THE NEXT MORNING at breakfast my father asks about the broken wineglass in his study. I tell him that I saw Gregory Shaw and Kent Dickens loitering around in the hallway and that Gregory had been drinking wine.
“That man is a detriment to the club,” he says angrily and sets his newspaper down on the table. “One bad apple will spoil the bunch here. I’m sure by now that he’s turned most of the other members against me. They won’t back me down. I can prove myself to them.”
“Why would you even want to?” I ask, hoping to get a little more information about what kind of pull certain club members may have. After my encounter with Gregory last night, I can’t imagine a thing in the world that would make me want to prove anything to him. If he had the power to get us out of the estate and take it himself, why wouldn’t he have done it by now? “What about this place is so worth fighting for?”
My father sets his coffee cup down, hard enough to cause the dark liquid inside to slosh over the edge. “We live in a historical landmark tied to the club and a name that is worth being proud of,” he snaps. “Do you think I took the act of changing my name lightly when I married your mother? That I just did it for the money, and not for Eva and what she wanted to contribute to this club? Because if so, then you’re just like them.”
“But she didn’t even want this life,” I burst, remembering what I heard last night. “It was Penelope that did.”
Let him know that I know. The secrets are too much to stay hidden by now, too relevant. They could even be dangerous.
“Who told you that?” my father asks, squinting as if I’ve said something profoundly stupid. “Your mother most certainly did take her reputation seriously. It wasn’t as glowing as Penelope’s, I’ll admit. They had two very different ways of looking at the potential of this place, but to say that she didn’t want this life... She wanted it all for you!”
My face flushes hot. “It’s something I heard Gregory say,” I admit. “Something is going on around here and I think that he might know what. I think you might know, too.” At the very least, he’s hiding information about whatever leverage the club has over our family.
Aside from that, there’s another thing that doesn’t add up to me—why everyone always talks about the potential of this place, as if it’s something more important than a place being used for parties. And they’re not even a real country club! At this point, only an idiot would try to pretend this is all normal. Yet, even now, my father still won’t admit the truth to himself: we should be running.
“Enough,” he finally says. “This is your legacy, Lucy. Embrace it and you’ll be set for life, as will your children, and theirs.”
“I have no interest in living here any second longer than I have to,” I say. “It’s boring, it’s empty and, apparently, it’s corrupt.”
It’s not just the club I’m thinking about now: I’m also thinking of the scratching sounds in my room, like fingernails scraping across the walls. And I’m thinking about the moment I found the jar of old, gnarled teeth, and about Penelope believing she was a witch. I’m thinking about Margaret’s voice in the darkness of the closet. I can’t imagine a single piece of information that would convince me it was all worth it.
“It’s more than that,” he insists, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. I notice he didn’t correct me on my use of the word corrupt.
He rubs his fingers over his temples as though he has a headache. “This sort of opportunity, this lifestyle, never would have been possible for me if I hadn’t met and fallen in love with Eva. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live like a king. If you want to play on this level, upholding the tradition of the estate with a club that doesn’t ask for much in return, you’ve got to sharpen your teeth.”
“For what?” I cry out, unable to speak calmly any longer. “To protect a legacy of being a party host? That’s all you are to them!”
“There are plenty of people who would love to take our place,” he snaps, hitting his hand on the table, causing me to jump. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on letting them anytime soon.”
“Honestly, I wish you would.” I nod angrily as I stir what remains of my oatmeal. “That’s not honorable, Dad, that’s just sad.”
“You never would have said any of this to Penelope,” he scolds, disgust evident in his tone. “You respected her more than anybody else, and yet you criticize me for doing the exact same thing she was? For upholding the life that she valued?”
I can’t explain to him why it’s different now, why I’m not so sure anymore that I ever knew my aunt in the first place. The teeth, Margaret hearing her voice, the blood splatters on the attic floor I found when I was a kid. All of these are things he would refuse to listen to. All of these are things that would have him send me to a hospital of some kind.
Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. There’s nobody for you here anymore.
“I don’t care if you understand or not.” My father stands, leaving the paper at the table instead of bringing it with him like he usually does. “I’m going to continue running the estate, no matter how many people are against me. I will overcome this for her.”
I wonder if he’s talking about my mother or Penelope.
“I’ll never understand what you’re fighting for,” I call after him. “I’ll never understand you.” I want him to hurt like I do now, feel the weight of my disrespect over the entire situation.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. Again, I become angry at myself for feeling hurt. He finishes leaving the room, and I breathe in slowly through my nose to keep from breaking another glass. At this point, I feel like I’m just sitting around, waiting to die.
