SATURDAY NIGHT
Back home after leaving the wedding reception, albeit earlier than she’d planned, Erika stretches out on the couch in her apartment, finally able to unwind with a glass of chilled pinot grigio. She should be thrilled the day went off without a hitch, or at least without a major hitch. There were two uncomfortable moments when her mother acted inappropriately, which isn’t unheard of when it comes to Kim and her tendency to hover.
Though, to be fair, maybe that’s why Erika’s feeling slightly blue. Because her mother’s intuition, goddammit, was on target. So annoying how often that happens.
Yes, there is—or was—a powerful, unspoken attraction between Robert and her. He didn’t have to say in actual words that he felt it, too. The message came across loud and clear in the way he sometimes laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder when she was at the computer or pulled up a chair next to her so their knees brushed together under the table. You could feel the charge between them, her positive drawn to his negative. Pulsating, yet forbidden.
Robert tells her personal stuff he would never dare share with Holly. Like how when he was sixteen and announced his intention to spend the summer hiking a portion of the Appalachian Trail, the elder Robert Barron nixed his plans and made him work construction on one of his gentrification projects that was the focus of daily protests. If he wasn’t getting picked on by the tough crew, he was being mocked and taunted by the protesters who gleefully pelted the loathed developer’s son with half-empty cups of Dunkin’ and bags of dog poop.
Robert didn’t want Holly to see him as weak, didn’t want her to view him as anything less than perfect and strong, so he kept those stories from her. But Erika he trusts. Erika knows he’s worried they might not win the contest, that the guys building the ranch for bullied LGBTQ teens and the doctors with the retreat in South Carolina have far more compelling backstories compared with Holly and Robert’s relatively lame, if noble, goal of building an energy-efficient home that’d be totally out of reach to most people.
Holly’s oblivious about his concerns, Erika can tell. She thinks they’re guaranteed to win because they’re a couple in love and everyone loves lovers, right? They fell in love while working on this project. Viewers watched their romance blossom in real time. And now they’ve gotten married on the very site in a wedding that Holly’s sure will catapult them into stardom.
Except, that’s not the way social media’s tracking.
Erika checks her phone again, refreshing the r/ToTheManorBuild subreddit, the most honest touchstone of Holly and Robert’s popularity, since, unlike the official TMB social media site, it’s not moderated by the network. Her thumb flicks down the screen searching for the comment that will right this ship that appears to be dangerously listing.
Everyone working on the show is banking on the wedding going viral, that People magazine will splash the beautiful couple across its next cover, à la Christina Haack of Flip or Flop when she married Ant Anstead after divorcing Tarek El Moussa and then divorced Ant and married Josh Hall. That’s the kind of publicity they’re desperately hoping for.
Unlike Christina, Holly’s not trending on Twitter, however. She’s getting bashed on Reddit for spending way too much on a “simple Vermont wedding” during the height of a crazed real estate market when most couples their age can’t afford rent on a cramped apartment, not to mention a three-bedroom secluded retreat with an attached guest suite and massive outdoor entertainment area on eighty acres. Talk about out of touch.
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that they’ve committed the online-unforgivable sin: perfection.
Crap. Erika empties her glass. This is on her. Everyone knows that intentional insertion of a flaw only elevates the value of an art piece. She should have suggested the couple make a newsworthy gaffe à la Jennifer Lawrence tripping on the steps to accept her Oscar. The halftime show of Super Bowl XXXVIII would have been forgotten had it not been for Janet Jackson’s unfortunate clothing malfunction. Those are the blunders that make headlines.
If only Robert’s kilt hadn’t been properly secured. If only she’d made a fool of herself by declaring her love midway through the ceremony. If only the stalker on the hillside . . .
No. She immediately shuts down that grim thought seconds before reading the comments about the deleted post.
I bet he’s vengeanceismine92 who got blocked on the TMB Q&A thread, too. What does he have against these guys? One seriously f’d up dude *shudders*. Reporting him for breaking the rules with that shit.
Even if his comment was deleted, I can’t unsee that. Sick MOFO. Stay safe H&R ’cause he’s out there, somewhere. Prayers for their safety.
Vengeanceismine92. Erika racks her brain, trying to recall what he wrote or if she’d even read it. She vaguely remembers LuAnn, their producer, mentioning there was a sore loser who hadn’t been chosen for the contest being so green with envy that he went around sabotaging the selected contestants. Though she’s never heard of Sam Chidubem and Concita Jimenez running into this problem. Fans adore them and their dimpled cheeks, their twee seaside cottage painted in pastel colors with its sleeping porch and cozy reading room.
Ditto for Joel and Sean. If there are homophobic nutcases out there—and there definitely are—they don’t pop up on the TMB subreddit. Nothing but gushing praise for those two, former teachers who could be enjoying their retirement traveling the world but who, instead, are constructing safe places like “therapeutic stables” to home horses who otherwise would be dogmeat. Joel and Sean get extra points for rescuing abused animals as well as humans. The word most often used to describe them is heroes.
