“I haven’t met the host yet!” she says.
“Ahhhh!” Jack nods. “Let’s fix that. Come with me.” They leave their empty glasses on the table—three young men in black T-shirts have been clearing glasses and plates—and Nicola follows Jack out of the ballroom to another part of the house, down a wide hallway that leads to a set of stairs. “Front stairs,” he says, pointing. “Back stairs are over there. Library,” he says, pointing again, and Nicola sees, through the open door, a semicircle of a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She spends a moment contemplating the feat of architectural design that makes possible built-ins in a rounded wall.
“I feel like I’m in a live game of Clue,” she says.
Jack laughs appreciatively at this. “Colonel Mustard did it, if you’re wondering.”
“I knew it,” says Nicola. “The bastard.”
“Seems like it’s always Colonel Mustard,” he says.
“Yesss!” Nicola cries, even though in her experience it’s always Professor Plum. She and her sisters used to play a lot of Clue, especially at the lake, where there is only one television and no cable, no Wi-Fi. Sometimes they hated that, and sometimes they tolerated it, but more often they loved it. Especially now that those endless summer days are over—they still go when they can, but never so freely, never so unencumbered, never soendlesslyas they did in the past—now they really love it.
Jack’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it and says, “Sorry, darling, I have to take this.” Despite her internal efforts to remain impervious to his charms, the way Jack Baker saysdarlingdoes something naughty to Nicola. “Here, wait for me in there”—he gestures toward the library—“and I’ll be right back. Okay, Nicky?”
From where did Jack get permission to use the nickname that only her family is allowed to use? “Okay.” She enters the library and stands for at least a full minute, maybe longer, looking at the spectacular shelves, before someone says, “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
Nicola jumps. There’s a person in the room with her, a womanabout her age, could be younger, could be older, with shoulder-length dark hair, really curly, those enviable curls that probably drive the owner crazy, and a simple white slip dress. Beautiful skin, darker than Nicola’s. That’s not saying much; most people have skin darker than Nicola’s, Minnesota having originally been settled by pale people. The other woman is upright in one of the three easy chairs that sit, like the three points on a triangle, in the center of the room, around a large round leather table. She’s not looking at a phone or at any of the books; she gives the impression of having been recently deep in thought. Her smile is small and cautious, and her eyes are big and brown.
“It’s amazing,” Nicola says. “I’m pretty sure this is the nicest house I’ve ever been in.” The woman nods, as though this is a test and Nicola has given the right answer. Nicola thinks of the home she grew up in, a home that a real estate listing might describe ascozyandwell-lovedbut only when using those terms as a collective euphemism forcrampedand possiblyshabby. She thinks of her and her sisters sharing the one bathroom on the second floor, the endless stream of female clutter moving across the countertops, bobby pins and scrunchies and bottles of makeup and perfume and mouthwash, one of them always tipped over and leaking resolutely from a cap that hadn’t been put on tightly enough. The lake house on Pokegama, the real estate listing would callrusticandfull of character from times gone by,which mostly means that the appliances are all due for replacing.
“Are you trying to escape the party?” ventures Nicola. A fellow introvert?
“A little,” says the woman. “I’ll go back out soon. I just—” A fraction of a shrug, a pause. “I just needed a break.”
“Sure, I get that.” Nicola wonders when Jack is coming back to call herdarlingagain and to let her lips get close to his ear. What istakinghim so long? “I just can’t believe all this space for one person,” Nicola goes on. “For one person! It’s almost criminal.”
“Almost,” the woman agrees.
“I guess that’s why she throws the parties,” Nicola says. “To fill things up. Otherwise it would be lonely here, right?”
“That’s probably one reason.” Nicola waits, but the woman doesn’t offer an idea of what the other reasons might be. Something about the smooth, eager expression on her face makes Nicola feel like she should keep talking. “It’s the first time I’ve been here,” she says. “Even though I live right next door.”
“Right next door!”
Nicola nods. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’ve been here since early May,” she says. “I haven’t missed a single party.”
“Wow. That’s commitment.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“I’m Nicola, by the way.” Nicola steps toward her and extends her hand. The woman’s fingers are long and slender, ringless, though there is a trio of simple gold bracelets on her wrist. They shake. The timing works out such that she says her name at the same time Allison enters the room and also says the name: “Juliana!”
Nicola looks from one to the other. “You’reJuliana?”
She smiles and nods. The smile is still small and careful but it has opened a fraction, then opens up more, until it’s an actual grin. “I am,” she says. Nicola roots around in her recent memory, trying to recall exactly what she said about the house being too big. And had she called the owner lonely? Had she said something worse? “And if you live in the cottage next door, that makes us neighbors.”
“I guess it does.”
“Juliana,” says Allison again. “I think I found the person you were looking for. He’s near the bar.”
Juliana’s face betrays nothing; she turns to Nicola and says genially, maybe just crossing over into formality, “I need to go speak to someone, Nicola. It was so nice to meet you. We should get together in a more intimate setting someday soon, so we can chat.”
“We should,” Nicola agrees. But she doesn’t mean it. She’s flustered; she feels tricked, even gaslit. Anyway, this is the sort of thing people say casually to each other all the time and never follow up on. Like the way you promise all your extended family members at a funeral that you’ll have to get together in happier times, and you don’t see them until you’re peering into another casket.
But: “How’s Monday?” Juliana turns in the doorway to say this to Nicola.
