on top of the mountain,” she choked out. She felt like she was going to black out again.
“Oh. That place. Hold on.”
The operator came back on. “It’s going to take them half an hour to get there. Is everyone okay?”
“Thirty minutes?” The boathouse would be nothing but ash by then. Pandy started to cry.
“Ma’am? Is everyone okay?” the operator repeated. “There isn’t a body burning in there or anything?”
Pandy found she couldn’t speak. Possibly she was going into shock.
“Ma’am?” The operator’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Hello? Is anyone hurt? Was anyone in the boathouse?”
Pandy’s insides squeezed shut as she tried to contain the shaking that was building up in her body like a pending explosion.
“To whom am I speaking?”
Pandy took a deep breath and, managing to stifle her scream, moved in front of the mirror. Her eyes widened in surprise. Her face and body were streaked with black soot and her clothes were in tatters. Her hair was burned off at the roots. Who was she, she wondered wildly. Her eyes landed on the photograph of Hellenor as Peter Pan…
“Ma’am? To whom am I speaking?” the operator demanded.
Pandy opened her mouth and, confused, nearly said, “Peter Pan.” But she knew, somehow, that that wasn’t right, because Peter Pan was actually…“Hellenor Wallis,” she gasped. It was the best she could do.
She let the phone drop from her hand as she heard the operator demanding to know the name of the person who was burning up in the boathouse.
She stumbled across the mudroom to a narrow cabinet. She reached up to the top shelf and took down a large bottle of whiskey. She unscrewed the cap, took a gulp, and then, as the whiskey hit her system with a jolt, she came to slightly and went back to the phone. She picked it up. “Hello?” she slurred. “It’s PJ Wallis.” And then the tsunami that had been building inside her suddenly came spewing out. Bile, black ash, and whiskey sprayed the floor.
The shock of this purge suddenly made Pandy feel better. The clamminess receded. She picked up the phone and hung it up, wanting to take advantage of this brief moment in which she felt slightly more mobile. She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and wobbled up the back stairs.
From where, only a short time ago, she had originated on some kind of mission. Unfortunately, she now had no idea what that was.
She wove down the hallway to her room, stripping off her garments as she went into the bathroom. Taking another gulp of whiskey, she sat down on the edge of the tub. Her hands were trembling as she turned the tap to run the hot water.
She got in, lying flat on her back in order to cover herself as quickly as possible.
As the hot water began to trickle in, her muscles began to relax slightly.
She sat up and took another sip of whiskey.
“There’s a body burning up in the boathouse,” she said aloud in the kind of silly voice that would have made Hellenor laugh. Hellenor. If she really had burned up in the explosion, Hellenor wouldn’t be laughing. She’d be sad. But at least she would inherit everything Pandy owned, including the rights to Monica.
Monica. Pandy groaned. She put her head in her hands. And suddenly, she was stone-cold sober.
Now it was all going to come out. The truth about her marriage; how she’d given Jonny money. Everyone would say it was because she was so desperate to hang on to him, she gave him whatever he wanted. And then they’d whisper behind their backs that she’d deserved it. She’d made more money than her husband, and certainly that merited some kind of punishment.
She took another swig of whiskey, got out of the tub, and lurched for a towel. Whatever happened, she’d just have to deal with it. She dried herself off and then used a corner of the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. She stared at her reflection. What she saw nearly caused her to go into shock again.
She was basically bald. Or would have to be, soon. What remained of her charred hair was a patchwork of crinkled, blackened strands of uneven lengths that would clearly have to be shaved.
For a brief moment, she could only shake her head in wonder at the viciousness of this particular run of bad luck. It wasn’t enough that her book had been rejected and she would have to explain to the world why she couldn’t write Jonny