“I’m sorry.” My mother’s lower lip trembles. It’s all I can do to keep from wincing when I see how bloodshot her eyes are. Around her nose, burst capillaries mar her otherwise lovely complexion. “I didn’t mean to hurt your roses. I was only trying to help.”
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be patient. “I appreciate that, Mom, but Joel takes care of the gardening for us. That’s his job. You’re our guest. We want you to relax and have a good time.”
Eleanor isn’t even comfortable with Joel touching her roses, so we leave them to her. With the preparations for the party and the christening consuming her time these days, she let her precious plants get the tiniest bit overgrown. How my mother noticed this is beyond me.
“I was tryin’ to help,” Mom says again, as if I’ve argued with her. Maisey wedges herself between us, as if to protect Alice. The sight of my baby sister looking so fierce makes me want to laugh.
What does she think I’m going to do, attack our mother? Not that I haven’t been tempted. I glance at the gold wristwatch Warwick gave me for my birthday. How am I going to survive this day?
“Look at the time. I guess I should go check on Elliot. He’ll be waking up from his nap any minute, if he hasn’t already. See you later.”
The forced cheer in my voice makes me want to cringe. Where and when did I acquire this singsong way of speaking? Genny’s and Tessie’s influence must have rubbed off.
Maisey is still glaring at me, and Alice stares at her shoes, a chastened little girl, unable to meet my eyes.
“Okay,” my sister says, squinting at me like I’m someone she doesn’t recognize.
That uncomfortable sensation of being a Stepford wife returns. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.
But what does Maisey know about the pressures I’m under? She probably sees all this luxury and assumes my life is easy. She doesn’t get how difficult it is to keep Warwick and his mother happy.
As I leave, my sister puts her arm around our mother, but Alice pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.
Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?
I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.
The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.
My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.
The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.
Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.
With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”
No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.
It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.
Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.
Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.
As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.
My God, I’m turning into Alice.
The thought makes me shiver.
Caleb and I were walking along the beach, arm in arm again. We’d made a habit of this, going for a walk along the sand every chance we got. This special time, with just the two of us, no Sarah, no Alice, no in-laws and no Lucy, who could be quite exhausting. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in another’s company in years, and I could already feel us growing closer. I curled my toes in the sand. This time I was going barefoot. It was freeing.
And yet, that memory of Frankie, of me racing to pull him out of the pool, haunted me. My mother had gone to prison for Frankie’s death. I’d tried to make an effort with her, and after spending a little more time with her, the guilt was eating at me like acid on grime. Even though Peter was gone, she still drank. Because of Frankie? Because of...me?
I kept trying to avoid it, but Lucy was being a bitch. Now that I’d uncovered it, she wanted me to face what I’d done. Constantly, that memory woke me, intruded on my daydreams. I could barely look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t go near my nephew. How could I go anywhere near another child? After the horrific crime I’d committed? I was disgusted with myself. I hated myself. Lucy was the one who was holding me together, but even she was struggling. If it weren’t for these little reprieves with Caleb, where I could fool myself into thinking everything was fine, everything was normal, that I wasn’t the most evil of human beings, I think I’d go crazy.
I turned my attention to the distraction that was Caleb.
“I still think pasta is better,” he said, and I grinned.
“Nope, noodles, baby. Especially in a spicy peanut sau—” I stopped talking, focused on the single white arm waving feebly just beyond the surf. A young man was out there—a teen, from the looks of it. He was clinging to a surfboard, but his wave was half hearted, as though he was exhausted.
I eyed the water. He was caught in a riptide, I could tell, the waves converging in a triangle closer to the beach, but the whitewash showed the undertow.
I took a step, then froze. I looked back at the house, then out at the surfer who was clinging weakly to