When she was a teenager, Sylvie had openedThe Bed Bookto remember her father, and had found a note in his handwriting, jotted on the first page:My Sylvie: You’re too old to read this with me anymore, but someday you will open this book, and know that you are beloved.
—
“Sylvie!” cried Emma now, from her train window. “All aboard, Syl!”
“Emma!” Sylvie ran up the steps and into the train. She was embraced by her nephews and sister. Emma’s kids smelled like a long travel day (dirty socks) and Emma carried a complicated, spicy scent in her clothes and hair, likely one of her artisan perfumes. “And you must be Simon,” said Emma over Sylvie’s shoulder, pulling him into their hug.
Rich stood and joined them. His beard was going gray and he looked exhausted. He enfolded Sylvie tightly, saying, “Little sister, I’ve missed you.”
Sylvie’s nephews appeared to be energized, rather than worn out, from their jet lag. “Where’s Penelope?” said Jameson.
“She’s meeting us at Mumberton,” said Simon.
“Mumberton is a CASTLE!” screamed Jameson.
“There’s AUNT CLEO!” cried Guinness.
Cleo! She entered their private car, striding up the stairs as if she were entering the Met Gala or a New York Fashion Week runway. She was so glamorous, clad in couture, whittled down to almost nothing. Sylvie felt intimidated, but reminded herself that this glamorous creature was her own big sister.
Behind Cleo, carrying her purse, was a man who looked like a movie star. “I’m Danny,” said Cleo’s boyfriend, sliding his arm around Cleo.
Sylvie didn’t often encounter men (or women) who were so…symmetrical. Danny’s brown eyes were hooded, the very definition of “bedroom eyes.” Even his wrists were gorgeous, not to mention his leather shoes, which would have looked like elfin slippers on an ordinary man. (On Danny, they looked impossibly cool.)
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Sylvie.
“This is fabulous,” said Danny. “Just fabulous. It’s my first time on an original Pullman.”
Cleo had told Sylvie this was Danny’s first trip out of the United States, and his second trip on an airplane, but he sounded blasé.
“Mine, too,” said Sylvie.
“WHAT DID YOU BRING US, AUNT CLEO?” shouted Guinness.
“Whatdidwe bring them, Danny?” said Cleo, who had not seemingly considered her nephews until this moment.
The movie star pulled three new Nintendo game consoles from his bag. The boys cheered, Danny said, “Let’s do this, boys,” and the three ran into the dining car to begin gaming.
Sylvie walked to her big sister. Hugging Cleo for the first time in years, Sylvie felt only muscle and bone. It was a completely different feeling from hugging Emma, who was yielding and soft.
“Hey, hey,” Cleo said, patting Sylvie’s back instead of returning her embrace. Sylvie felt like a kid again, burrowing in, seeking comfort and warmth, but everything left of Cleo was cool and hard. Even her hair, which had once fallen loose—as a kid, Sylvie had loved to wrap Cleo’s hair around her fingers—was conquered, tamed into a sleek bob. “Thanks for coming,” said Sylvie, wiping her tears with the palm of her hand.
Sylvie scanned the grand train car for her mother, but Donna was nowhere to be found. It occurred to Sylvie that you could have all the money in the world, you could have a fiancé (he was walking toward her now, arms outstretched to escort her on thismagnificent journey) and a glass of the world’s finest champagne, and you could still feel bereft and alone.
—
As dinner was served—scallop carpaccio, spice-braised lamb and ewe crème cheese with lemon thyme, a trio of bell peppers with artichoke, potato gratin, and spinach—Jameson and Guinness climbed over their mother as if she were a sofa. Emma did seem squished, even defeated. Maybe it was motherhood or maybe just a long journey, but the mischievous flash in her eyes had dulled to a blank stare, her eyebrows raising when she was spoken to as if it were hard for her to pull herself from a worrisome daydream. Emma’s lips were chapped and her hair was messy until, halfway through the meal, she gathered her curls into a plastic claw clip and affixed them to the back of her head. Rich was trying to be jovial but seemed similarly strained. Was something wrong with the Catalfamos? Even the boys’ chatter appeared anxious, reminding Sylvie of the way she had talked and talked when trying to cheer up her father on the nights he acted depressed, smoking Winston cigarettes at their kitchen table. (The kitchen table that now belonged to Emma.)
Sylvie excused herself. In the bathroom, she put her hands on either side of a marble sink. There were fresh flowers in silver vases on either side of the mirror. Her mother had not shown up.
Beneath Sylvie’s feet, a mosaic floor displayed a giant bird. The toilet seat was smooth mahogany; from its perch, Sylvie could admire a circular stained-glass window. Sylvie didn’t want to leave the bathroom and wondered for a moment why she had invited her family here at all.
Oh, but she had missed her sisters. Cleo and Emma had shielded her from Donna and consoled her after their father’s death. They had celebrated at her first wedding and mourned at Alexander’s funeral. But then…what had happened? Sylvie didn’tunderstand how they had drifted so far apart. Obviously, the dream of fixing whatever was broken between them by uniting at a massive castle was stupid and misguided.
There was a tap at the bathroom door. “Sylvie?”
Sylvie turned the lock and opened the door. Simon stood in the hallway. The train tracks thrummed beneath their feet. Sylvie leaned in for a kiss. His hands moved around her waist and pulled her toward him. She put her hands on his strong shoulders and they tumbled into the bathroom. Sylvie bolted the door behind her fiancé. Simon, kissing her deeply, lifted Sylvie and placed her on the marble counter; she wrapped her legs around his hips. She was on fire; he slid her underwear down and knelt before her.
Sylvie gasped, trying to keep herself quiet. She opened her eyes and realized that the mosaic bird depicted on the floor was, of course, the mythical phoenix. Simon stood, unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, found a condom, and slid it on. His warm hands positioning her hips, his groan as he entered her, the bliss of him moving inside her, gently and then faster. Sylvie felt as if she were made of flames, wings spread wide, exploding into someone new, someone who believed in the possibility of joy.
