occasional laughs, a light touch of conversation lilting in the open window.
Cassie discovered she was already dressed, if you could call the jeans and dirty T-shirt she’d been wearing the day before “dressed,” and though she regretted looking even worse than she had when she’d opened the door for Nick yesterday, she needed to find out—desperately, in an embarrassing, gawking, fangirl kind of way—if who she thought was down there was who was really down there.
Cassie crept down the staircase, appreciating the ancient, slippery thrill of her sock-covered soles over each step. Hangovers make every sensation raw and more pronounced, for better or worse. Midlanding, she stopped to lick a smudge of tomato sauce off the corner of her shirt, remembering now that there’d been Bagel Bites. And sleuthing! Yes, now she could remember—she’d searched the closets for a trace of Jack Montgomery. Love notes, mementos, that kind of thing. She’d found letters, but they’d been disappointing. A stack from some girl named Lindie, bearing a Chicago postmark. This particular stash of missives had started in 1956; Cassie had shuffled through, opening ten or so of them, ending with one stamped 1958 and ignoring the rest once it was apparent the chicken scratch was never going to mention Jack Montgomery’s name.
But wait! Cassie remembered brightly, suddenly, that she had found something later on, with more whiskey under her belt. Not the letters—something else. Something that glimmered with the possibility of June’s connection to Jack. What was it? Maybe that was why she’d ended up drinking even more. Celebration—yes! She’d been jubilant, huddled beside the closet of the fourth bedroom, fingers and knees covered in dust. She’d lifted the bottle and toasted the dream people and her grandmother too, and gulped the tawny elixir, which appealed to her not at all now that morning had come.
The salty tang of Bagel Bites lurched in Cassie’s stomach, especially as she tried to think, more reasonably, about the implications of her discovery, of Nick coming back, of the possibility of Jack and June having made her father together. The initial shock had worn off, and in its place had settled sorrow and trepidation and, on the other hand, movie stars and millions of dollars.
The Bagel Bites wanted to come back up. She couldn’t hear the voices anymore; she guessed the people were coming around the far corner of the house, turning behind the kitchen, which meant she had a few moments left to pull herself together, but not enough time to empty her stomach and come out on top. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She gripped the banister and forced down the bile, closing her eyes against the sunny colors the stained glass was insisting on painting her home.
Down the stairs to the foyer and then what? Right to the dining room and kitchen? Straight ahead into the back parlor? Left to the front porch? She strained to listen. The visitors passed the triple windows at the parlor floor. She crouched to spy. One of the three people was certainly Nick; she herded her mind away from the miasma of doubt and excitement and fury and worry that she felt at the sight of him. There was also the question of the young woman with long blond hair, and another woman—petite, lean—but she was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, impossible to identify between the overgrown rhododendrons and fluttering curtains and the contrast of the bright day.
Cassie made it to the front door, mentally applauding the Cassie of yesterday, who’d been inspired after slamming the door in Nick’s face, if not to go through the pile of mail in the foyer, then at least to push it wholesale into the office. It looked as though she was planning to start a bonfire in there—tempting—but at least it was no longer blocking the front door.
Which she then opened, discovering the light was all funny for morning. Too yellow, too flat. The revelation of afternoon made
Cassie discovered she was already dressed, if you could call the jeans and dirty T-shirt she’d been wearing the day before “dressed,” and though she regretted looking even worse than she had when she’d opened the door for Nick yesterday, she needed to find out—desperately, in an embarrassing, gawking, fangirl kind of way—if who she thought was down there was who was really down there.
Cassie crept down the staircase, appreciating the ancient, slippery thrill of her sock-covered soles over each step. Hangovers make every sensation raw and more pronounced, for better or worse. Midlanding, she stopped to lick a smudge of tomato sauce off the corner of her shirt, remembering now that there’d been Bagel Bites. And sleuthing! Yes, now she could remember—she’d searched the closets for a trace of Jack Montgomery. Love notes, mementos, that kind of thing. She’d found letters, but they’d been disappointing. A stack from some girl named Lindie, bearing a Chicago postmark. This particular stash of missives had started in 1956; Cassie had shuffled through, opening ten or so of them, ending with one stamped 1958 and ignoring the rest once it was apparent the chicken scratch was never going to mention Jack Montgomery’s name.
But wait! Cassie remembered brightly, suddenly, that she had found something later on, with more whiskey under her belt. Not the letters—something else. Something that glimmered with the possibility of June’s connection to Jack. What was it? Maybe that was why she’d ended up drinking even more. Celebration—yes! She’d been jubilant, huddled beside the closet of the fourth bedroom, fingers and knees covered in dust. She’d lifted the bottle and toasted the dream people and her grandmother too, and gulped the tawny elixir, which appealed to her not at all now that morning had come.
The salty tang of Bagel Bites lurched in Cassie’s stomach, especially as she tried to think, more reasonably, about the implications of her discovery, of Nick coming back, of the possibility of Jack and June having made her father together. The initial shock had worn off, and in its place had settled sorrow and trepidation and, on the other hand, movie stars and millions of dollars.
The Bagel Bites wanted to come back up. She couldn’t hear the voices anymore; she guessed the people were coming around the far corner of the house, turning behind the kitchen, which meant she had a few moments left to pull herself together, but not enough time to empty her stomach and come out on top. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She gripped the banister and forced down the bile, closing her eyes against the sunny colors the stained glass was insisting on painting her home.
Down the stairs to the foyer and then what? Right to the dining room and kitchen? Straight ahead into the back parlor? Left to the front porch? She strained to listen. The visitors passed the triple windows at the parlor floor. She crouched to spy. One of the three people was certainly Nick; she herded her mind away from the miasma of doubt and excitement and fury and worry that she felt at the sight of him. There was also the question of the young woman with long blond hair, and another woman—petite, lean—but she was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, impossible to identify between the overgrown rhododendrons and fluttering curtains and the contrast of the bright day.
Cassie made it to the front door, mentally applauding the Cassie of yesterday, who’d been inspired after slamming the door in Nick’s face, if not to go through the pile of mail in the foyer, then at least to push it wholesale into the office. It looked as though she was planning to start a bonfire in there—tempting—but at least it was no longer blocking the front door.
Which she then opened, discovering the light was all funny for morning. Too yellow, too flat. The revelation of afternoon made
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