Half of What You Hear Page 3

  I knew they were the Ones when they got to the landing and the woman bent down to smell the lavender bushes I’d planted the month before in the iron pots that flank the front door. The way she looked at her husband when she straightened up . . . I could tell. I picked up my cookie, and it crunched with a snap between my front teeth.

  The buyers—Melinda and Stephen Parker, I discovered—became a brief but fervent obsession, a place to channel the problem of my newly acquired self-loathing. Melinda and Stephen will have better furniture than us. They’ll throw the dinner parties we always meant to. They will have passionate sex years into their marriage, and they will never fight. I relayed all this to my mother, who laughed on the other end of the phone between sips of her coffee and told me to let it go, to keep my eyes on the prize, which I eventually did: Remember adorable Greyhill, the way my girlfriends moaned when I told them we were moving here—to take over an inn, no less. Remember the row of white hydrangeas blooming along the side of the new house, the family dinners every night, twinkling lights strung over the patio, and the twins chasing fireflies on the lawn. The quality of our lives is what matters now, I tell myself, instead of the unruly quantity of everything, the rushing around, the juggling.

  We are two months in, and everything is different. Completely so. Except, so far, me.

  * * *

  My email chimes. “Proposition for you,” the subject line reads. The sender is . . .

  Noelle Bartram?

  We met years and years ago, back when she and I were both fresh out of college and I thought I might want to be a journalist. We were working side by side as editorial assistants at Government Executive, a business magazine catering to the federal government, which is exactly as dry as it sounds. Noelle was the only fun thing about working there, and it didn’t take long for me to leave the magazine for a job at an event-planning firm. After I left, we remained friendly—in fact, a few years later, she introduced me to Cole—and she had since become the executive editor at the Washington Post magazine. I don’t think I’ve seen her in over a year. Maybe two. Why did we lose touch? I think. Did I even tell her we were moving? I click open the email and start reading.

  Hey, old friend. How is life in the sticks? How are Cole and Livvie and Max? Excuse me for getting right to the point but I’m on deadline . . . remember those?

  Typical Noelle. Short on time and pleasantries.

  I have a proposition for you. We want to do a story about Susannah Lane and what she’s doing around Greyhill. A guy in the office says he was down there a few weekends ago with his wife and overheard something about her selling a bunch of land, trying to make Greyhill the next Middleburg, flying in some fancy NY real-estate agent and her zillionaire friends. Is that true? Didn’t she just have a big accident? Do you want to write the piece?

  I squint at the words on the screen. Susannah Lane? I think. Write the piece? I know who Susannah is, of course, though I haven’t laid eyes on her in person. Her late husband, Teddy Lane, was a banking genius and multibillionaire, a man Time magazine once put on their cover with the headline “The Last True Tycoon.” The two of them were often featured together in the media—or at least, in some of the newspaper and magazine columns I kept tabs on for my old job, like the party-picture pages in Vanity Fair. Teddy Lane was a big contributor to the guy who ran against President Calhoun in the last election, one reason he never made it onto a guest list. But Susannah . . . I might like an excuse to meet her. Originally from Greyhill, she moved back into Esperanza, her childhood home, just about a year ago, and had a horrible car accident this summer that everyone around town seems amazed she survived. She’s also—fun fact—my father-in-law’s high school sweetheart.

  I click reply.

  Noelle! Good to hear from you. Yes, Susannah crashed her truck right before we moved here. She’s fine, as far as I know. And yes, she is a hot topic around here.

  I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before I continue.

  As for the assignment, I’m intrigued, but you do realize that I haven’t written professionally in twenty years?

  Noelle’s reply comes back almost instantly.

  It will be a fluff piece, three pages or so, you can handle it. We want someone local to the area and apparently there’s no newspaper there?! (IS THERE RUNNING WATER?!) I trust you, and I’m a good editor. Come on, do it. I’ll pay you well. Or as well as newspapers can pay these days. And what else do you have to do? Forgive me if I’m being blunt, but I thought you might like the idea of doing something different—of recasting yourself, if you will.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  What else do I have to do? I mutter under my breath. I think of Esperanza, which sits like a cake topper overlooking downtown. I used to make Cole drive us past the iron gates when we came for a visit, just so I could gawk at the big house on the hill. Hmm.

  I’m flattered that you thought of me, I type, but then stop myself. I pick up the phone and call Cole.

  “Hey, I only have a minute,” he says. “About to have a staff meeting.”

  “Okay, real quick,” I start. “You won’t believe who I just heard from.”

  “Shit,” he says, sighing into the phone. “I’m sorry, Bess. I didn’t realize what time it was. Can it wait?”

  “Oh,” I say, rapping my fingertips against the desk. “Sure.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll call you back in a bit.”

  Before I have a chance to say anything, the line goes dead.

  I put down the phone, thinking of Diane, my mother-in-law, and what she’ll say if I agree to do this. She has strong opinions about everything, but Susannah Lane is chief among the things she openly disdains, right up there with people who don’t send thank-you notes and women who wear exercise clothes in public. I personally think she’s jealous that Susannah was her husband’s first love, which is, of course, ridiculous, but so is Diane.

