Carla Pacelli was living near the Blaines, in a guesthouse behind the summer home of the novelist Whitney Dane. That Whitney and Ben, her contemporary and fellow writer, had routinely avoided each other had always been a puzzlement to Adam, all the more so because of his understanding that, in their childhood and youth, his mother and Whitney had been the closest of friends. But this estrangement, whatever its cause, had made it possible for Whitney to continue giving Carla a refuge from all that had beset her—alcohol and drug abuse, the collapse of her career—while she tried to build the foundation for a new and different life.
At seven o’clock, it would still be light for another hour, and Carla had set the table on the deck outside, affording them a sweeping view of a Vineyard Sound that glistened with the falling sun. Wearing a loose, flowing dress, Carla was placing napkins when Adam arrived. Glancing up at the sound of his footsteps, she gave him a wry smile, as though to acknowledge the incongruity of the occasion. “What excuse did you give them at home?” she asked. “A poetry reading?”
“I said we were going to Lamaze class.”
To his surprise, Carla laughed lightly, the first time he had ever heard this. The effect was charming, lending a human touch to a woman whose appearance was so stunning that, even now, Adam experienced the involuntary jolt of attraction he had felt when seeing her on the screen. But there was something else, he realized: even with the weight of all he was concealing from Carla Pacelli, after the strain of dealing with his family he was simply glad to see her. “Men will do anything to appear useful,” she replied. “How are things among the Blaines?”
“Trying,” Adam paused, then decided on the novelty—at least for this day—of speaking an unvarnished truth. “He left a lot of wreckage, Carla, ending with the will. All the more so because it set you and my mother at each other’s throats. All in all, it’s been a long day, and I’m very, very hungry.”
Carla pulled out a wooden chair, inviting him to sit. “Then I hope you like chicken cacciatore,” she replied. “One of my few specialties. My mother’s family was Irish; my father’s Italian. So there was only one direction my cooking could take.”
Adam realized that he had rarely heard Carla mention her parents, and then only in passing. “You know all about my family,” he said, then recalled at once how untrue that was. “What was yours like?”
Her smile faded. “Another time, perhaps. While I’m up, what would you like to drink that contains no alcohol at all?”
In the event, the chicken was succulent, its sauce tangy but not too rich. When Adam said as much, Carla answered, “You can thank my grandmother, who taught it to my mother. Mom was desperate to please my father in any way she could. You’re the incidental beneficiary.”
There was more behind this comment, Adam was quite certain, just as he knew that, at least for tonight, he should not probe this. Instead, he asked, “Are you staying here until the baby’s born? It’s nice right now, but Martha’s Vineyard in the winter is like the world’s longest Bergman film.”
The sun had fallen into the ocean, its red disk bathing the water in a last painterly orange-gray glow as night began enveloping them. Lighting a candle, Carla observed, “I’m not looking for excitement—I’ve had too much already. This is a better place for me to stay sober.”
Adam could still remember the photographs of Carla that were splashed across cable news, taken after a one-car crash caused by her cross-addiction to alcohol and cocaine. Though he had not imagined knowing her then, her eyes were filled with shame, drawing from him a sympathetic wonder that a woman with so much could fall so far, so fast. In a tone that he hoped was encouraging, Adam replied, “You look like you’re doing fine.”
Carla gave a fractional shrug. “It helps to be away from there. When I was running on the hamster wheel, I thought substance abuse was my friend—alcohol helped me relax, and coke jacked me up to learn my lines and keep the weight off. So I started doing more coke so I could drink more, which accentuated all of my less than desirable traits: impatience, fear of failure, and a tendency to wall off feelings.” She looked at Adam more intently. “I’m a born loner, it seems. Maybe you know what that’s like.”
“Let’s say I’m familiar with the species.”
“Anyhow, alcoholism was another part of my birthright—my dad had it, and my grandfather before him. It was always waiting in ambush, until the right combination of pressure and stuff I’d never resolved brought it out of hiding. God knows what would’ve happened if I hadn’t cracked up that Porsche.”
For a moment, Adam watched the candle, flickering in a fitful breeze that caused its light to shimmer on the table. “How did you pull out of it?”
“By accident, at first. As a matter of self-preservation, I had to show how contrite I was. So I figured a respite drinking vegetable juice at Betty Ford might retrieve my career.” Carla’s tone became sardonic. “Naturally, I showed up drunk in the backseat of a limousine. I vaguely remember a sense of disbelief as I entered a driveway lined with palm trees, ending up in a reception area that was so serene I thought I was in one of those movies where you imagine the afterlife. My keepers took one look, gave me something to keep me from crashing, and led me to a room with a single bed. God knows how long I slept, and how little I wanted to wake up.”
“What happened when you did?”
Carla rolled her eyes, a surprisingly droll expression. “Do you really want to hear all this? You don’t seem like the type who goes to AA meetings for fun.”
“You have no idea of the things I consider fun. If I weren’t interested, I wouldn’t ask.”
She fell quiet, considering him with renewed gravity. In that moment he wondered if he reminded her of Ben, perhaps of the evenings before he died when she must have explained her life. Then Carla collected herself to answer. “Actually, I felt horrified. I’d gone to sleep in the afterlife, and awakened in a summer camp for junkies. Not only was I jumpy and strung out, but my new counselor was explaining the routine: daily sessions for fitness, spiritual care, diet and nutrition, counseling, and—worst of all—group therapy. If I’d had the strength, I’d have run screaming into the night.”
“But you didn’t.”