She wonders if it’s possible to contact Reddit to see the deleted quote from Vengeanceismine92. Maybe she could mount an argument that it’s necessary to ensure Holly and Robert’s safety, a pitch that, on second thought, might not be that much of a stretch. Because she has the feeling something is going on behind the scenes that Robert knows about—and is refusing to share.
He reacted so bizarrely when she showed him the photo of the wedding arch sent by the anonymous contact. She expected him to brush it off and advise her to block the number and forget it. He didn’t. Not at all. What he did was clench his jaw and suck in his cheeks, his dark brow furrowing.
“Keep that to yourself” was all he said before whipping out his own phone and making a call to his father. Erika lingered, dying to eavesdrop, but Robert turned his back to her and walked off. Hours later, the place was flooded with ex-military dudes with reflective sunglasses and coiled earpieces fanning the perimeter and even inspecting the woods from where the photo had been taken.
Did the wedding make Robert paranoid or was he going overboard for another reason? He never got a chance to answer her whispered question, thanks to her mother’s dick move. A pinch. Seriously?
Ugh. She wished she hadn’t thought of that.
Skip it. Tired and achy and fed up with the whole cruel online culture, Erika slides from the couch and carries her glass to the kitchenette. She needs a break from TMB and her buttinsky of a mother. Good thing tomorrow’s Sunday and she doesn’t have to fix last-minute wedding snafus. She plans on sleeping until noon and watching The Office on an endless loop all afternoon.
A warm shower does wonders. Wrapping herself in a thick, clean towel, she’s brushing her teeth and debating whether to save the dress Holly bought for her or to list it on eBay when the tiny hairs on her arms rise, her body sensing what her brain has yet to process: the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway below her open window.
She shuts off the toothbrush and goes stock still, bubbles of Crest foaming on her lips as she cocks her ears, tuning in.
There are two more slow, heavy steps. Definitely not a deer. Her pulse begins to pound hard. Whoever’s here is right under her bathroom window, even though it’s midnight. It couldn’t be her mother; she’s asleep.
Shit!
She spits out the toothpaste, shuts off the overhead light, and peers out the small octagonal window. There, partially illuminated by the moonlight filtered through the trees, she can barely make out the silhouette of a man. He is broad shouldered and staring straight up at her.
Shit. Shit, shit. Whoever he is, he might be lurking in the woods outside her apartment and waiting for her to go to sleep so he can attack. Her mind races as she tries to remember if she did or didn’t lock the downstairs door. It’s a blur.
Should she check? If he hears her on the stairs and the outside door is, in fact, unlocked, that’d be the perfect opportunity for him to sweep in and get her. If she doesn’t check, she’ll never get to sleep. Move or don’t move? Hide or run? She can’t think.
Once he’s in the garage, the carriage house, there’ll be no escape. Now she understands why her mother’s battle-tough assistant, Doreen, keeps a loaded pistol in her purse.
Tiptoeing into her studio, Erika quietly slides open her drawer, her hands trembling as she removes a pair of underpants, sweatpants, and a T-shirt just in case she has to make a run for it. Grabbing the baseball bat she keeps near the upstairs door to pummel would-be intruders, she sits on her bed and prepares herself for the worst.
There’s no one she can call for help. Certainly not her mother, who makes it a habit to turn off her phone at night so she doesn’t have to listen to tourists whine that their cars got stuck on some poorly maintained dirt road or locals complain about some barking dog disturbing the peace. The nearest Vermont State Police barracks is all the way in Westminster, a forty-five minute drive. Even if they do have troopers on duty—and that’s doubtful at this hour—it’ll take them forever to get to her. By then, her throat will be slit.
And then her phone lights up with a message:
I’m outside. Let me in.
* * *
“You scared the crap out of me,” she says, leading him up the stairs to her apartment. “Do you want to explain what you’re doing skulking around on my driveway . . . on your wedding night?”
“I need a favor.” Robert Barron opens the door to her studio. “A big one.”
He has been in her apartment only once, to drop off fabric samples. That was in the middle of a Wednesday and he was in a rush, running an errand for Holly, who wanted Erika’s advice about upholstery. His presence in her private quarters while the world is sleeping feels awkward, like he’s too big for this small space, for their tight intimacy.
She wishes she hadn’t taken off all her makeup. She remembers she’s not wearing a bra.
He shrugs off his Barbour and tosses it onto her couch. He’s changed out of his wedding attire into jeans and a gray sweater. It appears he, too, has recently showered. His hair is damp and he smells of expensive soap. Also, of alcohol. Nothing too strong. But enough that he probably shouldn’t be driving.
Has he come to admit his mistake? Is he suffering buyer’s remorse? I just realized tonight that you’re the one I love, Erika. You’re the one I want to be with for the rest of my life.
“I need to get Holly out of here tomorrow,” he says, pacing the room. “We need a break.”
Erika blinks back to reality. They must have had a fight, that’s it. That’s why he’s here. They’ve had a blowup and he’s come to cry on her shoulder. “Did something happen?”
“Not exactly.” He crosses his arms, still pacing the short distance her apartment allows. “Well, yes. Yes and no. Mostly yes, in a way.”
