“Why now?” I ask, then clarify, “For the book, I mean. Why is she suddenly wanting to rehash all of this?”
August turns his head, looking out at the ocean. I watch the reflection of waves crashing against the sand in his aviator sunglasses as he says, “There’s no telling.”
Turning back to me, he flashes a crooked smile. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Lo’s motivations are sometimes a mystery even to herself, I think. When she first reached out to me about this whole project, it seemed pretty clear she was just low on cash and thought a book deal might be an easy meal ticket, especially if someone else was doing the writing. I honestly wasn’t sure there was enough to her storyfora book. But then she suggested coming here, and I thought, okay, I can see a bit of aMidnight in the Garden of Good and Evilgoes coastal vibe. And then the next thing I knew…” He spreads his hands wide, leaning back so that his chair rests on two legs. “It was a fucking book. And, I think, a really good one.”
His chair smacks back onto all four legs, and he picks up oneof the plastic menus the waitress left with us. “Okay, let’s get some food in us before—”
“Do you think Lo did it? Killed Landon?”
The words come out louder than I intend, but the Kenny Chesney song blaring over the speakers means that no one at any of the nearby tables heard me.
August studies me as he scratches the side of his jaw with his thumb before saying, “I honestly don’t know. When I started this project, I didn’t think so, but there are parts of the story that just… okay. For example.”
He leans in again, the breeze ruffling his hair. “All of the stuff from the trial—the police interviews, the court transcripts, the autopsy report—literallyall of itsays that Landon’s body was found between the inn and the nature preserve. But when Lo first mentioned coming to St. Medard’s Bay, specifically to the Rosalie, to work on the book, she said, ‘That’s where he died. His body was right under the porch.’ She said it sort of offhand, and I thought she was either misremembering or it had been kept out of the press so as not to damage the inn’s reputation. But when you weren’t aware of it, either, it started gnawing at me more.”
I nod in agreement, but then, thinking of Mom, add, “Memory is a tricky thing, though, especially when people start aging.”
“Don’t ever let Lo hear you say she’s aging,” August says with a laugh before continuing. “Another thing: Lo says that on the day of the hurricane, she called Landon’s office in Mobile. She says she never spoke to him, that she had to leave a message with his secretary. And the secretary confirmed that, but she also said that an hour or so after that, she heard Landon on the phone with someone. Someone he was calling ‘baby’ and ‘sweet girl.’ And she wasn’t the only one. At least three other peopleat that law firm remember him on the phone, talking to what sounded like a young woman on the other end.”
The sun is beating down on my back, but I still feel a shiver go through me.
“And phone records show two phone calls to Landon’s office from the beach house he’d bought Lo—one earlier in the day, and again in the early afternoon,” August continues. “But Lo insists she called only once, that morning, and that she hadn’t been asking him to come to St. Medard’s, she’d just been checking on him because of the weather. And sure, it’s possible those people at his office were lying, that Beau Fitzroy paid them to say all that and make Lo look guilty, but…”
Trailing off, he shakes his head. “She called twice, three hours apart, from the same phone. The second call was placed around the same time that people in the office can confirm he was talking to someone. Now, why would she lie about a small thing like that?” He pauses and shrugs. “Unless, of course, she has something to hide?”
I don’t have an answer for that, but August is just warming up, and he goes on.
“Meanwhile, she swears that things with Landon were steady at the time, but according to his friends, he was seeing at least two other women. They didn’t know names—Landon was apparently just enough of a gentleman that he didn’t kiss and tell—but none of them thought Lo was going to last much longer. Landon was starting to get serious about running for office in a few years, and Alison was reportedly getting fed up with all the girlfriends, and given that the Carletons had nearly as much money and prestige as the Fitzroys, he couldn’t risk her asking for a divorce. It would’ve strangled any political career in the cradle. So…”
August blows out a breath, then links his fingers, stacking hishands on top of his dark curls as he leans back. “So, did she do it? I don’t know. Butcouldshe have done it?”
His eyes meet mine. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
WE ABANDON ANYpretense of an interview for the rest of the meal, eating and talking about anythingbutLo. Instead, he tells me about his family back in Ohio (parents still living, still healthy, one sister practicing family medicine in Chicago) and the various pieces he’s written over the years (a profile of some mountaineer forEsquire, an exhaustive list of “Sock Trends for Men” forGQ), and I tell him a little bit more about Chris, the most demanding clients I had back when I was in interior design, and the three families who are banned from ever darkening the Rosalie Inn’s doors again.
It’s nice, talking with August, and the time gets away from us. It’s after two by the time we make our way back down the beach, and the heat has kicked into high gear. On the horizon, thunderheads are piling up, and I figure we’ll get a traditional Afternoon Downpour within the hour.
We’re about halfway back to the inn when I see someone walking toward us, the sun making a rainbow out of the sparkling, chunky necklace she’s wearing.
It’s Lo, decked out in another floral sundress, and she waves both arms over her head as she sees us. “There y’all are!” she calls, and jogs a little to catch up with us. She takes in my outfit, and—I think—how close August is standing to me.
“How did the interview go?” she asks, and I’m about to tell her we pretty much scrapped it when August says, “Great! Got some really good stuff.”
I glance over at him, but he’s still looking at Lo from behind his sunglasses, and I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking.
“Yay!” Lo says brightly, but there’s something a little brittle about it, and then she moves between us, threading one arm through August’s, the other through mine.
“Geneva, do you mind if I go ahead and steal August back?” she asks. “I thought he might like to see where my beach house used to be. It’s real close, just a little ways over there,” she says, nodding back in the direction we’d been coming from. “Of course, you’re welcome to tag along, too, but I’m sure you have lots waiting for you back at the inn!”
All of this is delivered in Lo’s usual sweet-as-sugarcane voice, but I don’t miss the fact that I’m being dismissed.
I also don’t miss the way her hand curls tightly around August’s biceps.
It’s not a jealousy thing, I don’t think. Not in the traditional sense. Lo doesn’t want August romantically, but maybe she’s gotten used to being the center of attention, his sole priority.
I don’t know, but for some reason, looking at the way she’s holding on to him, I’m reminded of a line about Lo that I saw in one of the articles that Mom saved.
God help anyone who gets in her way.