“How could I?” Carla responded wryly. “Before, I had a crew of employees who depended on my career. Now I had all these lovely people dedicated to my recovery—a doctor, nurse, psychologist, spiritual counselor, dietitian, fitness trainer, chemical dependency technician, and, God help us, an alumni services representative for when I got out, just like at UCLA. And they had a schedule for me that ran from six in the morning to ten at night, with wonderful new friends to meet in what was essentially a women’s dorm.
“I wanted to crawl under my bed. But what made it even harder was group therapy.” Her tone softened. “I wasn’t a very trusting person then. I’m not sure I really am now. But I’m better.”
“Group therapy,” Adam remarked, “is not something I can imagine doing.”
“Neither could I. But it turned out to be what I needed. I learned my problems weren’t special—they were just mine. The more these women were honest around me, the more honest I became. Ironically enough, there’s something addictive about candor when you need it to save your life.” Carla took a sip of her coffee. “It’s hard to delve into your deepest secrets, especially in a business where predators publicize your every slip. But the day I found myself weeping without being able to stop, I realized how much pain I’d been in, and for how long. And I knew that nothing about my life—the money, the celebrity, all the people who needed me enough to suspend the rules—could protect me from what I’d been carrying around.”
To Adam, the memory lent a raw note to her smoky voice. “Hence, Martha’s Vineyard.”
Carla nodded. “The cliché in recovery is ‘change your playground and your playmates.’ But I also realized that escaping wasn’t enough—that wherever you go, you take your demons with you. My first ninety days on the island, I went to ninety AA meetings. The other part, which I still can’t quite believe, is that I’ve renewed diplomatic relations with Catholicism. If one seeks help from a ‘higher power,’ as AA says you should, better the version you already know.”
Adam smiled. “God and I have never been formerly introduced. But it seems like it’s worked for you. I saw that mug shot, and you’re not the same person.”
“She wasn’t the girl I wanted to be,” Carla answered ruefully. “Not when I was young, and certainly not now. But celebrity makes it that much harder. Another reason that I came here.”
Adam found himself thinking of Amanda Ferris and then, with piercing quickness, of the scandal Carla had evoked by becoming involved with Benjamin Blaine. Imagining them together, he felt a sudden resentment, then stifled it. “I guess becoming a mother changes things, too.”
In this moment, she looked vulnerable. “Everything,” she said softly. “For a bunch of reasons I thought I could never have children. You can’t imagine how fiercely I want this child, and to be the mother he deserves. A psychologist might say that I want to give him the parenting I didn’t have.” She met his eyes. “For better or worse, family really is the gift that keeps on giving. All we can do is try to understand it, and do better for whoever follows us.”
Once more, Adam felt an unspoken kinship. But his own family had trapped him in a web of secrets he was forced to hide from her. “In my family,” he responded, “whoever follows us comes down to your son. As matters stand, he’s the last of the Blaines.”
Carla regarded him curiously. “Did you ever want kids?”
“I thought so, once. But my job gets in the way.”
“I’m sure,” she retorted with a trace of irony. “It can’t be easy persuading Afghan farmers to grow other crops than opium poppies. As a former addict, I can say first hand that you’re performing a service.”
“Thank you,” Adam said solemnly. “Not everyone appreciates my self-sacrifice.”
“Oh, I do,” she rejoined. “Too bad Ben didn’t believe a word of it.”
“I find that odd, Carla—seeing how we hadn’t spoken in ten years. He must’ve been reading the entrails of goats.”
His dismissive tone did not seem to faze her. “Actually, Ben was reading maps and talking to your mother. Believe it or not, the trajectory of your career worried him—Pakistan, Iraq, and then Afghanistan. Everywhere jihadists seemed to be. He even made me wonder about you a little.”
Adam chose to laugh. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“I’ve already admitted to that,” she replied in an unimpressed tone. “As for Ben, he thought you were CIA.”
“Then he was wrong.” More easily, he added, “Anyhow, you played a spy on television. So you know that if I tell you the truth, they’ll have to kill us both.”
Carla hesitated. “Does it matter that I worry for you, too?”
“Only that you’re wasting your time. I have a foolish job, not a lethal one. I may be leaving in two weeks, but I’ll be coming back.”
“And then they’ll send you someplace else?”
“Somewhere nicer, I hope. But my company is under contract to USAID, and they don’t give foreign aid to farmers in Tuscany or Bordeaux. Which explains the pattern of travel Ben seemed to find so sinister.” He paused, searching for a change of subject. “Anyhow, I’ll let you know how to reach me. Just so I can hear if you’re getting along okay.”
She looked into his eyes again. “I’ll stay in touch,” she answered. “But we’ll be fine. If we need help, there are people in AA I can call.”
“Then you’re having the baby on the island?”
Carla nodded. “Whitney has told me I can stay, and I like my doctor here. So yes, unless there are complications.”
For a moment, Adam sensed she wanted to say more about her pregnancy. But there was no easy way to probe this, and their conversation about his job was one he did not care to revisit. Glancing at his watch, he said, “This has been nice, Carla. I didn’t realize how late it is. You must be tired.”
“And no doubt they’re waiting up for you at home. But I hope this won’t be the last time I see you.” She paused, as though hearing herself. “In the next two weeks, I mean.”
“I know what you meant,” Adam assured her. “Do you know another Italian dish?”
“Several.” Briefly, Carla touched his hand. “You can bring wine, Adam—for yourself. As long as you take it with you, I won’t mind.”