He’s not making any sense. He’s uncharacteristically agitated and manic, his eyes darting back and forth, and what’s with this constant pacing? It’s like he’s possessed. He might be more intoxicated than she thought. Or, geesh, could be he’s on drugs. Wouldn’t put it past those preppy groomsmen to have snuck in a bit of coke.
Rubbing his face, he says, “I can’t go into it now. I’ll explain when I get back next week.”
Next week? Erika shifts her weight. Now she knows he’s really lost his mind. “When next week?”
“Wednesday.”
Impossible. Absolutely out of the question. “But Hector’s coming Tuesday to—”
“Fuck Hector. He’s a two-bit reality-show director. He’s not Coppola, for chrissakes. He can deal. I’m taking Holly to Montreal for a last-minute honeymoon and that’s that. It’s only two and a half hours away, but it’s got an international border crossing. Best of both worlds.”
Her thoughts are spinning. This last week is crucial to the show’s success, to their winning the contest. Hector the two-bit director is scheduled to shoot all the canned scenes in preparation for Monday’s finale—Holly and Robert “seeing” their new kitchen for the first time (if that damn Lacanche range is ever unloaded from the barge in Newark). Robert grilling kabobs of colorful vegetables in the outdoor entertainment area with “close friends” while Holly bobs in the geothermally heated pool.
That’s not all. Holly and Robert are supposed to be using the week to promo the heck out of the finale, with daily YouTube teasers and Instagram posts ad nauseum. This is not the time to be antiquing arm and arm in Les Quartiers du Canal or lingering over espressos in Café Myriade. There is work to be done. Tons and tons of work. There’ll be a million decisions to make and who’s gonna make them if Holly and Robert are off the grid biking through fallen leaves in the Parc du Domaine Vert?
“Can’t you be back by Tuesday morning?” she asks.
“That’s hardly a break.”
“But what if there’s a crisis?” She’s beginning to panic more than a little. “What if the Lacanche isn’t delivered or the landscapers walk off the job?” Because you still haven’t paid their last invoice, she adds to herself.
“No problem. You can handle it.” He comes over and places his hand on her shoulder. She’s getting the impression this is his signature move. “I have total faith in you, Turnbull.”
Not fair! She’s only an assistant, a grunt hired to pick up cigars, answer email, and nag vendors. She’s not supposed to be in charge of the whole enchilada. “We need you and Holly. You’re the talent!”
“Right. And we’ll be back by Wednesday. Possibly Thursday at the latest.”
Thursday! That’ll be way too late. Hector needs time to edit prerecorded scenes to trick the viewers into thinking they’re happening real time. Shooting these rehab projects requires multiple takes, hours and hours that end up on the cutting-room floor. “Thursday’s not going to work.”
“Sure, it will. I’ll be a phone call or text away. Holly and I will post every day on the TMB site. She’s already put up a week of posts. Viewers will never be the wiser.”
“LuAnn will know,” Erika bites back, suddenly feeling abandoned.
“No worries. I’ve already texted LuAnn about our change in plans. I explained that, upon thoughtful reconsideration, Holly deserved a honeymoon. She’ll understand.”
Oh, she will not. Whether LuAnn’s star rises or falls at TMB depends on her project winning the contest. She will hit the roof. She will declare mutiny, and rightly so. But, clearly, Robert is dead set in his ways and cannot be talked out of his impulsive decision.
If Robert and Holly bag out this week, they might as well stick a fork in their odds of winning the TMB contest and call it done. That’s all folks. Peace out.
“One last thing,” he says, leaning in close. Close enough to kiss her. “I need to borrow your car.”
This is too much. She gently pushes him away. “Why do you need my car? You have two. Take one of yours.”
“Unfortunately, the Range Rover’s at Perry’s getting winter tires and they’re closed tomorrow. No way can I risk taking the Tesla to Montreal. It’s too far and there are no reliable charging stations in that dead zone between the Vermont border and the city.”
“What am I supposed to drive?”
Opening his wallet, he removes a black card. “This is the key to the Tesla. I’m leaving it with you so I can take your car tonight.”
Aha! Now we get to the actual reason for his impromptu late-night visit, Erika thinks, taking the keycard. She’s not liking Robert so much right now. She’ll be glad when he leaves, quite frankly.
“My Kia has only three thousand miles on it. Be careful,” she says, tossing him her car keys just as Robert’s phone vibrates with a text. She braces herself. “Holly?”
Reading the message, he grimaces and says, “Yup. She wants me to come home pronto.”
“Can hardly blame her. It’s her wedding night. You’re supposed to be with your wife, not your assistant.”
“Not just any assistant. You. That’s why she’s upset.”
Heat shoots up her neck. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He opens the door and hesitates. “What do you think?”
Erika doesn’t dare say; she wants him to be the first to spit out the truth. “I, I don’t know, Robert. I’m exhausted and confused. I’m not following.”
“Well, I’m not going to spell it out for you,” he shouts, taking the stairs down two at a time. “If you can’t figure it out, go ask your mother.”