Edgewater (27 page)

The tears spilled over, and Jeremy was at my side in two strides. He wrapped his Gumby arms around me. To look at him, he was such a slight guy. I never imagined how big his hug would feel, the kind you could sink your whole body into. I sank in, burying my face in his shoulder, and I let myself weep.

“It still smells like him in here,” I said. I could feel Jeremy's
T-shirt against my skin, wet from my tears. “Can you smell it?”

“A horse's scent is the only cologne I've ever worn,” he said.

I clutched Jeremy tightly, hanging on as if my life depended on it. He lowered his head so that his cheek was against mine. The wisps of his beard were soft.

“Lorrie,” he said softly. I could feel his breath, and I knew all I had to do was turn my head an inch or two and he'd kiss me. And maybe I should—maybe all this time, Jeremy was the one I was supposed to be with. My body didn't buzz at the thought of him, the way it did when Charlie was around; still, there were certain things about me that only Jeremy could understand. He felt so safe.

I turned my head, so slowly, so slowly.

“Lorrie!” Lennox's voice broke Jeremy and me apart like the snap of fingers breaking a spell.

I stumbled back. Jeremy's face was suddenly as bright as a beet. Apparently he blushed just like I did.

“I was just about to go,” he said.

“You don't have to,” I told him.

Jeremy took my hand and squeezed it, and I felt my face flush when he did—not because there was any spark between us, but because there wasn't. Lately everything I did left me with an emptiness that could be filled only with regret.

“God, Lennox. What has gotten into you?” I asked once he'd left.

“What's gotten into
me
?” she asked incredulously. “What's gotten into you? You've totally been avoiding me—and don't tell me it's because you don't have a phone, because Charlie told me you do.”

“So you and Charlie talk about me now?” I asked defensively.

“He called because he said you seemed upset.”

I took a deep breath and said the words for the first time. “Orion's gone.”

“Gone?”

“I needed money, so I sold him,” I told her.

“Oh my God. I can't believe you—” She cut herself off and started again. “There must've been something else you could've done.”

“You sound like Claire,” I told her. “You want to tell me how you would've done this any better?”

“No, of course not. I'm sorry. Honestly, I don't know how you do it.”

Hearing her say that just made me seethe all the more—saying you don't know how someone does something is just the socially acceptable way of saying you're so glad you're not in the other person's shitty situation.

“And I wish you'd told me,” she went on. “I could've helped. You know I would've. When you needed someone to buy your plane ticket, I bought it. You needed to be picked up from the airport, I picked you up. You needed cash to pay Charlie back, I gave it to you.”

“Nice to know you're cataloging my emergencies,” I said.

“Stop it. I'm just saying I would've been there, and, frankly, I don't know why you turned to Gumby Gummer instead.”

“Is that what this is about—you're pissed that I didn't include you in yet another emergency?”

Lennox pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to me.

Dear Ms. Sackler and Ms. Kandell:

This letter is to inform you of your daughter, Lennox's, dorm and roommate assignment.

Eulberg Hall

Room 2-112B

Violet Tabachnick

“Obviously, I thought it was a mistake,” Lennox said. “I called the housing office, and they put me through to Ms. Strafford. She said you'd withdrawn. Without telling me!”

“I was going to.”

“When? I get that you have a lot on your mind. But really. We're supposed to be best friends.”

“You see? That's it,” I said. “You're pissed because you didn't know and didn't get to swoop in and save the day.” I'd never thought of Lennox that way before, but suddenly it was all I thought of her.

“Are you kidding me? Any time I helped you, Lorrie, it wasn't for me—it was because I care about you.”

“I'm just a project for you in between getting manicures and massages. You don't have to work.”

“You didn't used to, either!”

“You only visit your horse when you feel like it,” I went on. “You never have any responsibility.”

Lennox shook her head. “I feel like I don't even know you anymore.”

“You never knew me,” I told her. “Not like you thought you did.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“People don't always stay best friends. I don't think we have enough in common anymore.”

Lennox's eyes grew as big and round as saucers. She didn't even bother to say good-bye. She just turned and walked down the corridor. I listened to her footsteps walking away. Then I finally emerged from the stall and slipped Orion's nameplate from the holder.
ORION. LOVED BY LORRIE H
.

Zeus had placed the great hunter among the stars so he'd never be forgotten, or so the story went. As if I could ever forget Orion.

NAOMI INTERCEPTED ME AS I WALKED ACROSS THE
parking lot to my car. “I just got a wire for Orion's board for the rest of the summer. I can sign it over to you.”

“What? My aunt paid for him?” I asked. Did the trust still exist, after all? Why did she wait until the moment after my horse had left to finally access it?

“No,” Naomi said.

“There must be some kind of mistake.”

She held out a piece of paper, and my heart skipped a beat when I read the words at the top:
UNDERHILL ENTERPRISES
.

20

YOU KNOW THIS GIRL

THE DRIVE TO THE COMPOUND TOOK UNDER TEN
minutes. I didn't even realize that I'd actually have the guts to go there until I was pulling my car up over the sensors at the entrance. I rolled down my window to announce myself. But this time the gates opened without a voice first demanding I state my name and my business.

