SATURDAY
On the morning of the wedding, Erika Turnbull plugs an AirPod into her right ear, syncs it with her iPhone, and grabs her pink metal travel mug of coffee with three splashes of half-and-half. The day’s schedule printed and secured in a plastic page protector, she exits her tiny studio apartment at the top of her mother’s garage, locks her door, and jiggles the handle twice to make sure it’s secure.
Call her superstitious, but with so much on the line, she’s not taking any chances. Nothing can go wrong today. Absolutely nothing. And if anything does—if Robert’s Cuban cigars aren’t delivered or the caterers forget to swirl the figs in chevre with the small-batch balsamic vinaigrette she specifically ordered from a farm in Modena; if the blue skies cloud and rain falls right as the couple are exchanging vows—then, yes, fingers will point toward her.
All part and parcel of being an assistant. None of the credit and all of the blame. No problem, she thinks, trying to summon more confidence than she actually feels. If only she had more experience being in front of the cameras . . .
She’s been working for Holly and Robert less than a year and always behind the scenes doing what assistants do on these home-remodeling shows—nagging vendors, checking orders, updating calendars, running to the hardware store for paint and extension cords or to the general store for sandwiches and coffee to sustain the crew. In other words, executing the many mundane tasks that keep the boat afloat.
This wedding will be the polar opposite. She will be Holly’s only bridesmaid, the first one to walk down the grassy aisle and the center of attention for three excruciating minutes. Thousands of fans are predicted to tune in, perhaps hundreds of thousands, and the ceremony will be recorded, which means any faux pas will be instantly uploaded online, where it will permanently reside to humiliate her forever. The prospect makes her almost physically ill, since, unlike her photogenic employers, Erika isn’t one for basking in the limelight. In fact, she’s gone out of her way to avoid being in the public gaze. She has her reasons. Valid ones. Not that they’re of any importance today.
Hey, at least the weather’s nice, she thinks. Clear and warm for mid-October. Say what you will about climate change, but so far it’s been a boon to this part of Vermont. The new Napa Valley, they’re calling the Green Mountain State. Lush and fertile. Ranked number two right behind Michigan as the place to live if you’re trying to avoid future floods and drought, blistering summers and wildfires. Holly and Robert were ahead of the curve choosing a rebuild here. But that’s their combined superpower, isn’t it? Always two steps ahead of everyone else, like chess players.
A wispy autumn fog rises from the creek running through the ravine behind the woods surrounding the home where she grew up. Since her breakup with Colton, she’s been living in the little apartment above her mother’s garage, what she likes to call a “carriage house,” even if it never housed horses or carriages.
Erika prefers the term for the optics, though she didn’t use the term optics until she started working for To the Manor Build and was introduced to the power of verbal tweaking. There are bathrooms. And then there are spa retreats. Basements versus man caves. Patios versus outdoor-entertainment areas. Bedrooms versus suites.
When she told the LA producers of To the Manor Build she lived above a garage, they were appalled. When she told them she lived in a carriage house, they were intrigued, envisioning Victorian gables and trellised roses instead of what it really is—a second-floor, eight-hundred-square-foot studio above a one-car bay infused with the metallic smell of engine grease.
This is the magic of property rehab. With fresh paint, new flooring, a kitchen reno, and flowery descriptions, anything can be reborn, better than ever. God willing, the same will be true for her. She just needs to work her ass off so Robert and Holly win the contest and the producers realize she was the ticket to their success and want to hire her. Then maybe she’ll finally have a chance of blowing this quaint and claustrophobic town.
She starts up her new apple-red Kia and pulls off the gravel driveway, taking a left on the dirt road. First order of business: picking up the mail before the post office closes at noon. Second assignment: those damned cigars.
Cuban Cohiba Robusto Reserva at $100 a pop, and that’s before the expensive shipping requiring the illegal smokes to be routed via Switzerland to Bert’s general store in a crate of fancy Swiss chocolate. Erika can’t imagine the total cost, which must be outrageous, but Robert was determined. He insisted that surprising his groomsmen with the treasured contraband would be worth risking a $250,000 fine and ten years in prison.
Us Weekly lied. The stars, in fact, are not like us. Not one little bit.
Erika’s phone pings when she hits a rare pocket of cell reception.
HOLLY: At the spa and going in for a facial. Last chance!!!
