Her Perfect Life Page 7

  “Agreed,” I said. Whatever.

  “So you will not tell her about this call, or anything that comes from it.”

  “Mr. Smith?” Why did he want me to keep something from Lily? That made me eager to know it. “I agreed to off the record, and my word is my word. I’ve been in television for a long time, and my reliability is why I am where I am. So what can I do for you?”

  “Why don’t we discuss it in person?”

  In person? “Tell me more.”

  Smith began to speak, and I began to calculate. I stared down the empty corridor outside my office door—a strip of grimy carpeting, other office doors, and finally the doorway with the red Exit sign. The newscast, sound muted, flickered from a tiny monitor on Lily’s desk, and a bigger (and older) one on mine. I was alone, with a bit of breaking news of my own. I was going to meet face-to-face with our secret source.

  “I know it’s already close of business,” Smith was saying, “but if you can fit it into your schedule, I am free later this evening. I have a major story for you. I know you are the brains behind Lily’s beauty, Ms. Whitfield.”

  I had to admit, the guy knew how to flatter. And how TV worked. And psychology.

  “Sounds good. Is there anything I can research in the meantime? So I can come in up to speed?” Old producer trick. See if the source will give some hints of what’s to come.

  I heard him breathing on the other end of the phone, so I knew he hadn’t hung up. I waited. He was deciding, while I was having a mental debate of my own.

  Would I tell Lily I was meeting Smith?

  “Let us say nine? The lounge at Lido. The theater crowd won’t return until after the final curtain, so it will be public, but not crowded. Does that work for you?”

  “Okay.” I nodded, even though Smith couldn’t see me. And, sadly, he hadn’t risen to the “research” bait. But a good story is the grail, and it’d be gratifying—I grimaced at my selfish motives—to know something that Lily didn’t.

  “Ms. Whitfield?”

  “Yes?”

  “You mentioned research. Did you know Lily has a sister?”

  And he takes the bait. Of course I knew. Thanks to Rowen. But that was the last thing I imagined he’d say. “Sure,” I said.

  “You’ll want to look into that,” Smith said. “So. Lido. At nine.”

  “Lido at nine.” I wrote the place and time on my notepad. Lido, 9PM. “What name?”

  He—definitely he now—laughed out loud. “Smith, of course. But that’s hardly a problem. I’ll recognize you.”

  And I heard the sound of the phone disconnecting.

  So that gave me a moment of pause. Recognize me? How?

  CHAPTER 14

  LILY

  “Petra?” The moment Lily opened her front door, key still in the lock, she sensed a shift in the atmosphere, a disturbance, a fragrance of something unusual. “Are you home?”

  “Mumma?” Rowen stood beside her on the front porch, yanking on the strap of Lily’s shoulder bag. “We have a package! Can I open it?”

  “Petra?” Lily took another step inside, saw the butterscotch chairs, empty, the white couch, pristine, the lilies on the coffee table. The lilies on the coffee table? That was the fragrance.

  “Petra?” she called out again. Petra must have put them back for some reason. Wait. They were different lilies. More lilies?

  “Mumma? This was on the mail bench.”

  Lily turned. Rowen had a shoebox-size cardboard box in her hands, professionally labeled, but no store logo. Lily often got packages—books, and hair stuff, clothing, and makeup from Saks and Neiman’s, toys for Rowen. And now she was making ordinary into sinister. Again.

  “Can I open it? What is it?” Holding it to her ear, Rowen gave the box a little shake, then another. “Is it for me?”

  “Let’s wait, sweetie. Can you not shake it? And put that down for one little second?”

  Rowen put the package back on the bench. “One thousand one.” Picked it up again. “Mumma? Now can I open it?”

  “Honey?” Lily heard the edge in her own voice.

  “O-kay.” Rowen apparently heard it, too.

  Where was Petra? Maybe cooking, maybe in the bathroom, maybe Lily was just too damn tired from trying to analyze every little thing that ever happened, figure it out whether it was scary, or threatening, or dangerous. Plus her head hurt, and she was completely starving, and though Rowen had eaten a waxed-paper packet of graham crackers in the car, they were too carby for Lily to have any herself.

