The blushing is not so much an engagement party as an overdue debutante ball. Having been sequestered through most of her adolescence by Chet and Madeleine and then by herself, Bella is an unknown commodity to the curious guests, some of whom once crushed hard on the irascible Will. Who is this hidden “sister”? And why did Will fall for her and not them? (Or not their daughters.)
For the more ambitious in the group, an alliance with the future Mrs. Pease could secure their professional advancement via much sought-after invitations. That is, if they can bend her to their will. Already they’ve cattily registered who among them was offered accommodations on Heron’s Neck and who was forced to rent “off island.” Were these crucial decisions made by Eve or Bella and, if the latter, what criteria did she use?
After all, Bella doesn’t know any of them. She didn’t attend the same camps or academies or colleges as the women here her age. Then again, no one attended school in California, not if they could help it.
In a side hallway, Bella braces herself for the grand entrance, checking her appearance in one of Eve’s many oversized mirrors. She is well aware that the bold custom-made red silk qipao, tailored for elegance, authority, and her curves, asks not for acceptance, but respect. Closer inspection reveals the embossed gold pattern on the dress is not an innocent floral, as it first appears, but predatory cheetahs. That should send a message. She’s even worn her hair in a glossy chignon, to display the Italian drop earrings, a present from Will.
Lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, Bella strides toward the Prow Room with the elegance of an empress, her fire-red heels silent on the wool runner. Internally, however, she is a quivering mess.
Eve swallows hard. She’d chosen the dress specifically because she hoped it would make an impact, but this is more like a nuclear explosion.
Dani lets out a silent whistle, shoving a hand in her blousy pants and grinning in approval. “Didn’t see that on the L&P site,” she murmurs to her wife, Cecily, who has perfected the ultimate indulgent smile during her long tenure as a school principal attending to the needs of anxious parents.
“Because the dress isn’t a numbing neutral,” Cecily replies, herself in a beige linen pantsuit, her Heron’s Neck camouflage.
Megan is the first to break ranks, touching Bella’s back to gently steer her to the closest, and potentially most damaging, guests. “This is Ainsley Maxham, an old friend of my mother’s from LA,” Megan says, pushing her toward a creature in a beaded minidress.
“Watch who you’re calling old,” says Ainsley with a wink. She takes Bella’s wrist in a tepid grip and drinks in her outfit. “You.” Then she releases her clutch and walks off, leaving Bella blinking. What did that mean?
Now Bella understands why Will was so down on this event. He warned her not to go, but she had to. Eve has been promoting this shower for weeks. The buildup has been intense. And, besides, Dani promised she’d be right there by her side.
But she’s not. Instead, she’s immersed in Cecily, leaving Bella to Megan, who foists her upon one guest after another, each interaction more awkward than the last. The smiles are manufactured, the nods stiff, their masks blurring into a collage of mockery. Whatever confidence Bella had felt while assessing herself in the mirror begins to ebb. She wishes to be anywhere else but in this massive pink room with these frigid witches. Once her back is turned, their eyes will roll ever so slightly, the corners of their mouths will twist in hidden amusement. She knows they will never accept her as one of their own.
Good. Because she is not one of them and never will be, not if she can help it. She is proudly Colombian, born to brave parents who championed the health and safety of the very workers these vapid ciphers wouldn’t consider human, much less worthy of full rights. What would they say if they learned the famous Chet Pease, their own personal kingmaker, had pronounced her head and shoulders above even his own biological children? He had recognized her depth right off and wouldn’t dream of subjecting young Bella to the superficial priorities and manufactured dramas of Megan’s social set. He spared her, god bless him. And for that, she will be forever grateful.
Bella’s cell phone vibrates for the umpteenth time that evening. Will, most likely, drunk dialing to see how it’s going—again. Jake is throwing him a simultaneous bachelor party, which is actually just the two of them getting wasted on Jake’s catamaran along with Dingo and Boomer who, apparently, are not beloved dogs, but Delta Upsilon frat brothers from Will’s days at Tufts. Will promised Bella he would stop at the second drink, but if he’s calling this often, it means he’s already exceeded his limit. She mutes her phone.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Megan asks rhetorically as she deposits Bella with Dani and Cecily. “She’s all yours now, Pinky.”
“You deserve this,” Cecily says, handing Bella the evening’s signature cocktail. Bella’s so thirsty for fortitude she could down it, but she finds it clings to the back of her throat, making her gag.
“God, that’s awful,” she says, wincing.
“That’s why I mix my own. Try mine.” Dani holds out her glass, which, judging from the smell, appears to be pure gin.
Bella takes it from her and inhales a long, burning draught, then wipes her mouth on a paper napkin embossed with the date. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“Can’t blame you,” Dani says. “Nice job tiptoeing through the lioness den. No visible scarring, which means you did well. Also, you look fantastic. Love the killer paw prints.” Dani nods to the bartender. “This time with rocks. I need to pace myself.”
He pours twin cocktails as instructed, and the three women clink glasses, Bella feeling as if she has been rescued from a tribe of bloodthirsty cannibals. She is about to say as much when Cecily mutters, “Don’t look now, but incoming at one o’clock.”