She smiles at Holly’s text, how her boss never uses fewer than three exclamation points. If she had any idea Erika was in the process of helping her soon-to-be husband commit an international felony, she might not be so enthusiastic with her punctuation. Holly was dead-set against his breaking the law to blow close to $3,000 on Cohiba Robusto Reservas, so the cigars are one more of Robert and Erika’s little secrets.
She replies in her Bluetooth:
ERIKA: Have fun. I’ll hold down the fort. Going to get everything ready for the BIG EVENT.
HOLLY: You are the BEST!!! No worries when Erika T’s in charge!!!
That makes her feel so good. It’s nice to be of value . . . again.
Replacing the phone in its charger, Erika lowers her window and lets in the breeze, her cream lace dress hanging in its garment bag fluttering in the wind. Holly chose and paid for the outfit online. Then, on a whim, she made an appointment for Erika with her hairdresser in Burlington for a balayage. Soooo generous. The three-hour session cost way too much—Erika was mortified—but Holly insisted.
“Please, let me,” she pressed in her lilting southern accent. “Nothing makes me happier than a good old-fashioned makeover. A bridesmaid can’t say no to a bride.”
Bride. What a wonderful word. Erika grips the wheel as she negotiates the serpentine dirt roads. Driving still makes her nervous even when the conditions are dry and sunny. She’s trying to stay focused, but then she sees herself walking down the aisle where Robert is waiting in his kilt, hands clasped behind his back, his muscular legs spread, his smoldering dark gaze regarding her with raw desire. The setting sun illuminates her newly golden hair, transforming her into a princess.
Suddenly, the unspoken, forbidden attraction between them, the pulsating connection they’ve both tried so nobly to suppress, becomes too much to bear. To hell with the thousands of viewers and the show’s producers, Robert decides. True love is true love even if declaring his undeniable feelings hurts, for now, the woman he thought he loved, the one he was supposed to love, simply for hits and ratings.
He doesn’t wait for his bride. In two long strides, he goes to Erika, grasping her by her bare shoulders (oh, how he’s longed to caress her bare skin, to claim her as his own), and bending down before all the world to see he gently brings his lips to hers and . . .
Shit!
A brown blur leaps into the edges of her peripheral vision, causing her to swerve the car wildly. In any other situation, she would have quickly gained control. But the deer lopes past the dreaded wooden cross, knocking her off kilter. The homemade memorial’s fading blue plastic flowers and fluttering ribbons trigger horrific memories of another October day long ago at this very spot.
Thankfully, the antilock brakes activate and Erika comes to a full stop before hitting the cross, her heart pounding, lungs squeezing. In the rearview, she watches the panicked deer disappear into the thick foliage. A spikehorn. No doubt crazed by the surging hormones of early mating season. Not his fault.
Not anyone’s fault.
Erika’s damp palms slide down the steering wheel as she wrestles for composure. “It’s all over. No harm, no foul,” she mutters, gradually pressing her foot on the gas and resisting the urge to give up, to ditch the car and walk the four miles back to home. Lord knows she’s done it before.
Body shaking, she resumes driving slowly until she reaches the covered bridge leading to Snowden’s picturesque village. The maples ringing the town green under the bright blue sky are ablaze in a riot of red, orange, and yellow leaves, a few of which are falling gently over the white-painted rail fencing. They remind her that, no matter what, the earth continues to rotate, seasons change, and life goes on. Nothing lasts forever. Taking a cleansing breath, she continues.
Circling the village square, she passes the white clapboard Snowden town hall, its black slate roof and matching shutters imposing and yet reassuring in their historic stability, and the Snowden general store. To the general store’s left is the brick Snowden Volunteer Fire Department with its one bay for its one truck, and to the right of the store is the Snowden post office.
The post office foyer is about the size of Holly and Robert’s mudroom, except more cramped. It’s infused with the scent of ink and paper, like the stacks in the village library. Brass mailboxes line one wall over an old wooden desk into which holes have been drilled for holding certified mail receipts and forms, along with a pen tied to a dirty string. Across from that is the larger window with a bell and a sign that reads RING FOR SERVICE.
Erika taps the brass bell and Dylan emerges from the back room, flicking a lock of hair that tends to fall over his left eye. She and Dylan graduated from their regional high school the same year. He’s one of the few from their class who doesn’t blame her for what happened. Or, if he does, he’s kind enough not to let on.
