Chapter Three

on a saturday morning in November, sitting in the kitchen with coffee and the news, I heard the front door open.

“Hello?” a voice called from the other room. “Anyone home?”

“Mrs. Bradley?” I called back. In the foyer stood Anne, and a second woman. Anne was wearing leather driving shoes, a field jacket, and a silk scarf. The other woman was wearing a wrap dress, a trench coat, and kitten heels. Both of them had perfect blond bobs. I was in yoga pants and a threadbare T-shirt, my unwashed hair in a ponytail.

“I see what you mean,” the second woman said to Anne, with a frown.

For a moment, I thought she was talking about me. Then she started walking the perimeter of the living room, craning her neck to look at the ceiling, running a hand along the mantelpiece. “Great bones,” she said. “Southern exposure.”

“It just seems a shame to have this place sitting so empty,” Anne said. “Oh, Violet, let me introduce you to our decorator.”

The decorator had a practiced smile and a firm handshake. She also had a chipless peach manicure and expertly applied makeup. Her whole look was impeccable, in the way of someone whose livelihood depends on aesthetics.

“So what are you thinking?” Anne said, trailing the decorator from the living room to the kitchen. The decorator nodded as she took in the marble countertops, the white cabinets, the six-burner range. “Kitchen’s in great shape,” she said. “This place must have been renovated a few years ago. New lighting, some open shelving and glass doors, and it’ll look fabulous.”

She sniffed, then peered into the sink, where a cast-iron skillet was soaking. “Do you cook?” she said to me.

“A little,” I said. I’d bought pots and pans from the thrift store, and had been teaching myself with cookbooks borrowed from the library. It was the cheapest way to eat, and I liked the transformation of it, how the lowliest ingredients could become luxurious with time and effort.

“How lucky for you,” she said. “A professional-grade kitchen like this.”

“I thought Stella should come back to something more homey,” Anne said, as we followed the decorator down the hall toward the master bedroom. “Who can blame her for staying away? This is daunting!”

There was a keenness behind Anne’s laughter. For a woman like Anne, having a daughter like Stella was the ultimate achievement, a testament to good genes and good parenting. Her love was possessive, as attuned to Stella’s absence as I myself was. She wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell the months of Stella’s sporadically answered calls and texts had hurt Anne.

After surveying the master bedroom, the decorator turned to the next door in the hall. “Oh no,” Anne said, putting her hand on the woman’s elbow. “That’s Violet’s room. We don’t have to worry about that.”

“I see,” the decorator said. “My mistake.”

“You’ve probably put your own stamp on it by now. Haven’t you, Violet? You’ve had the run of the place.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m very grateful.”

“Well,” Anne said. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer until Stella is home for good.”

After the decorator finished jotting down measurements and notes, she said to Anne, “I have a team of painters who can get the place done in a few days. Then we’ll get everything delivered and installed. Less than a week and this place will be transformed.”

“Wonderful,” Anne said. “Violet, when do you leave for Thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving?” I said.

“It’s only a few weeks away,” Anne said. “You must have booked your flights by now. You know they get very expensive if you wait too long.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

“You are going home, I assume?” She arched an eyebrow. “Given that your parents didn’t even come for graduation? They must miss you terribly. Violet is from Florida,” she said to the decorator. “That’s why I thought Thanksgiving would be the best time to get this done.”

The decorator nodded. “It’s much easier when the home is unoccupied.”

“So when do you leave, Violet?” Anne said. “Monday? Tuesday?”

“Uh,” I said. “Tuesday. Tuesday night.”

“So we can get the painters in here by Tuesday morning,” the decorator said. “If you don’t mind taking your things with you, so you don’t have to come back here after work.”

“Perfect,” Anne said, clapping her hands. “It’s about time we make this place livable.”

 

Over the past four years, I’d gone home with Stella for almost every holiday. I perfected the role of polite, self-sufficient houseguest. I did the dishes and ran errands, and expressed frequent gratitude for their hospitality. Even with Stella gone, I suppose I’d been unconsciously counting on an invitation from the Bradleys for Thanksgiving. My other friends from college knew that I always spent holidays with them. It was too embarrassing to disprove that. And it seemed better to go along with the lie I’d told to Anne.