I rise to bring my dishes to the kitchen, wondering what I could possibly do to fill another day before I can go to sleep again. Browsing faraway schools has become a habit, but I think it may be eating away at me from the inside, all those quiet hours surrounded by nice things and swirling wallpaper. I remember again how I thought I heard Margaret say my name in my bedroom before the memorial dinner last night. I wonder if things will get even worse; how could they not?
Nobody’s in the kitchen, which is a relief. I sigh and load the dishes into the dishwasher, and as I’m leaving I can swear I hear the sound of someone crying. Not again, I think. This is not happening again.
It sounds like it’s coming from outside, in the courtyard. With a deep breath, I open the glass door of the kitchen and step out. Vanessa sits with her back against the wall, crying into her hands. She doesn’t notice me until I’m standing over her.
“Hey,” I say after a moment, wrapping my arms around myself in the cold. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She wipes tears from her face with both hands. “No, I am not.”
I’ve never been able to stand the sight of somebody else crying. It’s too vulnerable for me, not okay to plague other people with, but then again, nowadays I wish more than anything that when Margaret had been crying in her room at night, I had gone over to see if she was okay. Plus, Vanessa could be crying because she saw or heard something disturbing. If she did, I need to know about it.
I sit beside her on the ground.
“You’ve got enough shit going on,” Vanessa says. She doesn’t seem irritated that I sat down by her. “You don’t need to listen to mine, too.”
“I can’t really disagree,” I admit with a humorless chuckle. “But I think I’ll try, anyway. Did something happen?”
Vanessa’s eyes well up again. What is it? I want to cry out and grab her by the shoulders. I remember how terrible Miranda looked at the memorial dinner. “Is it about your mom?”
“Yeah,” she says, struggling to keep her voice level. “How did you know? It’s like she’s starting to let the stress of planning these stupid events get to her so badly,” she says, then stops as if she’s said something wrong. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “They are stupid. Really stupid.”
So she isn’t out here crying because she heard or saw something crazy. I guess I should have known, it really could be my head making all that stuff up. But now we’ve gotten too far into the conversation to end it quickly without being rude.
“Well, they’re definitely not worth losing sleep for,” Vanessa says. “She never does anything for herself anymore. It’s like she lives to serve this place, to serve Felix.” She says his name with a touch of resentment. I don’t blame her for it, not one bit.
“I’m sorry if he’s been demanding lately,” I say awkwardly, feeling somehow responsible. “He takes this stuff way too seriously, and with everything else that’s been happening—”
“It’s not that,” Vanessa says. “Not exactly. I mean, he has been kind of demanding, but I think my mother might have some sort of silly crush on him. It’s obvious to me that the feelings are not reciprocated, but she’s totally unreasonable about it.”
Miranda is setting herself up for supreme disappointment if she thinks there is any chance that my father would ever return her feelings. He’s so obsessed with Penelope, there isn’t room for anything else in his head or his heart.
“She wants to be able to take care of everything Penelope would have done,” Vanessa continues. “So that he can rest and take it easy and mourn. These last two dinner parties have taken so much out of her, and now she’s already on to planning that holiday party, of course...”
I forgot all about the winter holiday party. It’s always been a major, grand event, the biggest of the year. I refrain from telling Vanessa that the planning for it will likely be about four times as intense as the planning for the smaller dinner parties.
“Miranda should take a vacation,” I say, wishing they’d just go. Let him see what it’s like to live like a king without anyone willing to serve him. “After everything that’s happened since she started here, she deserves a break.” I pause. “I think what she probably deserves most is to quit.”
“I tried to convince her of that, actually.” Vanessa sighs in frustration. “She keeps saying that everything here will crumble without her, but I really think she’s just running away from everything back home. The divorce was starting to get really ugly when she applied to live here. I’m pretty sure she’d do anything to get away from it all. That, and she wants to impress Felix.”
We stay quiet for a few moments, looking out over the courtyard that is riddled with dead rosebushes. When the cold season ends, the roses will bloom again, just in time for galas and brunches and cocktail hours for the club that will apparently continue coming here forever. There may be a pretty bow tied on top of it all, I think bitterly, my eyes wandering the length of the courtyard. But to me, it’s still hell.
“Look,” Vanessa says, her voice soft. “I’m sorry to load all of this onto you. This is the last thing you need right now, to hear someone complain about your father and all this stuff that’s out of your control.”
But my whole life has been out of my control, I would tell her if I wanted to tell the truth. No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise.
“No,” I say, looking her in the eye. “I’m glad you told me. Keeping stuff like that inside can lead to some pretty horrible things.”
I think of the secrets Margaret kept from me: the picnic basket, the contents of the shiny black wallet, whatever else she knew but never told.
“Yeah,” she agrees, then starts to stand from where she sits against the wall of the house. She brushes dirt off the back of her pants as I stand, too. “Thanks for listening. And, Lucy... I’m also sorry about what I said to you the night Margaret died. About you guys being fucked up.”
