung her into the icy sea. But if I try to stop Nola, I’m the loser who doesn’t like rum and doesn’t jump into freezing, turbulent waters in late November. When did I become this?

Oh yeah. Halloween, just after midnight.

Nola leads me along a narrow, winding path that cuts steeply down the side of the cliff behind the house until ending abruptly, some twenty feet above the water. She turns to me, shivering. It’s freezing even huddled inside my Todd coat, my hat pulled down over my ears. I cling to the side of the cliff for balance and bend forward, peering down. The drop is clean and steep, but the water lashes roughly against the side. Unfortunately, my gloves are cashmere, and my fingers are now soaked. I press my back against the cliff wall and shove my hands into my pockets.