down the hill, that with the act of giving me her sweatshirt, she succeeded in pulling Lachlan and me apart.
20.
I’VE JUST CLIMBED OUT of the shower when the rain starts. I stand naked and damp in the tiny bathroom, listening to the ominous hammering on the roof. I do not want to go to Stonehaven for dinner. I want to light a fire and curl up with a book and let the storm howl outside. But that’s not an option, of course: This is the opportunity we’ve been looking for since we arrived here. (And in the end, it had been so easy! A suggestion from Lachlan in the car after the hike—“Should we have dinner at yours, tomorrow?”—and like that it was done, planned.)
But I feel unsettled, and I’m not sure why. I stare in the mirror and I try to summon up Ashley but all I see is a woman with dripping hair and circles under her eyes, exhausted by the effort of being too many people all at once. Dutiful daughter, partner and girlfriend, teacher and huckster, and friend and fraud; and where am I in all of that?
Lachlan peeks his head into the bathroom, already dressed in a cashmere sweater and crisp new jeans. He looks me up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing? Because clothes with pockets would be more practical. Unless you plan to hide a camera up your fanny.”
“Very funny.”
By the time we’ve filled our pockets with the cameras and strategized a game plan for the evening (Lachlan will distract by flirting, I will plant the cameras), the storm has landed with full force. When we open the door to the cottage, the wind catches it and flings it backward against the doorjamb so hard I think it might splinter. Slicing rain needles my face as we run up the path toward the beckoning lights of Stonehaven. I’m drenched before we’ve made it halfway to the porch.
Vanessa is waiting for us with martinis in hand; the flush in her face suggests she might already have had one herself. I wipe the rain from my eyes and take a quick gulp of my drink. It is strong, and briny with olive juice. “My goodness, you pour a strong drink.” I cough.
Vanessa looks worried. “Should I have made something else for you? Matcha tea? Green juice?”
“Oh, no. It’s delicious.” I smile at her, take another sip; but inside I’m kicking myself. Would Ashley drink martinis? Oh God, I am off my game. Too late now. I take another sip, a bigger one, let it play along my nerves and take the edge off.
Vanessa is making some kind of French stew—no formal dining room tonight, judging by the plates set out on the table—and the kitchen smells like garlic and boiling wine. She flits from pot to pot, flinging in spices, adjusting flames with a practiced hand, talking a mile a minute.
“The trick to authentic coq au vin is that you need to use an old rooster. But you can’t believe how bad the butcher here is; nothing free range at all and definitely no roosters, so I had to make do with some breasts. And of course, you must use a French wine, a Beaujolais…or perhaps a burgundy. Braise for four hours if you can, but I think six is even better, more is more, right? Haha!”
So she can cook; color me surprised. I remember Lourdes slaving away in this kitchen, making food that Benny’s mother never ate: Was Lourdes the one who taught Vanessa to cook?
Lachlan follows closely behind her, peering into pots and asking her about knife technique, cloyingly solicitous. I sit by myself at the kitchen table, sipping my martini in silence, growing irritated. As far as I know, Lachlan knows nothing about cooking, but I am perennially surprised at his ability to make shallow knowledge sound deep. I’m already feeling swimmy from the gin, and the smell of charred fats is making my stomach turn.
Finally I interrupt Vanessa as she’s explaining her browning method to Lachlan. “Any chance we could get the grand tour of Stonehaven? I’d really love to see the rest of the house.”
Vanessa wipes a strand of