Edgewater Page 10

  She barely got the words out, and the applause was thunderous. You could feel the ground trembling from a thousand hands clapping at once. “She’s running for the senator’s job?” I asked.

  “No,” Lennox said, still slapping her palms together. “For a seat in the House of Representatives. She’ll be a congresswoman.”

  “I promise you,” Julia Copeland said, the applause dying down. “I promise you that I believe in the dreams of everyone in the First District of the great state of New York—those of you here tonight and those who could not be here, those we encounter every day, and those we may never meet. I do not plan to rest until we create a space where everyone has a chance to see their dreams for their children come true. And the key to that is education.”

  More applause, hooting, and whistling. Lennox’s eyes were gleaming. “Isn’t this exciting? I can’t believe it!”

  I felt the tears pricking behind my own eyes, because I was suddenly thinking about those parents in the First Congressional District. Parents who cared enough to dream about their kids. Parents who didn’t leave them.

  “You okay?” Lennox asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just getting it now, what you always said. Politics is really moving—the way it affects all of us.”

  Lennox believed me right then, because she so genuinely believed it herself. When she got excited about something, she wanted you to feel it just as much as she did. She squeezed my hand, and we listened to the end of the speech. The Jessarae Band took the stage again to sing a song they’d written just for the occasion. The lights that were strung up all over the property dimmed until we were all standing in the dark, with just the glow of the stars above us. From the direction of the ocean came a loud bang, and then another, and another. Streaks of light were shooting up, high into the sky above the water. When they were maybe a thousand feet above us, the streaks exploded into fireworks of red, white, and blue. The crowd gave a collective gasp. Even the wealthiest and most jaded people could still be awed by fireworks.

  But right then there was somewhere else I wanted to be. “Let’s head back,” I told Lennox.

  “Do you realize how remarkable this is?” Lennox said as we walked away from the crowd. “The wife of a senator running for Congress. I think they’ll be the first spouses in the legislative branch.”

  “If she’s elected,” I reminded her.

  “Of course she’ll be elected. And if he runs for president . . . Can you just imagine? The First Lady has never been a congresswoman herself!” She pulled out her phone. “I have to take notes on this.”

  “Press only,” I reminded her.

  “I’m not going to live tweet any pictures,” she said. “But they can’t stop me from posting something on my blog later, right?” She stopped in her tracks and pulled my arm. “Hang on. I want a selfie of us all dressed up—I promised Nathan.”

  “You promised Nathan?”

  “We’re trying to be friends,” she explained.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Relationships are complicated,” she said. “You’ll find out when you and Charlie start getting serious.”

  “I thought you’d given up on getting Charlie and me together.”

  “What gave you that impression?”

  “You made me leave him to go watch Julia Copeland’s speech.”

  “That was part of your political education,” she said. “Which temporarily sidetracked the fix-up plan, but it’s still on.”

  “He said he and Shelby were on a break.”

  “A ‘break’ is code for breakup.”

  “Not that it matters.”

  Lennox rolled her eyes at me. “Here, approve this picture.”

  She handed me the phone, and I looked at the photo she’d snapped. The lighting wasn’t great, but I liked the way our cheeks were pressed against each other’s, so close that in the fuzziness of the picture, you almost couldn’t tell where one of us stopped and the other started. “I approve. Send it to me when you send it to Nathan.”

  I didn’t remember that my cell phone wasn’t working at that moment until she was pressing buttons. I wondered if my first paycheck from Oceanfront would cover that bill. But of course, even if it would, I hadn’t even started working there yet, and there were other bills to pay first.

  “You got it,” Lennox said.

  We didn’t notice the ear-pieced security guard walking briskly toward us until he was upon us. “The presence of cell phones is strictly prohibited at this event,” he said.

  “We’re friends of Charlie’s,” Lennox said quickly. “Charlie Copeland. He worked it out that it was fine for me to keep my phone. You can ask the security guard out front. He okayed it. Right, Lor?”

  I nodded. “His name was Philip,” I added.

  This guy either didn’t believe us or didn’t care. “You’re going to have to leave the premises with that immediately,” he said.

  “We were just going to say good-bye to Charlie,” I told him. “We’re leaving right after that.”

  “I’m happy to confiscate your phone and then you can say whatever you want to whoever you want.” He held out his hand.

  Lennox turned to me. “You go say good-bye to Charlie for both of us,” she said. “It’s even better this way. You’ll get some alone time. All part of my plan.”

  “Let’s go, miss,” the guard said. “And I’m going to need to take that phone from you in the meantime.”

  “I’ll meet you out front,” I told Lennox.

  She gave the phone to the security guard, gave me a quick hug, and then turned to follow him to the Main. I kept moving toward the woods, picking up my pace a little, though it occurred to me then that I hadn’t planned to do this walk on my own, and I wasn’t exactly sure where to go. I should’ve looked for some landmarks when we’d left. It was darker now, but the sky was still illuminated by the fireworks, and, remarkably, I found the oak tree with the stairwell wrapped around it. I took the steps two at a time up to the porch landing.

