The Old Deep and Dark (7 page)

“Did you?” she said absently. “Did you like it?”

“Very much. Saw your next play in Chicago. I thought that one was even better.”

Her hand drifted to her stomach. “I wrote that right before I got married. It was a happy time for me. There's a lightness in the play. I've never been able to capture that again.”

Booker hadn't heard she'd gotten married. “Who's the lucky guy?”

Her mouth twisted. “Turns out, neither one of us was very lucky. We divorced last year.”

“I'm sorry.” And he was. The thought that she'd been in pain, perhaps still was, upset him.

“It's the way the world works. I've found some small success as a playwright, while my personal life is pretty much a mess.”

“Where are you living these days?”

“Seattle. I like it there. Like the cloudy days. You ever been?”

“Once. The clouds depressed the hell out of me.”

She glanced over at him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“How long will you be in town?”

Looking back out at the street, the smile faded. “I'm not sure. A few days. Maybe more.”

“To meet with Cordelia.”

“What? Oh, right. Yes, Cordelia.”

He had the sense that he'd just been lied to. “Chloe's here. I'm sure she'd love to see you. Why don't you stop by the house?”

“I should do that,” she said. “What about you?” Her tone sounded more polite than truly interested.

“My father called a family powwow. We're supposed to have dinner together tonight.”

“I hope it's nothing serious.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice trailing off. When he came out of his reverie, he saw that she was looking him full in the face. This time, she actually did seem concerned.

“I always liked your parents,” she said. “Your dad was so sweet and funny. And your mom doted on you and Chloe.”

Booker supposed it may have looked that way. Maybe it was partly true. Booker felt certain his parents cared about him, but also certain that they had never wanted him to bother them with anything too difficult. They'd already had their hands full with Chloe.

“Listen,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I need to get out of here, but I was wondering. Would you like to have lunch? Maybe tomorrow? It would be great to catch up. Where are you staying?”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “It would have to be a late lunch.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“I'm staying at the Heidelberg Country Club on King's Bay. It's—”

“I know where it is. It's about twenty minutes north of our summerhouse. But it's a private club. How did you get a room?”

“A friend booked it. What if we meet at the Rhineland Grill in the main Gasthaus?”

“Perfect.”

“Two?”

“That sounds great.”

This time her smile encompassed the whole of him. “You've changed.”

“God, I hope so.”

She laughed at his vehemence. It was a bright, beautiful sound.

“Tomorrow,” he said, reluctantly backing away.

 

8

Shortly before five, Kit tipped the small bronze statue of a greyhound back and removed the hidden key. From the empty state of the rounded driveway in front of the house, she assumed she and Beverly were the first ones to arrive.

“I thought Cordelia said there was a butler,” said Beverly, standing under the massive stone portico, banging impatiently on the front door with the brass door knocker.

Even on her best days, she was a glass-half-empty kind of person. She also had one of the most loving hearts Kit had ever known. They'd been fast friends since second grade. “Cordelia called him her house man,” said Kit. “Here we go.” She unlocked the door.

Inside, they found themselves in a gothic-inspired manor, complete with a broad open staircase that rose to a second-floor mezzanine and a churchlike series of stained-glass windows in the main hall to their right. They were met almost instantly by a small girl shuffling out of a back hallway. She had on oversized high heels, a white feather boa wound around her neck, and a clipboard propped against her hip.

“Hi, Hattie,” said Kit, bending down and smiling. “I'm Kit Deere. Remember me? It's been a couple of years since I've seen you. This is my friend, Beverly.”

Hattie squinted up at them. “Will you take a survey?”

Kit and Beverly exchanged amused glances.

“Survey?” said Kit.

Adjusting her boa, Hattie plunked down on a bench by the door. “Yeah. Just a few questions. Won't take long.”

“Well,” said Kit, looking around, feeling like she'd entered a time warp that had deposited her in the Middle Ages. “Sure. Why not?”

