“You’re interested in insurance?” He raised his eyebrows and looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“No. I mean, yes. Maybe.”
“Let’s not talk about business, huh?”
“Okay,” I said. He went back to his meat and I looked up, like instructions might be written on the ceiling. It was painted with a scene of angels sitting in fluffy clouds. Women in colorful tunics clutching harps, a temple with big beige columns at the entrance. Ugly cupids who seemed to smirk at me.
I looked back at Tom, knowing his real name must be something else. I guessed we had that in common. Both of us were pretending. Both of us wanted to escape from who and what we were. That was when I saw it—just a glimpse. Flat blue water, like a bay. Or a lake. He was watching a thin, blonde waitress balance a tray of drinks on her arm.
“What was it like, growing up by the water?” I asked. It was just a guess, really, but that’s how the visions worked, most of the time. They were like the tarot. Clues you needed to puzzle out, create stories around. He turned to me, and I could tell I was close by the way his attention snapped back. He tilted his head and leaned, just a little bit, closer to me.
“Did I tell you I was from Michigan?”
“No, I just guessed.” I tried to use the voice that I saved for clients in the shop, calm and serene, but with a little bit of sugar in it. “Something about you, I can just … tell.”
Finally, he smiled. “My parents’ house backed up to Elk Lake. Most beautiful place there is. You never find water like that out here. Not that color, not smooth as glass on a calm day.” His face brightened, and I knew he was picturing it, the shade of the water, the expanse of it on the horizon, maybe the way it changed during a storm.
“Did you like to swim?”
“Sure do. Learned to swim right in my backyard, practically. And in the winter? You can go ice fishing. My brother and I used to skip school, hide our gear behind this old woodshed a few miles down the road from our house, and we’d spend all day out there. Of course, later, we brought some, uh, libations along.”
As he went on, I realized he didn’t really want me to talk. He wanted me to listen. He wanted me to smile and nod, to laugh or look pained when he recounted a memory that was nostalgic or sad. I could have been anyone, any young woman willing to sit across the table while he talked about his brother, the past—someone new who hadn’t heard all his stories yet. I hardly had to do anything at all. His nostalgia reminded me of Des, how she was always going on about how great things were in Atlantic City when she and my mother first arrived. The parties, the glamorous clients, and there was always a new casino or new restaurant or new club to go to. The boardwalk crammed with tourists, buskers, street performers who filled the air with music. The money that came easily to the two of them. I was different, different from these people for whom the past was perfect, pristine. I knew I wouldn’t get older and dream my way back to my childhood, the long hours in the apartment when Des left me alone, themicrowaved trays of macaroni and cheese I burned my mouth on. It was the future that glimmered for me. California. My mother. Jasmine in the air, like she had described in her letters. A warm breeze gentle on my arms.
After dinner, Tom put his arm around me while we waited for our car, but this time instead of slinging it around my shoulders, he wrapped it around my waist, drew me close. I wouldn’t do it, but I let myself imagine pulling away, breaking out into a run. On the drive home he moved across the seat, toward me, wrapped his fingers around my thigh. I looked out the window while he spoke.
“This was a lovely evening. I hope I can see you again the next time I’m in town.” Even with my head turned away I could smell the wine on his breath, sour and hot. He had drank most of the bottle, but I still tasted it on my lips, where it had settled into the sun-scorched cracks.
“It was,” I said. “And I hope you’ll come back and visit soon.” I stared straight ahead while his fingers tightened on me, pressed into my skin. I willed myself to think of our shop. The leak under the apartment sink that we couldn’t afford to fix and that was slowly spreading a brown stain across the ceiling.
He turned my hand over, pressed a few bills into my palm.
“Thank you,” I said. I remembered what Des had told me, about these men wanting to feel like saviors. How everything I did should be girlish, helpless, small. “This will help us keep ahead on the rent this month.” He slid another bill from his wallet.
“Well, don’t forget to treat yourself to something nice, too.” I looked down this time—a hundred, with a small piece of paper tucked into it. For the first time that night, I felt hope bloom in my chest. If Des was going to sell me, maybe I could make it work for myself, too. “And if you ever want to extend the date, come relax in my suite at the hotel, you let me know. That’s my number. Get in touch.”
Before I got out of the car Tom put his hand on my jaw, turned my head toward his, and kissed me, pushing his tongue into my mouth. The kiss was forceful, wet, and salty. Nothing like the few spin-the-bottle pecks I had known. I closed my eyes and thought of the ocean. I saw it every single day, and I could hear the rumble of the waves from my bed at night. But it still always looked huge and beautiful and violent, full of unknowable things.