There was nothing coincidental about this. Underhill was somehow connected to my family, and I needed to know why. I pressed the gas and tried to channel Lennox's journalistic mind as I went over the questions I had for Victor Underhill: Why had he been so interested in me on the beach with Charlie? Why had he followed me to the pawnshop? What had he been doing at the hospital the night Susannah was burned? Why had Underhill Enterprises made a payment for the board of my horse?

But as I came up the final stretch to the Main, my plan to confront Victor Underhill seemed absurd. There was no guarantee that he'd even be there. And so what if he was? It didn't mean he'd answer my questions. I'd probably be turned away at the front door or perhaps even escorted off the property by a security guard.

I'd stopped in front of the house, and I moved my hand to the gearshift, unsure if I was going to slide it into park or into reverse. Should I go up to the house or get the hell out of there? I pressed my palm to the gearshift. The burn didn't actually hurt anymore, but I hadn't yet dropped the habit of pressing against it as if to test that it was still there, like when you're a little kid and you lose a tooth and your tongue can't help but find the hole over and over again.

I had nothing left to lose, and I shifted into park, got out of the car, and ran up the steps to the house before I had a chance to change my mind. I was poised to ring the bell, preparing myself to face Victor Underhill's glare, when the door opened. And there, in the flesh, was Senator Franklin Copeland.

“It's you,” he said. The surprise in his voice matched the shock that had been on his face that night in the tree house.

Me?

Tentatively, the senator reached out toward me. I took a step back, like a reflex. “Why are you backing away?” It seemed like a strange question; then again, it was probably the first time in history someone had avoided the touch of Franklin Copeland.

“Sorry,” I said. “You just startled me.”

“You startled
me
.” At the word
me
, he brought his hand to his chest. “I thought I'd never see you again.”

Why would the senator care if he ever saw me again? We didn't know each other. We'd never even spoken.

“Please don't be mad,” he went on. “I didn't want it to be like this, but Victor said—”

I cut him off. “Victor Underhill?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Julia hired him back, even though I told her not to. No one listens to me anymore!”

“I'm . . . I'm s-sorry?” I stammered.

The senator smiled. “But Victor's not here right now.” His voice was a loud whisper. “Julia wanted him to interview campaign managers.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“Friday,” the senator said with a smile. Friday was two days away. “We're so lucky,” he went on, “because there's no way Victor would let me talk to you. He said if I stayed with you, I'd never get to be president.”

“Stay with me? Sir, I don't think . . .”

“The voters don't like cheaters—that's what he said. The voters, the voters, the voters.” Senator Copeland nodded his head to the beat of the words. “Did you ever notice that if you say the same thing a bunch of times in a row, it starts to sound strange—like it doesn't mean anything at all?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said.

“I don't care about the voters anymore. I only care about you.”

He reached a hand out again. I stood frozen in place. It was riveting and terrifying all at once. His fingers, as dry as paper, just like his son's, grazed my arm. He let them linger a second, two seconds, five. My heart was pounding.

“Did you get the flowers?” he asked. I shook my head and stepped away, breaking the touch between us. “Please don't be this way,” he said.

“Senator,” I said. “Senator Copeland. You have the wrong person. I'm sorry.”

“I'm the one who's sorry,” he said. “It was an accident! An accident! You've got to believe me, Danielle!”

“Danielle?” I repeated. My mother's name. “Do you mean Danielle Hollander? I'm Lorrie. I'm her
daughter
.”

The senator blinked and shook his head. “Of course you are. Of course you are,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“But you know her . . . my mom? Danielle?”

I tried to wrap my brain around everything I knew about my mom—she'd been married, she'd had an affair. She raised her kids alone after Dad left. She'd been the kind of mom who would sing us James Taylor songs in the car and put her watch on my wrist so I could keep track of the time till lights-out. And then she'd left without saying good-bye. She never called or visited. She just sent shitty letters, and then those stopped, too.

Now it turned out she'd known Senator Copeland. Could they also have had an affair? The walls seemed to be spinning around me.
Yim, yim
, I said in my head. It wasn't working. You're not supposed to say your mantra out loud, but I did: “Yim, yim, yim.”

“I don't know what that means,” the senator said.

“She's been gone for years,” I said. “My mother. Danielle. She left my sister and me.”

“Your sister?”

I nodded. “Susannah,” I said. “She doesn't even remember our mother. She was too young when she left.” The senator pressed his hands to the sides of his head.

“Please,” I went on. “You said you sent her flowers. I don't care if anything happened between you guys, but I need to know where she is. I have a right to know.”

“I . . . I'm sorry. I can't help you. I was mistaken. It's time for you to go.”

“Dad?” The senator and I both turned to see Charlie walking across the foyer toward us. “Lorrie? What are you doing here?”

“You know this girl?” the senator asked.

“She's a friend of mine,” Charlie said. He turned to me. “I thought you were busy tonight.”

“I was just . . .” I shook my head. “I don't know what I'm doing here.”

“She was just leaving,” the senator said.

“Easy, Dad,” Charlie told him.

“I don't know her. And I don't know anything about Danielle.”

“Who's Danielle?” Charlie asked.

“My mother,” I croaked out. “I think your dad knows her. He knew her name.”

“He gets confused sometimes,” Charlie told me. “He's been . . . he's been working really hard.”

“I'm not confused!” the senator said loudly. “I didn't know her. Now your friend needs to leave!”

Charlie moved toward the door. “Listen, Lorrie,” he said, “I
think tonight's not going to be a good night. Can I get a rain check?”