Now
Saturday, August 14
Woodstock, New York
I pulled up to the rental just after four p.m., found a spot on the street, and grabbed my purse, leaving the rest of my bags in the trunk, Willa’s sparkling sapphire flashing in my mind like a strobe light. It had been her, hadn’t it? It looked just like her, and the necklace confirmed it, so why had she acted so strangely? And who was that little girl? Where was Jack?
I approached my home for the week, a yellow clapboard-siding bungalow, only a few blocks off Tinker Street, and situated at the end of a lush, sidewalked road with overgrown trees. I reached for the gate, lifted a rusty latch, and walked down the stone pathway, trimmed with flowers. I stepped onto the porch, creaky and squeaky in a way that Alex would love, then knelt in front of the lockbox. I tapped into my email and opened the message from the rental agency, scanning it quickly for the code. I punched it in, pulled the tab down to find a single key, and opened the door.
I dropped my bags and was about to return to the car, when I was hit with two texts from George.
We’re a good match, Mary. And Alex deserves to grow up with his family intact.
I love you. I always will.
My stomach clenched as I swiped the notifications away. Why was George doing this, now? When things were finally starting to settle between us, after so much intensity, after so many threats, after my own mind went places I never, ever thought it would?
Sometimes I wish . . .
Was he changing his mind about our agreement? Would he, really? But then why not just tell me? George had never had problems being direct.
No, I thought. This is finally about to work out.
I walked through, giving the rooms a quick once-over. The place was small, with a cozy living space, overstuffed chairs and a sofa surrounding a cast-iron woodstove, an eat-in kitchen, where I glimpsed lacquer-red cabinets and checkerboard floor tiles; and a bedroom that looked out on the overgrown front yard. It would do just fine for the week. The place even smelled pleasant, sweet and floral and somehow almost . . . familiar.
I headed back out to the front—I still had two bags in the car—and was tapping the button to unlock the trunk when I saw a man in a crisp navy linen blazer walking quickly down the street, toward my rental. Something about him looked familiar, from the cut of the blazer to his impressive height to his steel-blue eyes—
“Henry?”
My brother-in-law jumped, his face reddening, as if somehow caught out. I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since that night at the opera with Willa, back in April.
“What are you doing in Woodstock?” I asked.
His shoulders relaxed, and the color drained slightly from his face. The cool, collected Henry—the one you saw when he wasn’t on a drinking bender—seemed to come back. “I’ve got a place here. Just up the block and around the corner. Doing renovations.”
“You do?” I asked. “George never said.”
“Well, it’s not George’s,” he said. “It’s mine.” The Haywoods had places seemingly everywhere, and Henry’s portfolio was especially deep. He loved to flip and rent for unmentionable sums, like it was all just a game. A game I’d always felt queasy about.
Now the thought chilled me a bit, that even here, I wouldn’t be away from the Haywoods’ power, their pull. Worse, it felt like something George should have mentioned the moment I told him I was planning on moving here.
“Got some vandalism to clean up here?” I asked, trying to gain back a firm footing. Over the past six months, there’d been a streak of break-ins at Haywood properties in the tristate area, all complete with what I thought was hilarious graffiti—EAT THE RICH, FUCK THE ONE PERCENT, and WORKERS UNITE. Henry was so much more shameless about money than George had ever been, would argue with socialist-leaning politicians and organizers on Twitter and fully embrace his capitalist-bro personality, to the horror of his parents, who made substantial donations to Democrats up and down the ballot and had a photo with Obama framed on their carved-marble mantel. We all blamed the spate of recent break-ins on Henry’s antics, the graffiti so pointed, as if only there to troll him.
Henry’s face reddened and he briefly bit his lip. He raised an eyebrow in slight disdain. “No, actually. But you know local contractors. Seems they can’t do much of anything without supervision.”
Henry was always saying shitty stuff like that. I hardly knew how Cassandra stood it for as long as she did.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, then immediately smirked. “Oh, right. George told me. Your little week on your own.”
Anger boiled in my insides, and I wanted to barb right back, but telling Henry what I really thought of him wouldn’t help one lick in getting George to continue to play nice. The two had always had a bit of a sibling rivalry, but when push came to shove, they stuck together—what they’d done to Cassandra proved as much. I nodded to the car instead. “I have to get the rest of my bags.”
“You need some help?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m fine.”
Henry stared at me a moment. “George won’t let you go this easy, you know.”
The truth, the history, all that had transpired between Henry and Cassandra hung between us. I hated Henry. I really did.
“That’s between me and George. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I pushed past him and walked toward the trunk.
“I’ll be seeing you, Mary,” Henry said. “Do take care.”
He headed down the road, and I didn’t say another word, just opened the trunk and stared at my bags, my heart pounding against my ribs. I sang “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” three times in my head before I let myself look up to make sure Henry was out of sight.
Street clear, I pulled the bags out and shut the trunk so hard I thought it might dent it, then lugged them up the walk, slamming the front door behind me and locking it tight.
I headed to the kitchen, suddenly desperate for a glass of water, and stopped short in front of a small round table tucked into the corner, nestled between two windows.
Freesia. So that was the smell that had seemed so familiar.
It was my favorite flower, purple and white with hints of yellow. Fruity and sweet, like fresh strawberries, a summer day. We’d had bunches and bunches of them, tucked in among hydrangeas and orchids, at our wedding at the New York Public Library. And George, no matter what sort of bouquet he got me, always managed to procure a few sprigs of freesia as well, even if they weren’t the easiest to find. He even teased me that they were a silly flower to love, the sort that gets used to make mall fragrances for middle school girls.
The flowers were perched, rather perfectly, in a simple gray vase.
My heart beat a bit quicker. Could he—would he—have sent Henry in here to do his bidding? Tasked his brother with arranging these flowers, as what, some sort of . . . plea . . . or promise . . .
Then why would Henry have walked down this block, giving himself away?
Still, the thought nagged at me. George believed he could buy anything, always said that there was a price, you just had to find it. Was he trying to find mine now, see if I would sell myself—change my mind—just because my favorite flowers were in the kitchen? As if that could even begin to make everything else right.
In front of the flowers was a notecard, in loopy writing that looked like a woman’s.
Welcome to our home, have a wonderful stay!
My heartbeats slowed down. It was just a friendly welcome. It had nothing to do with Henry or George.
And then, as if he could somehow hear me thinking of him, miles and miles away, my phone buzzed again with more texts from George.
You know we’ll find our way back to each other, in the end.
We always do.