  What will people in town say? I think, hearing her voice in my head.

  I look back at my computer screen, nibbling on the inside of my lip as I think it over, and before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up the phone again and dial the number in the signature line in Noelle’s email. She picks up after half a ring.

  “So are you in?” she says by way of greeting.

  “Well, what are the details?”

  “Two thousand words, due in about . . . mmm . . . let’s say five weeks, right before Thanksgiving. That’s not too taxing, right? Given that our staff writers do that much on a daily basis?”

  “And they’re professionals. They win Pulitzers,” I say. “Remember, I’ve spent the last several years throwing parties.”

  “Throwing parties, very funny. I see you’re still as humble as ever. Look, I know it’s been a while since you’ve written anything, but I have to tell you, even all these years later, despite everyone I’ve worked with, you’re still one of the smartest, most capable people I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing an office with. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could do it.”

  “Aw, thanks,” I tease, though her kind words matter more to me than I’d like. “So you’re going to pay me accordingly?”

  “I can pay you a dollar a word. This is a newspaper, not a lobbying firm.”

  “Got it. But a dollar a word, huh? That’s fine, but I think I got a dollar fifty back in the day.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before the King Kong known as the internet started decimating our business. That’s the best I can do. And we’ll send someone down to do a photo shoot; it’ll be fun. Just think about your byline, and all the people in DC who will see it. . . . This could do wonders for you, Bess.” My mind zips to my former coworkers opening their Sunday papers and seeing my name. “Well?” she says.

  I look around the office again. “I’m in,” I tell her. “Let’s do it.”

  Three

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  PERSNICKETY GIFTS

  “I was at the Greyhill Inn yesterday.”

&nb
sp; “And? How is it looking now? With Cole at the helm?”

  “Well, that’s just the thing.”

  “What?”

  “The whole Warner family was there, standing in the lobby. Cole, Bradley, Diane, Cole’s wife, even their two kids. I think they’d just had dinner.”

  “Ah. I hope no one had the chicken piccata. Cole has to do something about that menu.”

  “Agreed. But that’s not what I want to tell you. The interesting part is that they were all standing there, the whole family, just chatting, you know, with that young kid who works the front desk?”

  “Henry, Harry, something like that.”

  “Right. And in walks—you won’t believe it—Susannah Lane.”

  “No!”

  “Yup! She had this big scarf wrapped around her head, all these bright colors—”

  “God forbid she go unnoticed.”

  “Exactly! There was a gauzy bandage peeking out from under the scarf. Actually, not peeking—it was clearly visible, like she wanted it to be seen. And she was using a cane.”

  “I heard about the cane! She’s really milking this thing, isn’t she? I mean, it’s been a couple months.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the whole accident herself, you know, for publicity. To get people on her good side over this whole land thing.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that theory.”

  “Mm-hmm. Anyway, so she comes in, walks right up to the Warners, and says hello to Bradley. She actually walked right up to him, put her hand on his arm, and leaned in and kissed his cheek! Right in front of Diane!”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, she did! And you should have seen the look on his face. You know, it takes a lot to render Bradley Warner speechless.”

  “What about Diane?”

  “You know Diane, she looked like she was about to explode. But that’s not all: Susannah then turned to Cole’s wife . . . Bess, I think her name is? And said she was looking forward to their appointment.”

  “Appointment?”

  “Yes!”

  “What kind of appointment?”

  “Hell if I know; they didn’t elaborate, but you should have seen Cole’s wife. Her face turned bright red, like she’d been caught.”

  “Caught doing what?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Even Cole looked confused.”

  “Huh. That is interesting.”

  “I know! But that’s not even the best part.”

  “No?”

  “Nope. So then, Susannah announces to the group of them that she’s come to the inn to have a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  “Yup. And then she turns to Bradley Warner, right there in the lobby, in front of everyone, and says, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun if you could join me, Bradley? You’ll have to stop by the house sometime and visit.’”

  “What?”

  “I know! Diane walked away then.”

  “Walked away?”

  “Yup. And Susannah started laughing.”

  “Laughing?”

  “Yes! Bradley looked appalled. Cole and his wife pretended not to notice—they turned their attention to their kids, I think they were trying to act like nothing happened, but I saw the two of them exchange a look. Unfortunately I couldn’t stick around to see the rest because William pulled up then, with the car.”

  “Do you think she actually went on to the bar, or was that the whole show? I’m going to ask around.”

  “Please do! I’d love to know more about this.”

  “I bet she did go on to the bar. And what do you think she’s doing with Bradley’s daughter-in-law?”

  “I can’t begin to imagine, but you know, it has to be something. The look on Bess’s face!”

  “That Susannah . . .”

  “I know. Shameless!”

  Four

  Livvie

  The first thing Livvie noticed about Lauren was the keychain on her backpack. Livvie loved keychains. She had been collecting them forever, at least since kindergarten. Right now, she had nine of them hanging from her backpack: a unicorn; a puffy gumball machine that smelled like cotton candy; an Eiffel Tower; a plastic picture-frame thing of Sara, her best friend in DC; a pom-pom; a hand sanitizer shaped like an owl; a LEGO minifigure; a little notebook; and Stuart, her favorite minion from Despicable Me. She used to have a White House keychain, too, but she took that one off and stuck it under some books in her nightstand after her mom got fired.