  I guess I’d expected Charlie to be right where we’d left him, but he wasn’t. Perhaps he’d gone back inside, to the art studio or the sitting area. My heart started to beat a little bit faster. I was about to be alone with Charlie Copeland. This time, without Lennox to interrupt us. And there I was, all dressed up in Harper’s dress with its sexy neckline. This was it; this was my moment. I felt all lit up inside.

  I peered through the window and scanned the room. Charlie wasn’t on the love seat or in either of the chairs, and he wasn’t by the table. Then I saw some movement on the other side of the tree trunk, in the corner by the model train tracks. The tree was blocking most of his body, but I saw one arm extending, a hand on the engine, rolling it up a felt mountain. It was kind of cute that Charlie was so in touch with his inner child, playing with his trains.

  His body inched out from behind the trunk. I saw his forearm, and then his shoulder, and then the crown of his head.

  But wait. The man in the tree house had gray hair. It couldn’t be Charlie.

  He turned his head, and I could see his profile.

  That famous profile. That profile that everyone in the world knew. The one belonging to Senator Franklin Copeland.

  I could hardly believe what I was seeing: The senator was on the floor in his son’s childhood tree house, playing with toy trains. I wanted to leave before he caught me watching, but I couldn’t tear myself away. He stood up, with effort, putting a hand against the tree trunk to lift himself.

  And then he turned so he was looking straight at me. I saw the shock register on his face, and I was sure my expression matched his.

  “S-sorry,” I stuttered. “Excuse me.”

  The senator stepped toward me, stumbling over a train car. Panicked, I turned and ran down the steps as fast as I could. I raced across the lawn to the front of the house to find Lennox.

  11

  A PEACEFUL SLEEP FOR OUR FRIENDS

  BACK AT LENNOX’S HOUSE, SHE WAS IN J
OURNALIST mode, pacing around the den, trying to put together the pieces of the night. She stopped and raised her pointer finger in the air, which was what she always did when ideas struck. “I’ve figured it out,” she said.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “The senator was hiding because he wasn’t supposed to be there tonight. That’s why Underhill was there.”

  “Underhill?”

  “Victor Underhill. The guy we saw through the binoculars.”

  “I know who you meant,” I said. “But what I don’t get is what you think he has to do with Senator Copeland being in the tree house.”

  “Didn’t Charlie say they had a big falling-out?”

  “Yeah, years ago,” I said.

  “Right, so my guess is, Julia Copeland invited Underhill back on the scene because she wants him to work for her now, and she didn’t think the senator would be there.”

  “But the senator was there,” I reminded her.

  “Julia didn’t know that. He told her there was a vote in DC.”

  “If you knew that wasn’t true, then I’m sure she did, too—especially since she’s running for Congress. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe she knew there was no vote, but she asked him to stay away so he didn’t steal the spotlight.”

  “I would think his spotlight would be good for her political career.”

  “You’re right,” she said, and she started pacing again. “Okay, so maybe I’m wrong about a few details.”

  “It was so weird, Len. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he saw me. And then he tripped over a train set.”

  “I wish I had seen that,” she said. “I’d love to see Senator Franklin Copeland in person.”

  Lennox’s cell phone vibrated against the coffee table, and she picked it up and looked at the screen. “It’s Brian,” she said.

  “Brian? Brian Beecher?” Lennox nodded, and the phone buzzed again. “Shit. I hope he and Susannah didn’t get arrested or anything.”

  She pressed the button to answer. “Hello?”

  She listened, and I heard muffled sounds of Brian talking, explaining why he was calling. I imagined the worst: They’d dined and dashed again, and Brian hadn’t stuck around long enough to see Susannah get arrested, but she was in a holding cell across town, and if I could just come up with the money for bail . . .

  It’d be more money that I’d have to borrow from Lennox, and how would she explain that to the moms?

  “Lorrie,” Lennox said, holding out the phone to me. “It’s Susannah.”

  I took it and pressed it to my ear. “Susie?”

  She spoke softly, but I knew what I heard.

  Mom’s dead, I heard her say.

  Something dropped inside me. A feeling I’d never had before. Maybe it was relief. What kind of person feels relieved to hear that her mom is dead?

  I guess the kind of person for whom it doesn’t matter if her mother is alive or dead. My cheeks went hot. Goddamn her. “It’s my fault!” Susannah wailed. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight. She’d attached to Pansy this afternoon. I thought it would be okay. I thought if Brian and I went out . . .” She choked back another sob.

  Her fault? Attached to Pansy?

  Oh! It was Wren, Susannah’s morsel of a kitten, who had died. My mom was still alive and well, wherever she was. Inside me, the space of relief filled up with rage.

  “I should’ve stayed home with her,” Susannah said, choking back sobs. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “No one can be there every single moment. And she probably wouldn’t have made it no matter what you did.”

  “I’m a terrible mother.”