I walked the dark half block home, refusing to think. The boardwalk was quiet, but I inventoried everything around me, a way to keep my mind still. Out on Steel Pier, the circle of the Ferris wheel was bright against the sky, lit up red and yellow, spinning in its slow, lazy circles. A cat zipped out from the direction of the candy shop, its tail high in the air. A man stood underneath the awning, studying the poster of Julie Zale in the window. When I stopped in front of our door, I could feel him watch me draw my keys from my bag. In the dark I could only make out the coal of his cigarette and shape of smoke drifting toward the sky. He tossed his cigarette down, crushed the butt under the toe of his boot. I felt the creep of another fly, this one across the upper ridge of my lip. I couldn’t help it, even if I knew it was just in my head—I raised my hand to shoo it away.
I was relieved that Des wasn’t home when I got back. I didn’t want to tell her what had happened, how I had almost messed everything up, how I was hearing things that weren’t there. I didn’t want to tell her it had gone well, either—what would being good at this mean? I put the rest of the money Tom owed us on her nightstand but saved the $100 for myself—each dollar another step toward my mother, toward my new life. I couldn’t decide if I was proud or ashamed of that extra money, whether it meant I had done something wrong or something right. I smoothed the bill into the back pages ofThe Wisdom of Tarotand refused to think about it—it wasn’t bad or good, only what needed to bedone. From my bed, I watched the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles above my head and tried to sleep.
I must have drifted off, though I know I tossed and turned. I woke up at dawn. I’d dreamed of the woman who had run away from me: those big brown eyes, the soft voice. I thought of the reading I’d done after she’d gone. The Four of Wands. Family. Harmony. The King of Cups, the lack of clarity. The Seven of Wands. Betrayal just around the bend. And then I understood: the visions from the night before didn’t have anything to do with Julie Zale—they had to do with her, the woman with the locket. I curled myself into a ball, another phantom fly working its way along my thigh.
LILY
I WOKE TO THE SCREECHof my alarm, and as soon as I sat up I felt the lurch in my stomach.Oh,I thought dully, as the bar, the bourbon came back to me. I looked at my phone. I had dialed Matthew’s number five times. I even called Ramona twice. Based on the call log, it didn’t seem like I had spoken to either of them: each call was between eight and ten seconds long. I wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing or another humiliation.
It was 6:15. I’d need to be at the spa in an hour to learn opening procedures. I ran through all the things that needed to happen by then. Four types of makeup. Hair washed and styled. Press the wrinkles out of my jacket. Pepto-Bismol, water, gag down dry toast.
I showered, smeared a little eye shadow on. The swing of the vanity mirror in the bathroom made me dizzy as I opened it and rooted around for brushes, Q-tips, hair spray. Even with makeup I looked clammy, pale. I heard Brett’s voice.You wanted to start your own gallery, right?I slunk out without ironing my blazer. When I started the car and backed out of the driveway, I wondered if I wasn’t still too drunk to drive.
IN THEparking lot I took another swig of Pepto-Bismol before stepping out of the car, and the taste of chalk and fruit made myguts twist. I hurried down the stairs and through the crosswalk to the circular drive that led to the main lobby of the casino. The elaborate topiaries that flanked either side of the entrance had overgrown, become fuzzy and indistinct at their edges. A lone gardener watered a patch of red impatiens, holding out the hose in one hand and scrolling through his phone with another. As I passed him, I could smell the sweet, metallic scent of the water trickling from the hose, and it reminded me of my childhood: My father mowing the lawn while my mother planted in the garden, pulled weeds, mulched. The softness and idyll of the memory was like a pastel drawing preserved under glass.
At the top of the drive, near the valet stand, a woman in Lucite stilettos was hailing a cab. She wore a Lycra dress with cutouts that showed the notches of her ribs. A long, thin scar ran down the back of her calf, and there was a tattoo of a peach above her left breast. She must have felt my stare, because before she turned to get into the taxi she stopped and blew me a kiss, then gave me the finger. The man at the valet stand saw it all and laughed heartily.I’m not a prude!I wanted to shout.I’ve seen things! I’ve done things! I lived in goddamned New York City!But I stayed quiet, and as I passed, the valet tipped his cap, gave me a smug little smile. I thought again of Clara and Des, the things Emily had suggested about them. About Clara’s rounded cheeks.
I hurried down the long hall that led to the new wing, past housekeepers vacuuming neat stripes in the carpet and janitors emptying ashtrays into garbage bags, but when I got to the spa the front door was locked. Through the glass, I watched as a man ran a rag over the top of the steel desk. I tapped on the glass, but he didn’t turn. I tapped harder. The man had turned and was walking toward the coffee table with all of the magazines when he saw me. I waved like an idiot. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
“Hi, I’m Lily.” I pointed to my name tag, panting from my jog down the hall. “I work here.” He frowned. “Can I please come inside? It’s the beginning of my shift. I’m new and don’t want to be late.”