I texted Stella: Classic Anne Bradley encounter today.

It took her twenty-four hours to respond: What happened?

I wrote back immediately: She’s decorating the apt. Every decision is life-or-death important. It’s like HGTV except they kill you if you pick the wrong shade of eggshell.

For days after that, I opened the messages on my phone to check whether her response had somehow failed to pop up on the screen. One sleepless night I scrolled through our text message history. For so long our words went back and forth with a steady thwock, like a tennis ball in a rally. When Stella left about six months ago, our exchanges became sporadic. When she was awake, I was asleep. When I was lonely, she was too busy having fun.

But I wasn’t lonely, for the most part. Childhood had accustomed me to my own company. If I had one person who really understood me, that was enough. I didn’t need a big group of friends, didn’t need anyone beyond Stella—and I still had her, even if we didn’t see each other every day. I trusted that.

It was only when Stella’s absence was invoked by other people that I felt self-conscious, stripped of my passport to this world. News of her travels filtered through the social grapevine, and I was at the outer reaches. “I heard she’s having a crazy time in Mykonos,” a girl from college said, with an arched eyebrow. She was like the girl who had stayed in our apartment; she mistook gossip for intimacy, but she did so with such conviction that I felt compelled to nod along, pretending to know exactly what she meant.

 

Earlier that fall, during one of our Friday nights at the bar, Jamie was quiet for a while, and then he said, “Fair warning. At some point, I’m probably going to have to yell at you.”

“Where did that come from?” I said. “Because I took the last mozzarella stick?”

“When it happens, I don’t want you to think it’s personal,” he said. “This is the weird part about becoming friends with your coworkers. The screwups.”

“Me, screw up?” I made a mock-offended face, but at the same time I felt a flush of gladness at that simple declaration, friends. “Maybe I’ll just be perfect.”

But then in mid-November, for a story about an American track runner who was charged with taking steroids, I had to find a photo of the coach who ran the doping program. A quick search produced the perfect image: the athlete and the coach, embracing after the last Olympics, gold medal around the athlete’s neck. The story ran at the bottom of the hour, in the D block. The picture—it really was perfect; the pride, the hubris!—sat above Rebecca’s shoulder for the better part of the two-minute story. I was pleased with my work.

Right after the broadcast, at 9:07 p.m., Jamie’s phone rang. As he listened, his face turned redder and redder. When he hung up, he took a deep breath, and turned to me. The transformation was rapid, almost Hulk-like. I’d never seen Jamie like this.

“What is it?” I said, alarmed.

“How did you not double-check it, Violet?” His anger was tightly coiled, barely contained by his words. “Are you kidding me? How did you let that happen?”

“Let what happen?” My stomach flip-flopped.

“The goddamn photo!” he said. “That was the wrong person! That wasn’t the coach. That was another athlete. A retired athlete who happens to be incredibly famous.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “Oh my God.”

“And,” Jamie said. “And. In addition to being incredibly famous, this other athlete has staked his entire reputation on never doping. Ever. He’s unimpeachable. He’s like Mother Teresa. How could you not check that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Jamie. I’m so sorry. I’m—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he snapped. “Apologize to him. We just smeared his reputation in front of a million people.”

“What do I do?” I said, panicked.

“Start working on a correction,” he said. “Rebecca will have to read it tomorrow.”

It was the worst day I’d ever had at KCN. Eliza, rolling her eyes as Jamie explained the situation. Rebecca’s visible exasperation as she read the correction during the next night’s broadcast. It had been my mistake, but Rebecca had to own it. The lawyers had to sign off on a precisely worded letter of apology to the retired athlete, which performed the delicate dance of expressing genuine remorse but also avoiding a lawsuit. After the horrible twenty-four hours were over, Jamie collapsed into his chair with a sigh. “So, are you okay?” he said, with a look of genuine concern.

I nodded. I would have burst into tears if I hadn’t cried so much already.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “But we have to get these things right. It’s a really, really big deal when we make a mistake like that.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“We’ve all been there. Everyone has at least one colossal fuckup in their first year.”