  It wasn’t the time to remind her that she wasn’t actually a mother; although, truth be told, she was more of one to the animals than our mother was to us.

  “Can you come home?” Susannah asked, her voice as plaintive as Wren’s sweet, soft mews.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, WE WERE ALL DRESSED UP IN our somber best to bury Wren in Edgewater’s pet cemetery on the south end of our property. Brian’s baseball cap was off, and his jeans were pulled all the way up to his waist for once, which was basically his version of wearing a suit and tie. Susannah wore a simple gray shift dress. Gigi was in a layered black cloak of a dress, the sleeves attached in such a way that when she lifted an arm to press a yellowed handkerchief to her face, she looked like a bat.

  No joke, we had some of those buried in the Edgewater pet cemetery, too.

  My sister knelt on the ground beside Brian, one hand inside the shoe box that held Wren. I knew she’d lined the box with cotton before she’d laid the kitten inside, and I knew she was waiting until the very last possible second to put the lid on, so that she could get in as many final strokes as possible. Brian went on about Wren’s short and meaningful life as the breeze blew through the thin wisps of grass like strands of hair. “And now Susannah wants to say a few words,” he said.

  Susannah was crying softly as she rose from the ground. Brian hooked an arm around her, as if he were a stake holding up a fragile flower. “My sweet baby Wren is gone before her time,” Susannah said. “Though Brian said maybe we’re all here for some predetermined period, by God or whatever, and we should be grateful that Wren’s time was spent with us.” Susannah paused to take a shaky breath. “I don’t know if that’s true. Or if it’s all random and Brian was just trying to make me feel better.” At this she looked away from us and back down at the box, addressing it directly. “Either way, Wren, I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you when you were here. I’ll never forget you.”

  Susannah bent down to the ground again and gave Wren one last pet before finally placing the lid on top of the box, picking it up with the care one might use when holding a crystal ball, and placing it gently into the ground. Then she took the shovel and did eight scoops of dirt to symbolize the eight letters in I love you, as she had done for every creature she’d loved and lost. Watching her, my mind flicked to the one and only creature that mattered to me: Orion. But the idea of losing him was so unbearable I had to push it out of my head.

  Susannah passed the shovel around so we each got a turn, which was also part of her ritual. When it was over, she wasn’t quite ready to leave the graveside. “You don’t mind if I get going, right, babe?” Brian asked. “I promised the guys I’d meet up with them for . . . uh . . .” He glanced at me for a split second. As if I cared where he was going. I only cared when he was taking my sister, dragging her down with him. “For a thing. Is that all right?”

  “Yeah,” Susannah said. “I want to be alone with Wren for a bit anyway.”

  Brian squeezed Susannah’s shoulder. “I won’t be too late,” he told her, and then he was off.

  Gigi reached toward Susannah with her bat arms, but Susannah shook her head.

  “I really do just want a few minutes by myself,” she said.

  “Of course, darling girl,” Gigi said. She turned to me. “Come, let’s prepare lunch.”

  I met Susannah’s eyes and looked for a signal that she secretly wanted me to stay behind. But she nodded and said she’d be in soon but she wasn’t really all that hungry.

  Gigi and I walked back toward the house, around the other gravestones and various fallen branches, and a quartet of sculptures that my grandparents had long ago imported from Tuscany. Now they were lying cracked and ruined on their sides. Gigi bent to clear the graves of dried wildflowers. She dusted each stone, using a fingernail to get any dirt out of the crevices where Susannah had tried to carve their names with sticks and rocks. If only Gigi attended to our house with the same level of care.

  I walked ahead of her. Dandelions sprouted up everywhere, even in the patchiest parts of our lawn. When we were kids, Susannah and I loved to pick them once they’d lost their petals and transformed into translucent white cotton balls of seeds. “Puffer flowers,” we’d called them, an
d we’d snap them up and blow hard to make wishes, hundreds of seeds for identical dandelions dispersing with our breaths.

  I bent to pick one now, took in a deep breath, and concentrated on my deepest wishes: I wish I could find my trust, and I wish Orion was already home, and I wish we could both count on going back to Hillyer this fall.

  What were the rules, where puffer flowers were concerned: one wish per cotton ball, or one wish per seed? If it was the former, I had more dandelion picking to do. I picked a few more, just in case. Gigi caught up to me and reached over to grab the bunch of them. “Oh, good,” she said. “We can blow some wishes for a peaceful sleep for our friends.” She took a loud breath in and blew it out, scattering seeds on the nearest graves. “There you go, Freddie and Flossie. Sweet dreams for you both.”

  I rolled my eyes at myself for even thinking up stupid dandelion wishes; I didn’t actually believe those things came true. If they did, then all those wishes for my mom throughout my childhood would have brought her home long ago.

  “Pick some more,” Gigi told me. “We should cover all our friends.”

  I glanced down at the closest gravestone. GINGER, carved in all caps. “I don’t even remember who Ginger was,” I said.