Queenie Jarvis is crossing the room from the balcony, her fluttering wave triggering a peal of chimes from her bracelets. With her yellow-and-black dress cinched tight at the waist, her black penciled eyebrows drawn in a pointed arch, she reminds Bella of a hornet about to sting.
“You’re on your own, kid,” Dani says. “Cecily and I are gonna peace out.”
Bella puts out a foot to stop them. “Not so fast. I need you two. The other day, she basically told me she’d ruin me if I went through with the wedding.”
Dani scowls, disbelieving. “What could she possibly have over you, Saint Bella?”
“What do you think?” Bella hisses low so not even Cecily can overhear. “She told me she saw me that night.”
“Shit.” Dani straightens her spine in alarm. “You think she’s telling the truth?”
Bella has no time to respond because, suddenly, Queenie arrives in a cloud of Chanel. “What are you girls whispering about? Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You’re dating yourself, sweetie.” Dani plants a perfunctory kiss on the older woman’s powdered cheek. Giving Bella’s hand a squeeze, she adds, “We’re just about to announce dinner. Gotta keep on Eve’s strict schedule you know. Can’t let the chilled soup get cold.”
Bella could hug Dani right now, but Queenie pouts. “Boo. Eve told me herself dinner’s not until seven thirty. That gives me fifteen minutes with the belle of the ball. Now, you two be dears and go play in traffic.”
Dani shrugs. “I tried.”
As the two women saunter off, Bella feels like the weakling who’s been left alone with the school bully, though this bully is too fragile to pummel a marshmallow.
Queenie links her skeletal arm in Bella’s. “Do you mind accompanying me out to the terrace? I’d like one more ciggy before dinner.” She inclines her head to the far end of the massive room, to the side porch facing the marsh and the mainland.
Bella’s throat tightens as she unlatches the doors onto a cedar porch, already silver from two summers’ worth of salt. Queenie steps ahead and takes a shallow breath. The tide has turned, the sulfurous stench of rotted organic matter rising from the fertile mud and grass. The air is stagnant, the sky menacing over the mainland across the channel.
“The sunset’s on the other side. Wouldn’t you like to go over there?” Bella asks.
“No, I wouldn’t. I like the view here.” Queenie places her drink on the railing, closes the doors behind them, and opens an exquisite black onyx beaded clutch with a white diamond clasp to remove a gold cigarette case, another museum piece. Her hand trembles as she attempts to activate the unresponsive lighter. “Would you mind?” she asks.
Bella takes the lighter and flicks it to Queenie’s Marlboro, studying the woman’s papery skin, the way her shoulder bones protrude from beneath her sleeveless dress. She looks like a living corpse, any healthy flesh having been slowly desiccated by tobacco and alcohol.
The cigarette lights and Queenie sucks on it deeply. “Better than sex. Guaranteed satisfaction.” Tucking the purse under her elbow, she casually lays the case and lighter on the railing where they could easily fall into the water and be lost in the muck. Bella ballparks their value at six thousand dollars, roughly equal to the average annual salary for half the population of Bogotá.
Queenie sips her bourbon and turns to the marsh. “This spot brings back so many memories of my late husband. Did you ever meet Harry?”
Harry was the regular-guy nickname for Harrington, a pink puff of a man. Even as a young teenager, Bella could tell his superpower was not financial acumen, but an ability to imbue any males around him with a sense of superiority. Harry was the golfer in the sand pit, the buffoon who spilled his drinks on the country club bar. He was no threat and that was the secret to his success—along with Queenie’s soap-opera money.
“He was very charming,” Bella says. “When I was younger, he used to challenge me to thumb-wrestling matches.”
“Really? How adorable.”
Bella rubs her bare arms. The ice queen’s presence chills her to the bone. “I really should head inside. Eve can’t announce dinner without me.”
Queenie leans on the railing, her cigarette, smoked down to the filter, still pinched between her knuckles. “You should go. Now.”
Bella backs toward the door, grateful to be dismissed. “Okay, well—”
“For good.” Queenie twists to face her. Tears have pooled in her rheumy eyes, jeopardizing the integrity of her thick mascara. “Get out while you can. Just vanish. That’s what Harry did. It was the only option, you know. Either off the side of the boat or off to prison. He made the right choice.” She flicks the extinguished cigarette into the water. “You should, too.”
“I’m so sorry.” Bella’s head is spinning at this apparent confession. “I had no idea it was suicide.”
“Hah! As if.” Queenie picks up her case and lighter, dropping them in the clutch, then snaps it closed with a click before shoving it at Bella. “Go on. Take it. Take my offer.”
Bella gawks at the glittering onyx clutch, its jet-black beads sparkling with a history of evil. What kind of offer is this? Queenie must be very, very intoxicated, even for her. Getting all misty over her dead husband, now trying to give Bella her old purse. “Thank you, but I couldn’t. That’s a collector’s item.”
“It’s your ticket out of here,” Queenie says, looking intently at Bella as she presses it into her hands. “It’s yours.”