“It’s an awful feeling.” After a moment, I added, “Thank you for warning me, though.”

“About the yelling? It happens, but I don’t like it. Makes you feel like an asshole.” He shook his head wearily. “Sometimes this job can drive you crazy.”

 

I worked late on the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving. Around 11 p.m., Eliza passed my desk on her way to the elevator.

“Burning the midnight oil?” she said.

It was the first time Eliza had spoken to me. There were too many layers of hierarchy between us. But from afar, I had developed something of a crush on her. Where Rebecca was chatty and friendly, Eliza was intimidating and cool. My spine instinctively straightened as she stopped at my desk. She was a woman who forced you to be on your A game. No tolerance for meekness.

“Catching up on some things,” I said.

“Remind me of your name?”

“I don’t think I ever officially introduced myself.” I stood up. She seemed slightly amused as she shook my hand. “Violet Trapp.”

“How long have you been here, Violet?” Eliza said.

“I started as an intern in July, and became an assistant in September.”

“And you’re practically the last person in the office.”

“So are you.”

She smiled. “True, but we don’t pay you enough to justify you working this hard.”

“Maybe that’s a chicken-and-egg question,” I said. “Which comes first?”

“The hard work, or the payoff?” she said. “Good point.”

She had a camel hair coat draped over one arm. As she pulled the coat on, flipping her dark hair free from the collar, she said, “Have a good holiday, Violet. See you Monday.”

Jamie thought he was doing me a favor by arranging the schedule so that I had Thanksgiving and Friday off. “You work too hard,” he said. “Use your vacation days. Take a break.” I would have preferred to work all week, but to keep up appearances, I’d come up with a plan. I slept beneath my desk on Tuesday night, which was surprisingly cozy, duffel bag as pillow and coat as blanket. On Wednesday night, I caught the train to Long Island. Deep into the off-season in the Hamptons, hotel rooms were cut-rate. I’d been careful about budgeting, packing lunch and eating plenty of pasta, and I had a few hundred dollars saved up for emergencies. This counted, I suppose: maintaining my fiction for Anne Bradley. The area was familiar from tagging along with Stella in previous summers. If I was going to be alone, at least I could be somewhere scenic.

It was midnight by the time the train arrived in East Hampton. The taxi dropped me off at a motel on Montauk Highway. I didn’t realize how tired I was until the next morning, Thanksgiving morning, when I woke up and saw that I’d slept for eleven hours.

In town I found a coffee shop that had stayed open. I caught my reflection in the window. The red parka that Stella had given me years ago was still in good shape, buttons replaced and stains carefully scrubbed away. At the beach, it was a beautiful fall day, cold but made warmer by the sunshine, the ocean glittering and rippling in the wind. There were a handful of people running and walking their dogs. A middle-aged woman, with the radiant health and silver hair of a vitamin spokesperson, emerged from the water in a wetsuit. Far offshore, boats puttered in the waves.

My mind wandered back to Christmas, my freshman year of college. That first time I went home, the house was shabbier than usual. Dishes piled in the sink, rancid black mold in the shower, an intense air of neglect. My mother was wary and skeptical, like I was a body double sent to fool her. Only when she got sufficiently drunk did she let down her guard.

“Where’d you get that shirt, hmm?” she said, pinching the fabric between her fingers. It was a gray henley, a soft cashmere blend. “How’d you afford this nice little thing?”

“A friend lent it to me,” I said, which was true.

The next day, my mother was wearing the shirt. She’d taken it from my room while I was sleeping. “Your friend won’t mind, right?” she said, a cloying twist in her voice. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, stretching out the sleeves, using the hem to wipe spills, leaning close to the frying pan while she cooked, the grease speckling the fabric. “Mom,” I finally snapped, when she purposely sloshed red wine down her front.

A vicious grin spread across her face. “Just…be careful,” I said, trying to suppress my frustration. But it was too late; I’d taken her bait.

“Oh, so now I’m not careful?” she said. “There’s always something you want to criticize, Violet. We’re never good enough for you. What’s next?”

Teeth clenched, I stayed quiet.

“Hmm?” she said. “You think you can come back here and act like you’re better than us?”