“You look different,” he says.
“Do I?” She makes the effort to strike a pose. “Good or bad?”
He frowns, actually taking the question seriously. “You kind of look like your boss, no offense.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. Just different. Like I said.” He hands her a letter with a green certified return receipt attached. “You can sign as your boss’s agent, I guess. It’s addressed to her.”
Erika doesn’t have to check the address. She cringes at the lacey purple penmanship with the star instead of the o in Holly and the faint whiff of coconut suntan oil that managed to survive the long trip from Homosassa, Florida.
What to do? Whether or not to accept is Holly’s decision, not hers. But she doesn’t want to upset her boss by asking, not when she’s lying on a massage table, her face slathered with a chamomile mask.
Screw it. Erika takes the pen and dashes off her name. Better to be safe than sorry. Dylan hands her the certified letter on top of a hefty stack. Erika removes the fliers for flooring and junk mail from furniture stores and mortgage companies, Realtors and florists, tossing them in the recycling on her way out.
“Thanks, Dylan,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits. But he’s already disappeared.
She dumps the mail in the back seat of the Kia and crosses the green to the general store, feeling slightly anxious. She’s unclear if Bert’s aware the chocolate delivery contains a $2,500 worth of contraband cigars, and she’s not about to inquire. The story Robert told the store owner was that the Swiss chocolatier would not deliver the handmade confections to a residence, only to a retail establishment. The truth is neither the smuggler nor the recipient wanted the permanent documentation of an address.
Her assignment is to ask for the box and go, but as soon as she opens the door to the tinny chime of the overhead bell, she senses hostility. Doc, the retired veterinarian who had to put down their basset, Nell, years ago, and his wife, Judy Ann, Erika’s third-grade teacher, end their chat with Bert midsentence and set their jaws in matching scowls. Neither makes eye contact nor makes the effort to offer a begrudging “Good morning.” With curt nods to Bert, they exit quickly, brushing past her, eyes averted.
Nothing new there. She steps back and lets them pass, adding with false cheer, “Nice to see you, guys. Enjoy the lovely day.”
The screen door shuts with a slam.
“Don’t give them a second thought,” says Bert, otherwise known as Mayor Bert to the locals and even tourists, who find it adorable that the shop owner of sizable girth and no shortage of opinions has proclaimed himself the town’s unelected leader, since Snowden, like most Vermont communities, has no official one. For Erika, he’s been a bedrock of public support, though she harbors no illusion that once her back is turned, he’s no better than the rest when it comes to rehashing her crimes.
“Whatever. I can’t change other people, only myself.”
“You get that off the Oprah Winfrey Show?” Bert’s cultural references are often a decade or two behind.
“Actually, I believe it was . . . Barney?”
He hasn’t a clue about the purple dinosaur of her childhood, which means she’s in danger of becoming as much of a relic as he is. “You here for the, uhm, wedding chocolate?” He gives her a skeptical grin.
“Yup. I hope it came in. Robert is reeeeeeeally excited about serving it at the reception.”
Bert goes to the back and reemerges with an elaborately packaged black box decorated with gold writing in French. “Could’ve bought from Lake Champlain. Didn’t have to order from Zurich. Or Mary Kay Bellows at Kay Confections in Pomfret does a bang-up job. Local first!”
The local-first scolding is a veiled dig at Robert and Holly, who chose a high-end vegetarian chef from out of town to cater the reception instead of him. She can’t say this was a mistake. Erika’s attended Bert’s events, and while roasted corn, hot dogs, hamburgers, and pasta salads might fit the bill for family reunions or end-of-season softball games, they definitely would not rise to Holly and Robert’s epicurean standards.
At the very least, however, they should have ordered the wine, beer, and soft drinks through the general store. That would have softened the blow. Now they’ll have to deal with his orneriness, his occasional jabs, and his bad-mouthing them to his other customers. Holly and Robert are city folk, unaccustomed to the delicate nuances of small-town diplomacy.
“An innocent oversight, I’m sure,” she says, taking the precious box, “what with this wedding being so last minute and hush-hush.”
“Buying local is to their benefit in the end. You never know when you’re gonna have to rely on your neighbors. I don’t have to tell you that.”