The comment had bothered me at first, but compared to everything else that happened that night, it’s practically irrelevant by now.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, suddenly light-headed at the sight of the forest in the distance. “You weren’t wrong.”
“Well, maybe I wasn’t,” Vanessa agrees. “But it’s not like the same couldn’t be said about anybody, really. We all have bad stuff.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I make my way to the door, anxious to get past this strange conversation with the cook’s daughter. We may all have bad stuff, but I’m starting to think that what’s wrong with me may be irreversible, especially since hearing the voice in the closet. Maybe that’s the way it was with Margaret. Maybe our paths are one and the same.
No, I tell myself. You burned that box for a reason. You will not kill yourself like Margaret did.
“Anyway,” Vanessa says, holding the door open for me. “Sorry about that. I think I just needed to get it all out. I know that I, for one, feel like I’m losing it sometimes.”
“You’re not alone.” I head inside, where Miranda is prepping the ingredients for lunch. She stares at Vanessa and me with unblinking eyes. “Hi, Miranda.”
“Hello, Miss Lucy,” Miranda says, shifting her focus to the knife she’s using to chop an onion. She doesn’t look up again. “I hope you’re doing okay.”
“Hanging in there,” I say, feeling awkward about what Vanessa just told me about Miranda having a hopeless crush on my father. What could she possibly see in him besides money? “I just wanted to tell you that Margaret’s dinner last night was very nice. Thank you for doing it in a way that she would have loved.”
It’s not exactly the truth, but the reason last night was horrible had nothing to do with the food, so in a way it isn’t a lie, either.
“Of course, honey.” Miranda looks so surprised at my words, it makes me feel even worse. “It was no problem at all. I only wish I could have done more for Miss Margaret.” She looks down again, her eyes glazed and red. “Vanessa, would you mind starting a soup pot with some olive oil over medium-high?”
“Of course, Mama,” Vanessa says, going for the cupboards right away. “It was...nice talking to you, Lucy.”
She’s a bad liar, but I won’t hold it against her. It wasn’t nice for me, either.
“Okay,” I answer instead of saying you, too. She grins weakly and raises a hand to wave. “See you around.”
Upstairs, my bedroom is cool and dark, since I never opened my blinds after getting up this morning. I’m standing in the middle of it, looking around quietly as I try to figure out a way to investigate Penelope’s supposed witchcraft further. Maybe there was something missing in her room; I didn’t exactly comb it over before because I was only wanting to look at the photographs that Margaret ruined. There could be something else in there. Evidence, maybe.
I sit on my bed with a straight back in silence, my hands in my lap, staring at the gold swirls on the wallpaper and wondering if I could possibly gather the courage to go check out that cemetery in the forest again. But no matter how I look at it, I can’t figure out why it’d be a good idea to visit somewhere that could have potentially had to do with what happened to Penelope and Margaret.
Don’t forget Walter, I remind myself. It’s almost like his death is what set everything into motion.
I can’t believe this. I’m actually sitting here entertaining the fact that my aunt was messing around in something real. But...what if? Things can only be so coincidental.
The thing is, if I’m willing to believe the witchcraft is real, what does that say about Penelope? What were her intentions if she was really swallowing teeth? Was it a ritual of some kind? A curse? Was there someone she was trying to hurt, or was there something she was trying to protect? She was so dedicated to the estate, maybe the ritual had something to do with protecting it.
Thinking about all of it makes my head hurt. There’s no way to know what my aunt’s motivations were, no matter how well I thought I knew her. I rub my hand over my shoulder, trying to loosen some of the tension that is causing my head to ache. I really don’t feel well.
“It hurts,” someone groans from behind me, where the wall is. I jump from my bed with a shriek, turning around only to see that nothing’s there.
It’s happening again. I no longer believe my mind is playing tricks on me, because this can’t be fake, not unless I’ve cracked and spilled my mind like oatmeal onto the floor.
There come more sounds, this time too quiet to hear from where I stand. I move closer, slowly, my hands clasped onto each other as I force myself to breathe. The house makes a great settling sound, and I move the side of my face against the wall to hear the voice inside, rambling in an urgent tone.
“My head is wet,” it says quickly, barely audible through the wall. “It’s wet and sticky and who’s in there with you? Who’s in there in that room with you right now, Lucy?”
I jerk my face to look behind my shoulder, my spine electric at the thought of someone standing behind me. But there is nobody. The shutters on my closet are open. My mouth slacks open as I move my ear back against the wall.
“What did you find in my closet?” the voice demands in the same quick urgency. “Were you snooping in my closet, Lucy? What did you find in there?”
The voice belongs to Margaret.