I changed my flight and returned to school early, on Christmas Day. It wasn’t until then that I could pinpoint what had changed. My parents, my mother especially, were obsessed with status in the way the downtrodden always are. They clung to anything that could assure them of some minor superiority. And once upon a time, I’d been that thing for them. The smart daughter, the good daughter. The only teenager in town who wouldn’t end up a deadbeat. They took pride in that. But when I came home, my mother felt the disgust radiating from my skin. She had lost the one thing that had made her special.

I hadn’t done what I was supposed to do. I hadn’t returned with compassion and love, an ambassador from another socioeconomic land. But this was another thing I admired about Stella: her indifference to what was expected of her. Why did I have to pretend to like my family? Or the holidays, for that matter? What was so great about them? The pageantry demanded was so one-note and unoriginal. If you weren’t lucky enough to have a loving family, a long dining table, a bountiful spread—and maybe a crackling fire and attractive dog, to top it off—then you weren’t doing it right. You were made to feel deficient.

Wherever Stella was in the world right now, she had probably forgotten that it was the fourth Thursday in November. Drinking champagne in Geneva or shopping in the souks of Marrakech, doing exactly what she pleased. Glamorous, but then again, why should that picture be any more glamorous than this one? I was a young woman alone on the beach, surf lapping at her ankles beneath her cuffed jeans, a weekend of freedom stretching ahead. One picture wasn’t better than the other. Stella wasn’t happier than me. Mostly she just acted that way.

“I won’t give them a reason to pity me,” my mother used to snarl. This was a bitter catechism she’d recite every few months, when money was tight. Food stamps were normal in our town. So were visits to the church basement, where canned and dried goods were free for the taking. I knew better than to suggest we make use of these resources, so that we could spend our money to repair the car or buy new shoes or pay off the credit card. My mother made it clear how she felt about that. Over time, I understood the point she was making. Pride could be a sin, but it could also keep you afloat. Pity was something you invited by acting pitiable.

  

On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I traced the same route from the motel to the town to the beach. The shops were livelier, windows advertising steep Black Friday discounts. When I stopped into the coffee shop, a barista was standing on a ladder, pinning up pine garlands while Christmas carols played in the background, the month-long milking of the holiday already in full swing.

Most of the restaurants in East Hampton were way beyond my price range. But that night I found a bar at the edge of town, with a Mets pennant and a neon Bud Light sign in the window, which looked more my speed.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked when I pulled up a seat at the end of the bar.

“A glass of the house red,” I said. “And a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“That,” he said, setting a wineglass on the wooden bar, “is an interesting combination.”

“My version of a wine-and-cheese pairing,” I said.

“Ah.” He had a nice smile. “You’re a classy woman.”

The bar was about half full, pleasantly buzzing but not too loud. After he had circled around to pour refills, the bartender stopped in front of me, drying his hands on a towel. “How is it?” he said, nodding at my half-drunk glass of wine.

“Entirely serviceable,” I said.

He laughed, and extended his hand. “I’m Kyle.”

His handshake was warm and firm, ridged with light calluses. I said, “I’m Stella.”

“Stella,” he said. “I love that name. What brings you to town?”

I cocked my head. “You don’t think I live around here?”

“No way you’re a local. I’ve got a radar for these things.”

“I needed a break,” I said. “From my family. You know how the holidays are.”

“Where are your folks?”

“Westchester,” I said. “But I live in the city now.”

It was an old shtick when Stella and I were at parties: if a guy hit on us, we’d give the other person’s name and phone number. Nine times out of ten, this meant my phone would buzz with the persistent advances of a man hoping to get in touch with that gorgeous blonde named Violet. Every once in a while, someone—the less attractive sidekick—would hit on me, and I’d have occasion to call myself Stella Bradley.

But we only did this to keep them away. Tonight, even while shaking his hand, I thought, I want to sleep with him. Using Stella’s name was part of the seduction. In college, I’d hooked up with guys every few months, enough to make me feel normal. It was easy enough, because Stella created a halo effect. If this ordinary-looking girl was always with the most beautiful girl on campus, then there had to be something special about her, right? They were consistently forgettable encounters, but already this felt different. A kind of desire that was almost like a test. Could I do this? Could I convince him that I was someone funnier, cooler, sexier than I actually was?