No, he does not. Erika thanks him and quicksteps across the green to her car, checking over her shoulder as if the FBI agents were waiting. She gets in and, even though she knows she’s being silly, she locks the doors before slicing open the package with the edge of her house key. Sure enough, wedged amid shiny blue boxes of Swiss truffles is a nondescript wooden case marked in Spanish.
She opens the notes app on her phone and checks CIGARS off her to-do list. Then she calls Robert, per his instructions.
He answers on the third ring. An explosion of boisterous laughter in the background and glasses clinking indicate the wedding festivities have started early. She pictures hungover groomsmen lounging about Robert’s suite in the Snowden Inn attempting to restart their engines with a round of bloodies.
“Turnbull!” he bellows. “Tell me the eagle has landed.”
“The eagle has landed,” she confirms. They’re talking in code because Robert’s eager for the cigars to be a surprise treat for his attendants. “You want me to bring them to the inn?”
“No, no. You can leave them in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. You still have the key, right?”
“Right.” Robert entrusted her with the small silver key only the day before. Erika fingers it, feeling a strange sense of honor since not even Holly has this, which is the whole point. The cigars must be stored in a secure location out of his bride’s suspicious snooping. “You want me to leave the mail there, too?”
Robert is strangely preoccupied with snail mail. He’s like a little boy when it comes to demanding he be the first to sort through the daily pile. Fortunately, Holly couldn’t care less. Fans don’t pen letters; they email or post on Instagram. Contracts are digitally sent and signed. Payments are automatically deposited; bills automatically paid.
Robert, on the other hand, is obsessed, snatching the pile and taking it to another room, most often Holly’s office, whereupon he closes the door for ultimate privacy until he’s finished sorting and opening. Erika can usually predict his mood for the rest of the day depending on what the USPS delivered that morning. A letter from the IRS, for example, can send him into an endless funk.
“The Internal Revenue Service doesn’t text,” he once quipped after he received a terse notice about a discrepancy in his most recently filed 1040. “That’s why you check the mail, Turnbull.”
More disturbing, she’s noticed, are the occasional handwritten envelopes addressed to “The So-Called Robber Barron,” in angry quotes. Those can really pitch him into the void, turning him dark and mercurial and generally unpleasant to be around. Erika hasn’t had the nerve to ask him what those are about, for fear he’d snap her head off.
“I don’t care about the mail, unless there’s something crucial,” he says.
“Nothing that popped out at me.”
“Great. Then, yeah, leave it on the desk. I’ll go through the stuff on Monday. Holly has made me swear not to do a lick of work from now until then.”
“Believe it when I see it.” She highly doubts either of those workaholics will be able to resist sneaking into the office on Sunday, not with the reveal a week away.
After they hang up, Erika’s about to put away her phone when she receives a text from an unfamiliar contact. That’s not unusual. Her number is on the RFPs they send out to contractors and all her email correspondence for TMB. But the image slowly loading has nothing to do with the project.
It's of the flowered wedding arch set up in the field behind the house. Considering the arch wasn’t completed yesterday, it must have been taken this morning. That would be creepy enough without the added effect of a dark-red blood spatter dotting the screen.
“Shit,” Erika whispers, gripping the underside of her car seat, tamping down a frisson of alarm.
You’d think that after months of dealing with trolls on Reddit and the occasional perv who’s managed to get past TMB’s site filters, she’d know better than to get ramped up about an image threatening bloody violence. Humans are a weird breed, she’s discovered in her brief stint as Holly and Robert’s assistant. Lonely, disturbed, jealous, or simply bored people can be stunningly vicious online—provided they can remain anonymous. Chances are, this is simply the work of some disgruntled teenager tooling around with Photoshop in the basement of his parents’ house hundreds of miles away.
Except, no one aside from invited guests, approved vendors, and authorized TMB personnel are allowed on Holly and Robert’s property today. The foliage in its periphery means it wasn’t taken overhead by a drone. It appears to have been shot with a long lens from the hillside opposite, indicating the photographer was there—might even still be there—waiting. The idea of a disturbed fan lurking in the woods planning to do God knows what when Holly and Robert say their vows is more than chilling.
It’s sick.
And then Erika remembers they won’t be the only ones standing at that spot. The wedding is being officiated by the Snowden town clerk—who just happens to be her own mother.