Something about the interior of the mansion recalled scenes from the movie
The Magnificent Ambersons
for Kit, although this place was on a much grander scale. The house, no doubt an excessively expensive monstrosity, was dramatic, but gloomy.

“Okay,” said Hattie, pulling a pencil out of her shirt pocket. “This first question is about bedtime. What time do you think an eight-year-old girl should have to go to bed?”

“Oh, now that's a hard one,” said Kit.

Beverly sat down on the bench opposite the little girl, removing her athletic shoe and rubbing her foot. “Seven?”

“Seven
P.M.
?” repeated Hattie, her small brow furrowing.

“No,” said Kit. “I'd say nine. On a school night.”

“What if it's not a school night?” asked Hattie.

“Then, oh, maybe nine fifteen.”

Glaring up at her, clearly unhappy with the responses, Hattie said, “How much allowance do you think an eight-year-old girl should get per week?”

“Fifty dollars,” snapped Beverly, looking absolutely serious.

“Really?
Fifty
dollars?”

“Not a penny less.”

This time, Hattie's eyes lit up. “Will you tell Auntie Cordelia that?”

“Be happy to,” said Beverly. “If,” she added with a conspiratorial look, “you let me borrow your boa.”

“Oh, for sure,” said Hattie, whipping it off her neck. She paused before she got up. “Do you really think seven is the right bedtime?”

“Nah,” said Beverly. “I was just teasing you.”

Hattie jumped up, ran across to Beverly and snuggled down next to her. “I like you.”

“And I like you,” said Beverly. “You know, I used to take care of Kit's two kids. Booker and Chloe. Have you met them?”

“Nope.” She shoved the pencil behind her ear. “Do you like chickens?”

“Chickens?”

“I like the Orpington Red and the Plymouth Rock chickens best. Have you ever seen a white feathered Frizzle?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Curly feathers,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it was something everyone knew. “I want to raise chickens in our rose garden. Auntie Cordelia said it's not legal for them to live in the city, but she's wrong. I have a friend who has three chickens in her backyard. In a coop. Her dad built it. Her mom gathers eggs every morning. Wouldn't that be the coolest?”

“Well,” said Kit. “I guess. If you like eggs.”

“Will you talk to my aunt, tell her she should let me have a chicken? Just one. We could work up to more. I'd take care of it, I promise. Take it for walks. It could even sleep with me when it gets cold out.”

Beverly looked over at Kit. “I'll see what I can do.”

“I've got a way big telescope,” Hattie continued, spreading her arms wide. “I'm not just interested in biology, you know. Auntie Cordelia keeps it in her office at the theater. If I'm there at night, we take it up on the roof. I know a whole bunch of the constellations. I've also got this great big book on Egypt. The pharaohs.” Squinting up at Kit, she added, “Have you ever seen the pyramids?”

“I believe I have, but I'd love to look at your book.” She moved Beverly's backpack off a softly padded small chair in the front hall and sat down.

“Now?”

“I'm waiting for someone, but until he gets here, sure.”

“Hattie?” asked Beverly. “Can you tell me where I could find a bathroom?”

The little girl stretched her arm as far as it would go and pointed to a hallway. “There. It's on the right. You can't miss it.” Turning back to Kit, she said, “Do you have any bubble gum?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm fresh out.”

The little girl looked so crestfallen that Kit said, “Maybe Beverly has some. It might not be bubble gum. It could be just plain gum.”

“I like plain gum, too.”

She dug through Beverly's backpack at her feet. As her hand sank into the middle section, her fingers struck something cold and hard. “Just another second,” she said, smiling at Hattie. Pulling the backpack into her lap, she looked inside. The cold, hard object was Beverly's handgun, the one her father had given her before he died. He'd wanted to present it to his son, but since the kid was both a vegan and a Buddhist by then, it went to Beverly by default. She'd been happy to have it, often taking it to shooting ranges to keep up her skills. Kit was a little surprised that Beverly was traveling with it. Generally, she kept it in a locked case at her home in Nashville. Zipping the backpack back up, Kit shook her head. “Sorry, no gum.”