  “Petra?” Then she recognized what else was off. “Val?” She patted her hands together. “Here, girl!”

  I’m losing it, Lily thought. Low blood sugar strikes again. But—more flowers?

  “Maybe Val and Petra are in the back,” Lily said, brushing her hair from her face. “Why don’t you run to the back fence and see? You could surprise them.”

  Maybe she should go back to Dr. Hrones. No one could go through life—not happily, at least—when every little thing turned into a worry. Cassie’s fault, if you thought of it that way. Things that happen to someone else could topple the dominoes for everyone around them.

  She watched her daughter trot to the back fence. Rowe wouldn’t be able to see over it, because it was deliberately tall enough to block casual curiosity. But it gave Lily a minute to regroup. Bring herself back to reality.

  It had been a long day. With the phone call from Smith, and the heart-twisting drive to Graydon. Then the perplexing fire drill—the timing of which, Maryrose Glover had insisted, was known only to her. And that might be true. Maybe Smith had one of those scanners set to the fire department frequency and heard the call to Graydon. Fire departments had to know about drills. Didn’t they?

  “Mumma, I can’t see over the fence.” Rowen, returning, had put on poutface, but that lasted all of two seconds. “But I heard Val barking! She’s out there.”

  She scooted past Lily and dashed into the house.

  “Rowe!” Lily called, following after her. “Wait, honey!”

  “What, Mumma?” Rowen had turned to face her, and like a little mirror image, stood in the entryway with impatient fists planted on her hips. “Come on!”

  The dog was in the backyard. Lily felt her heart pounding. She put her hand over it, felt the air go out of her lungs.

  “Vallie!” Rowen called out.

  Lily heard another sound from the back of the house. A different one. A human one.

  “Hey, Lily. Hey, little one.” Petra, wooden spoon in hand and wearing one of Lily’s French aprons, came out of the kitchen, pale hair twisted into a messy bun, a swath of what looked like flour on one cheekbone. Lily heard dance music buzzing from Petra’s now-dangling earbuds.

  “Oh, you’re home. Fresh ravioli for dinner.” She raised the spoon, victorious. “I made sauce, too, and now everything smells of garlic. I’m a mess, and so is the kitchen. Val’s been out back, playing with the squirrels.”

  Val bounded into the room, tail at top speed, as if she hadn’t seen them in months. She first headed for Lily, then veered to Rowen. The two clattered out of the room, laughing and barking. Lily heard the back door open and slam closed. Nothing was wrong. Except.

  “Where did the lilies come from?” Lily hadn’t meant it to sound like that, accusatory and critical. Her emotions were getting the better of her today. Everything out of proportion.

  Petra furrowed her forehead, perplexed. Lowered her triumphant spoon. “Where? They were delivered today, is that what you mean? When you were gone.” She took a deep breath, wiped a strand of hair from her face.

  Lily saw her staring at the flowers.

  “Oh. They’re like the ones you gave me.” Petra pointed her spoon at them. “Should I not have accepted them? Did I make a problem?”

  Lily waved her off, stopping her. “No, no, Petra, it’s fine, it’s—”

  Petra’s shoulders dropped. “I should have understood.”

  “No, don’t worry, Pet, nothin
g to understand. It’s complicated.” Lily tried to smile. “I’ll deal. You cook. All fine. Flowers are always good. I was just surprised to see them. Go. All fine.”

  “Cool.” Petra saluted with her spoon again, then headed back for the kitchen.

  Good. Lily wanted her out of there. She walked toward the faceted vase, eyes on the green plastic stick poked among the pink-and-white blooms. Between two flat prongs, it held a white envelope, edged with a garland of Willaby’s trademark yellow roses. She removed the envelope. Flipped it.

  Sealed.

  She took a deep breath. Sat on the couch, turning the card over and over. The sealed flap taunted her.

  “Get a grip, woman,” she muttered. It would reveal something or it wouldn’t. But how did whoever sent this second bouquet know she’d given away the first one?

  “Mumma?” Rowe’s voice from the kitchen archway.