“So what do you do, Stella?” Kyle splashed more wine into my glass without asking.

“Nothing,” I said. The word was pleasant to say; a smooth, easy release.

“Nothing?” he said. “Doesn’t that get boring?”

“I’ve been traveling,” I said. “Taking time to figure out what I really want to do.”

And why shouldn’t I? I thought. Go ahead, let this guy say something snarky, I don’t care. Why shouldn’t I do what I feel like doing? Stella had physical gestures—tilting her head and swinging her long hair over one shoulder, leaning her body across the table—that I found myself now imitating. She had taught me how to flirt, how to carefully mete out your personality, because the person across the bar isn’t yet ready to know the real you. Borrowing Stella’s name gave me a boost of confidence. I imagined a live wire stretching between me and her, wherever she was.

“An international woman of mystery,” he said. “I like it.”

“What about you?” I said. “Are you from around here?”

He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “Grew up about ten miles down the road. I’ve been working for the owners since I was eighteen. They have another bar over in Sag Harbor. I switch between the two. Keeps things interesting.”

“So you’re a bona fide local.”

He smiled. “You could say that.”

“Well,” I said, cocking my head. “Maybe you can show me around sometime.”

In that moment, Kyle’s expression changed. I’d seen this before. That sudden snapping of attention when a girl signals her interest, or there’s a fourth down during a tight game.

At the end of the night, when his shift was over, Kyle said, “Can I walk you out?”

He’d been drinking water, and I’d switched to club soda. So many college hookups had been drunk and fumbling. Not this. There was an intensity from our being sober, from the hours of anticipation. In the parking lot, standing next to his car, the night clear and full of stars above us, neither of us had our jacket on. It had been hot in the bar, and the cool air felt good. Kyle was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. One of the tattoos on his forearm was a silhouette of Long Island. He reminded me, in ways, of the boys from back home. Anchored forever in familiar soil.

Kyle kissed me. His hand slipped under my shirt, and I felt the ridges of his calluses against my rib cage. After a while, he said quietly, “Is your hotel nearby?”

I shook my head. “Let’s do it here,” I said.

“In my car?” he said. He turned, surveying the parking lot, which at 3 a.m. in November was empty except for us. When he turned back to me—my body against the side of his car, the prospect of gratification right there—he pushed into me and kissed me harder, his erection even more pronounced. It felt good. I thought, I made this happen.

After, as the car windows fogged from our breath and we twisted our limbs to pull our clothing back on, he said, “I’m so glad I met you, Stella.”

“Me, too.” I smiled at him, but a sadness seeped into the edges. The carriage was turning back into a pumpkin.

Kyle wanted to drive me home, but I couldn’t let him see my dingy, run-down motel. There was a fancy hotel in town, where I told Kyle to drop me off. He waited in his car, headlights piercing the darkness. I stood at the entrance to the hotel, waving at him, but he didn’t move. Only when I opened the door and went inside did I hear Kyle’s car pulling away.

The man behind the front desk seemed surprised to see me.

“Hello,” I said. “Uh, I’m staying at another hotel down the road, but it’s just not up to snuff. I may want to switch. Do you have any availability tomorrow night?”

The man believed me, or he pretended to. “Yes,” he said. “We do, in fact. Our deluxe junior suite is available tomorrow night. The rate is nine hundred.”

“Great,” I said. “Perfect.”

“Do you need a taxi?” the man said, as I headed for the door.

“There’s a car waiting for me outside,” I said. “Good night.”

 

Pete, one of the doormen in our building, nodded at me when I returned to the apartment.

“Did you have a good time in Florida, Miss Trapp?” he said.

I must have looked confused, because he added, “Mrs. Bradley mentioned it to me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. It was fine.”

“No sunburn.” He winked.

“Nope,” I said. “The sun is terrible for your skin.”