“Rats,” said Hattie, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Oh well, I guess I'll go get my book on Egypt.” Kicking off the high heels, she rushed up the stairs, nearly bumping into a young man who was on his way down.

“Hatts,” said the man, catching her by the shoulders. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“I was right
there,
” she said, pointing to the bench by the door.

“You have a dentist appointment.”

She made an exasperated face. “Do I have to go?”

“You don't want all your teeth to turn black and fall out, do you?”

“You shouldn't try to scare me. It's not nice. Besides, we've got guests.”

“I can see that. Let me go down and introduce myself and then we need to hit the bricks. Go get some shoes on, okay? And brush your teeth.”

“If I'm going to the dentist, why do I need to brush my teeth?”

“Hattie,” he said, giving her a stern look.

“Oh, all right,” she grumped, chugging up the remaining stairs.

When the man reached the bottom, he introduced himself as Bolger Aspenwall, Hattie's nanny. “It's a great pleasure to meet you in person,” he said to Kit.

“You're the one getting his M.F.A. in directing at the university.”

“Guilty. Listen, I just had a call from Cordelia. There's been some sort of crisis at the theater and she's running late. She said that Mr. Lawless should be here any minute. She asked me to tell you to feel free to treat the house as your own. There are cold drinks in the kitchen refrigerator. If you need something stronger—”

What Kit needed was a map of the place. “Not necessary.” She wasn't against a little chemical optimism, though at the moment, she needed a clear head.

Bolger suggested a quick tour. As they were about to head into the bowels of the mansion, Beverly came out of the hallway and Kit introduced them. And then the doorbell rang.

As Bolger opened the door, Kit refastened one of her earrings, then smoothed a hand over the front of her dress, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

Ray's smile was as warm as she remembered. He was older, less robust than his younger self, but still handsome—and still a commanding presence with his neatly trimmed white hair, silver-rimmed glasses, and impeccable three-piece suit. She'd been planning to take his hands in hers, squeeze them amiably, but instead, he came forward and drew her into his arms.

“It's been too long,” he said.

She closed her eyes and luxuriated. There'd been a time in her life when she'd had Ray Lawless squarely in her sights, though in her heart she knew it would never happen. He was always either solidly with a woman or dating someone, and he wasn't the kind of guy, alas, who liked a little frolic on the side.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, tilting his head apologetically.

Kit remembered now why she'd been so drawn to him. It was his unflappability, his self-possession. He might deal constantly with issues of life and death and yet he seemed to personify the calm at the center of the storm.

Bolger offered to walk them to the sunroom.

Before she left the foyer, Kit pulled Beverly aside and whispered that she needed to speak with Ray alone. She could tell that her words upset her friend. “I'm sorry,” she said. “This is going to be a tricky conversation for me.”

“But I can help,” insisted Beverly.

“Of course you can. Just not right now.” She patted her shoulder, glanced furtively down at the backpack, then turned and walked away.

 

9

The sunroom was a revelation. It was a small slice of India, reminding Kit of a friend's home she'd stayed in once in Jaipur. The design features were intricate, ornate and busy, with a mix of patterns, silks, and brass accents. A series of tall mullioned windows let in the afternoon light, a welcome note of brightness in an otherwise dark house.

“Cordelia redid this room,” said Ray, standing in front of the fireplace. “She found the statuary, the bowls, boxes, and baskets, mostly on eBay.”

“Cordelia has always been a decorating alchemist.”

“Both sisters tend to think they know what's best when it comes to renovation.”

It was small talk, thought Kit, all necessary. Ray must have sensed that she was having trouble jumping right in. She sat down on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position amongst the pillows.

Ray lowered himself down on a carved wood chair. Sitting back and crossing his legs, he said, “So, how can I help you?”

“Well, you see, I know you're not a family lawyer, but I need your advice. Jordan's asked for a divorce.”