  “Yes, honey?” Lily turned to see her. Rowe’s hair had come out of its pigtails, and she’d lost another penguin bow.

  “Petra wants to know what time for dinner? And I wanna know how many raviolis we each get. Petra says eight.”

  “Eight sounds just right,” Lily said. “Then see if you’re still hungry. And how about—we’ll have dinner two minutes after you put your bow back on and wash your hands and set the table? Then come get me.”

  “It’s in the back, I bet,” Rowen said. “It must’ve fell.”

  “Fallen,” Lily said. “They’ll do that. Now scoot.”

  The second she was alone again, Lily slid one fingernail under a corner of the envelope and peeled back the sealed flap. She heard the paper rip, and pull, and release. She heard Petra and Rowe laughing from the kitchen. She saw the yellow garland bordering the card’s edge.

  Using thumb and forefinger, she drew out the card.

  There was just one word, in script, written in black fountain pen.

  Cassie.

  BEFORE

  CHAPTER 15

  CASSIE

  She’d tried to keep her mind on what Professor Shaw was saying, something about creating a plan for the rest of the year, something about lab practicums, something about extra credit. There was no need, she knew it, for them to have this meeting here and now. This could have been decided by a memo or two, or in the fifteen minutes between classes. He’d left his office door only half-open, she noticed, and a few people, some students and some teachers, maybe, walked past. He hadn’t acknowledged them. Wharton Hall was open, but Berwick had no classes on weekends.

  “As midterms draw nearer,” he was saying, “I like to assess the progress of students I feel have some—shall we say—aptitude. Are you enjoying class, Ms. Atwood? Do you feel you’re acclimating to campus life?”

  He was asking a question, Cassie told herself, like regular adults do. He wasn’t coming on to her, he wasn’t, this was how adults talked.

  “Yes, of course.” She could feel his eyes on her, on her bare legs, but maybe she was making it up. She dearly wanted to smooth her skirt, but that might make it worse, calling attention to it. She wished she’d worn tights.

  “Let me show you some of the textbooks we’ll be using the next semester. You can see whether you’re interested in some independent study.”

  He turned his back to her, ran a finger along the row of books on a shelf behind him. His black turtleneck was probably cashmere, and without a speck of lint, and his dark hair curled, just the tiniest of bits, over the collar. The shelves contained a few slim books of poetry. Tucked among the textbooks, she saw Whitman and Frost and Yeats.

  She sneaked a glance around his windowless office. Posters from the Barnes Museum, both still lifes, both framed in black metal. A Picasso and a Cézanne, she recognized. Both apples, but so very different. Apples to apples, she might say, commenting on them to show she understood art and was witty. Maybe.

  There were no family photos. No wedding photos. No little kids. A framed degree from Penn.

  She tried to think of what Frost poem she might casually drop into the conversation. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, she recited to herself. I took the one less traveled by …

  He pulled a brown leather volume from the shelf. He turned to her, looking down at her, and held the book out to her with an expression she could not decode.

  She lifted a hand to reach for it. Took it.

  The sound of a buzzer—so sudden and so surprising—startled her so completely that she dropped the book on his desk, where it tipped over the pencil holder. She stood, wanted to fix it, as the buzzers grew louder and louder. Lights flashed, strobing blue, the spell of their shared silence shattered and vanished.

  “Ms. Atwood?” He left the book where it was. Righted the pencil holder. He took a leather briefcase from behind his desk and stuffed a sheaf of papers inside. Then the book, too. “That’s the fire warning. I know it’s always a false alarm, but we’re required to treat every one as real. You have your belongings?”

  Fire alarms in this old building were set on a hair trigger—even this early in the semester, the buzzers and lights had already interrupted Cassie’s classes several times. They’d been told such an iconic building, and all the history it held, could never be replaced. Not to mention the people inside.

  The week before, Cassie’d had to raise her voice as she and her roommate left class and dutifully trooped outside, the buzzers incessant and unrelenting.

  “When it’s a real fire, no one will care,” she’d predicted. “We’ll all just assume it’s another drill, and sit there, and poof. Toast. Up in smoke.” She’d mimed her prediction with a wave of her arm. “They’re, like, setting us up to ignore them. What’re they thinking?”