In the elevator, I felt a vague annoyance with Anne Bradley. She had a tendency to do this, to treat the most mundane details like breaking news. Why on earth would Pete the doorman care where I spent Thanksgiving? But people like Pete tended to indulge Anne, to feign interest. Doormen, hairdressers, manicurists, personal shoppers, housekeepers: Anne was a wealthy woman, and earning her tips or year-end bonuses required making her feel that her minor concerns were in fact major. In the past, when Stella chafed at her mother’s nosiness, I thought she was overreacting. Give her a break, I had said more than once. At least she cares.

Now I sympathized with Stella. To financially depend on someone—as I did, with the Bradleys—and to sense them tracking your movements, that was unpleasant. Money bought allegiance, and allegiance bought control. Money also insulated its possessors from what people really thought. Poor Anne. People like Pete the doorman never told her that she was boring them to death. They warned you about these things in leadership books, the danger of yes men. But so far, no one had written a leadership book for wealthy women who exercised compulsively and lived in waterfront mansions in Rye.

I shook my head as I turned on the lights in the apartment. That was a nasty, ungrateful thought. The Bradleys were generous. Take this apartment redecoration—so much effort, and I was the only one who’d get to enjoy it.

It was beautiful. The walls were painted ecru and cream, the floors overlaid with oriental rugs in pale shades. The couches and chairs in the living room were covered in subtly patterned fabric and accented with bright pillows. A glass coffee table held oversize art books. A chandelier hung above the long dining table. In the kitchen, the cabinets were filled with flatware and mixing bowls and wineglasses. On the marble countertop were white ceramic canisters, lids lifted to reveal flour and sugar and rice and pasta. The furniture and artwork I understood, but the thoroughness in the kitchen baffled me. Was this meant for Stella? For me? It was like I’d wandered onto the set of a movie in which I wasn’t starring.

I dipped a finger into the sugar. It was real. I’d wondered, for a moment.

The master bedroom was transformed, too. There was a king-size bed with a massive headboard, a vanity table in one corner, an armchair in the other. Lilacs in a glass vase on the nightstand perfumed the air. The flowers wouldn’t last longer than a few days. I felt uneasy. None of this was meant for me. It was meant for a girl who wasn’t here, and who had no plans to return anytime soon.

The door to the walk-in closet was slightly ajar. I opened it and turned on the light inside. It was filled with Stella’s clothing. High heels and ballet flats lined up on shoe racks, sweaters folded and organized by color, dresses on silk hangers. I was light-headed and dizzy. It was too perfect. It was like a diamond necklace in a glass display. It said, you want this, don’t you? It tempted you into smashing the glass and running off with the goods, even while the bloody shards in your knuckles reminded you that it didn’t really belong to you.

I turned off the light and slammed the door closed. My heartbeat was running wild when I sat down on the mattress in my room. The lumpy mattress without a bed frame, the thrift-store lamp and the particle-board bookshelves: they were hideous, but they were mine. If I stuck to this room, I was safe. No one could accuse me of theft. Of leaving fingerprints on another person’s possessions.

 

But over the following days, I kept thinking of those final moments in the car with Kyle.

Can I have your number? That was the last thing he’d said to me, looking eager. I had to remind myself that dismissal came naturally to Stella. In this movie, I was a rich girl visiting from the city, and he was a townie bartender. Rebuffing him gave me a satisfying rush of power. The feeling was so good that I knew it had to come with a price.

With Facebook or Google, it was easy to find out the truth. I waited for the lie to catch up with me, for Kyle to track me down. But days passed, and nothing happened. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal, after all. I was merely channeling what I’d learned from Stella. Her confidence, her verve. Didn’t they say imitation was the sincerest form of flattery?

The week after Thanksgiving, I stood in front of Stella’s closet. I don’t know why this had spooked me so badly last time. They were just clothes. Stella was thinner than me, but some of her dresses had forgiving cuts and loose tailoring. Several of them fit me well. What harm was there in trying them on, enjoying the sight of myself in the floor-length mirror? What harm was there if, sometimes, I felt like sleeping in her king-sized bed instead of my own? Or if I took the occasional bath in her deep claw-foot tub?

It’s just stuff. That’s what Stella liked to say, when one of her uptight friends got a stain or spill on a piece of expensive clothing. Who cares about stuff?

And besides—she’d never know.