  The one Lauren had on her backpack was an L, which was why it caught Livvie’s eye. Well, that and the fact that it was big, actually almost exactly the same size as Livvie’s hand. Livvie knew this because when she was standing in line behind Lauren to go into homeroom on her second day at Draper Hall, the private school in Greyhill she and Max were going to now, she put her hand up next to the keychain for reference.

  Lauren felt her hand and turned around sharply.

  “Sorry!” Livvie said, quickly clasping her hands behind her back.

  Lauren looked at her, confused, like she was trying to decide whether Livvie looked familiar (Livvie had been getting a lot of looks like that since the move), but then she smiled at her.

  “I have an L name, too,” Livvie said. “Well, it’s an O name, actually—Olivia—but nobody’s ever called me anything but Livvie.”

  “I got this at Myrtle Beach last summer,” Lauren said, cocking her head back toward the keychain. “I won it, actually. Skee-Ball.”

  “Cool,” Livvie said.

  “You can borrow it.” Lauren slid the backpack off her shoulder and knelt down to take the keychain off. “We could trade for a while.”

  “Yeah!” Livvie said. “Okay!”

  Lauren chose Livvie’s pom-pom thing. It was a good choice—it wasn’t the yarn kind of pom-pom, it was made of turquoise fur. Max said it reminded him of the Truffulas in The Lorax. Or troll hair.

  The girls ate lunch together that day, and then the next, and the next. They hung out at each other’s lockers between classes and before and after school, and Livvie quickly realized—it didn’t take more than a day or two to figure it out—that she might be one of Lauren’s only friends. Actually, that she was Lauren’s only friend. Livvie almost never saw Lauren interact with the other kids, and when she talked about them, which was rare, she had a scowl on her face. When Livvie asked her about a particular girl—what her name was, or what she was like—Lauren seemed to want to blow past the subject as quickly as she could. She mostly wanted to talk about her animals at home—two horses, a goat, two cats, and a dog she called a “yard dog.” She lived on a farm out toward Madison. Livvie didn’t know where that was, exactly, but she’d seen signs around town that pointed toward there. She knew it was more rural, and she knew that some of the kids at school who were from outside of town got some kind of scholarship to attend Draper. She knew this because she’d overheard her parents talking about it one night while they were doing the dishes. Mom wondering, in that nervous way she got lately, if a private school “like Draper” was the best fit for her and Max. Livvie didn’t know what “like Draper” meant, but she knew that the public school out in the country had a bad reputation, at least according to what she’d heard kids say, and that Dad loved Draper. He talked about his time there like they were the best years of his life. Livvie had heard all his Draper stories a million times. They usually involved some winning touchdown or home run he’d scored.

  She had hoped the kids at Draper would be different from the ones back in DC. Nicer, at least. Less stuck-up. Unfortunately, one morning, not long after she and Lauren traded keychains, she sat down in history class and discovered that things were not going to be better here. They might even be worse.

  Class hadn’t started yet. She was setting up her stuff to take notes. She put her sharpened pencil (she couldn’t stand dull ones) to the left. Her favorite notebook was placed to the right. At the top left, she put her water bottle. Mise en place, she always s
ilently whispered to herself. She’d learned the phrase from her mom once when they were making pancakes. Everything in its place. Once everything was where she liked it, she bent down and did the thing she always did before class: she unzipped her backpack, zipped it back up, checked her watch, and fixed the strap so it fit snugly against her wrist. Ready.

  Mr. Billingsley was approaching the smartboard, preparing to speak, when a kid she hadn’t met turned around from his seat two rows in front of her and smiled, a certain aggressive glint in his eye that she was unfortunately familiar with. He turned to the boy across the aisle from him—Jimmy, Jamie, something like that—and began to imitate her, making the kind of motions Livvie had seen professional baseball players make when they step up to the mound. Superstitions, her dad had explained when they watched Nats games on TV. But it quickly became obvious what he was doing. He leaned down and opened and closed his backpack, all the while looking at her with a rabid grin that was as threatening as if he were opening the backpack to show her a glinting weapon. He played with the invisible watch on his wrist. He adjusted the stuff on his desk. And then the stares started coming. And the laughter. Some looked nervously, some gleefully, a few girls—bless them—with pity, lips closed tightly. Mr. Billingsley turned around. “Class!” he barked, either oblivious to or not caring about the cause of the commotion.

  The perpetrator—Livvie thought his name was Evan, maybe—took his time turning around to face the front of the room. One last glance, one last grin. Mr. Billingsley started talking about Jamestown and she tried to pay attention to the lesson, but she felt as if she were aloft, floating above the class on a raft, dizzy and reeling.

  So given what she’d seen of the student body, it was actually fine with Livvie that Lauren didn’t really have other friends. Who was she to judge? Besides Lauren, her only friend was her brother.