  “I know, so dumb. Has there ever actually been a fire?” Marianne had shifted the stack of books in her arms as they walked back toward the dorm that day. “Or is this them all freaking out?”

  Now Professor Shaw paused, his hand on the handle of his briefcase. He shook his head as if amused. “This old building, right? All those nooks and crannies? No matter what they do…” His expression seemed to change. Harden. “You need to go, Miss Atwood,” he said. “Out the door, turn right, up the stairs, and exit the building. Keep walking. Away from the building.”

  Cassie gathered her belongings again, pretending she was hurrying, but watching him from under her lashes. She knew it. He was stalling, too, opening a drawer and closing it, taking a pencil from a jar on the desk and sliding it into his jacket pocket. He was waiting for her, watching her. Maybe he’d decided to ignore the alarm, knowing how often they were meaningless. They would be alone in the building, just the two of them.

  Is that what he wanted?

  Cassie lowered her head to zip up her backpack and peeked at him through her curtain of hair. What if they just … stayed here? Who would know, since everyone else would be gone? It was a false alarm, anyway. The perfect cover. Everyone else would think they’d gone their separate ways. No one would ever think they were together.

  “Ms. Atwood.” He’d picked up his briefcase and gestured toward the door. “We need to go.”

  We need to go, he’d said.

  What if there was a fire, the thought raced through her mind, and I was trapped inside, and he saved me? Or, what if … She twisted the story. What if I saved him? And—

  “I need to lock the door after I leave,” he went on, raising his voice over the buzzing alarm. “So, Ms. Atwood?”

  What was he signaling her? She had no choice now, she had to go. And see if he came after her.

  “Of course. Just making sure I have all my notes from today.” She tried out a smile, but he’d walked to the door. He held it all the way open for her.

  “See you another time,” he said.

  “In your office? Here?”

  She could tell by his emerald eyes that he was pretending to be surprised. “My office hours are posted on my door here.” He gestured her out into the hall. “And now you need to go.”

  She could feel those eyes on h
er back as she walked toward the open office door and up the blue-railed concrete stairs to the main exit. She couldn’t help it, and risked a glance behind her. A few stragglers, a student or two, a teacher, hurrying or not, toward the exit. Not Professor Shaw. Where had he gone?

  She turned back, kept walking the corridor, the blue alarm lights strobing, the buzzers, their volume rising and falling, but unceasing. A few more steps to the open door. She could see daylight outside, the sun, and in the distance the grove of maple trees where students would gather with clandestine wine and occasional weed. Silly, silly, silly people, still kids, really, and she was feeling just the opposite. She was an adult, she was eighteen and could make her own decisions. This was a false alarm. They could go back inside when it was over.

  She and Professor Shaw could laugh, she could almost imagine it, and then they could talk about biology. And maybe poetry. And art. She felt a tiny smile. How was she acclimating to college life? he’d asked her. Very, very nicely.

  Or maybe she was imagining things.

  “Get a grip, Cass,” she muttered. But she didn’t listen to herself. All kinds of wonderful things might happen. A false alarm was almost like … a tease.

  “Ms. Atwood?” A voice from behind her. “Cassie?”

  NOW

  CHAPTER 16

  GREER

  Cassie Atwood. For someone I’d never heard of until yesterday, thanks to Rowen and our Mr. Smith, now I was beginning to know a lot about her. Weirdly unsettling that our tipster source was giving us—me—information on Lily herself. The flickering images on my TV monitor showed the closing graphics of the seven o’clock news. I did feel guilty; Lily would freak if she knew what I was doing. Then again, she would never know. Plus, Smith asked me to do it. Like a research assignment.

  Cassie Atwood Pennsylvania, I typed. The cursor blinked as I thought. Why would someone be loath to discuss a member of their family? Lily could have just said, Oh, yeah, my sister Cassie. She’s an artist in Paris. A survivalist in Utah. She’s a hotshot investment banker; we never hear from her. I love her. I hate her. She’s dead.