The clutch is weighty, well crafted, and solid. It feels as portentous as this moment. “But—”
“Sewn into the lining is a cryptocurrency card linked to an account with fifty thousand dollars in Bitcoin to start you off. The password is written on the inside of the last cigarette. The ID will be texted to you once you’re safely out of the country.”
No longer is Queenie trembling or slurring. Her spine is straight and eyes dry. The actress has stepped out of character.
“The tide will be dead low at one fifteen a.m. There’s a pair of muck boots in your closet. Use them to walk to the mainland. A Town Car will be waiting in the public lot to take you to Boston. You’ll find one thousand dollars in unmarked bills stuffed in an envelope on the seat. Don’t forget to tip the driver.”
Queenie’s laying out strategy with the efficiency of a three-star general, and Bella wonders if she really drinks as much as reputed or if the soused socialite role has always been a convenient charade. “On your way to Logan, you’ll receive a text for a one-way ticket to Montenegro. Undiscovered gem, Montenegro. Have you been?”
Struck dumb, all Bella can do is blink and shake her head.
“You’re in for a treat. Lovely land and people with swell investment opportunities to grow your Bitcoin. Here’s a handy tip: buy a flat with cash. You won’t regret it. Best of all, there’s no extradition treaty and everyone minds their own business. He’ll never be able to find you.”
This is all happening so fast. The money. Bitcoin. Montenegro. Bella stares at the beautiful clutch. Would she ever accept such a life-changing offer? Just kiss goodbye the only family she’s ever known, the man she’s loved since childhood? No. Of course not.
Though, on the other hand, a fresh new identity in a foreign country could mean a clean slate. No more having to constantly look over her shoulder.
“Won’t people think it’s strange if I disappear right before what’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life?”
“They’ll probably think you were so distraught to learn of your betrothed’s heartless infidelity you walked into the bay with stones in your pocket only to be swept over the shoals into oblivion.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t want the world to believe I took my own life.”
“I suppose you’d prefer to break your neck falling down the stairs.”
It takes her a moment to absorb Queenie’s implication, and she sputters for a second before responding. “Whatever issues Will and I are—or will—encounter, he wouldn’t have me murdered.”
“Who said anything about murder? I’m talking about an accident, a tragic, tragic accident. Like on a boat, perhaps, sailing on a summer Sunday under a clear blue sky when a gust of wind sends you leeward into the sea, plop, and you sink like a stone. Did you know that, statistically speaking, there are more deaths from sailing than downhill skiing?”
My god, Harry really is alive in Montenegro, Bella realizes stupidly. He’s probably the one who advised Queenie about cryptocurrency and set up this crazy scheme. And it is definitely crazy.
“Look, just for argument’s sake, even if I wanted to start fresh, I’d never be able to bring myself to give up my work at the foundation.”
“You mean you’d never be able to give up your shares of Love & Pease, right?” Queenie winks. “At least, if you get out safely before you sign that prenup, your shares won’t go to Will alone. According to Chet’s wishes, in that sad case, they’ll be divided equally among Jake, Dani, Megan, and Will. This won’t be the case if you should divorce or, god forbid, meet a fatal end after the wedding. In that scenario, Will becomes the major shareholder of the corporation, and Lord knows what he’ll do with the family business. Sell it out to the highest bidder probably, live out the rest of his days smoking hash in an Amazonian yurt.”
Something clicks and Bella finally grasps Queenie’s motivation. Or, rather, Eve’s. If Bella is ruled legally dead before her marriage, then Megan, previously excluded by Chet’s will, could at last inherit shares of Love & Pease. Eve will add those to hers, giving her total control of the company worth millions and millions of dollars.
There is no good option. Queenie is determined to ensure Will doesn’t marry her, that much is obvious. If Bella ignores the offer, the old battle-ax will go straight to Chief Durgan and tell him exactly what she saw eleven years ago. And just like that, Jane Ellison’s allegations in Logan last December will take on a whole new meaning.
“Not saying I would do this, but what if I simply call off the wedding?”
Queenie nods. “Whereupon, I would go to the authorities and tell them the Customs officer was right; you did kill the Ellison girl. I was on the dock that night. I saw you take out the boat and return with blood on your shirt.”
“You would do that, ruin my life for no reason?”
“If I saw an opportunity to help my best friend and my goddaughter whom I love with all my heart? You bet.”
The French doors fly open, causing them both to jump, and Dani and Cecily appear side by side on the deck. “There they are!” Cecily says, frowning at Queenie’s empty glass.
Dani grabs Bella’s hand, pulling her toward the hallway. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Eve’s about to pop a clot.”
Bella doesn’t budge. She gives Queenie one last look, and Queenie meets her gaze without blinking.
“Come on, they’re waiting!” Dani says.
Reluctantly, Bella complies, heading to the dining room with Dani, replaying the bizarre conversation in her head as they greet the applauding guests. Only then does she recall the reference Queenie dropped into the conversation so casually Bella barely noticed:
He’ll never be able to find you.
Who does she mean?