“You have to remember how scandalous that book was—affairs, abortion, partner-swapping—everyone was talking about it, trying to guess who was who. Even though Preston had disguised his friends, everyone knew who they were, and everyone was talking about them.”
“Did people get mad at him?”
“Absolutely,” Ned said. “People got divorced because of the book. When he first moved to Greenhead there were twelve couples who were all part of his gang, six at the center. Preston was the ringleader, the social chair. They spent every Sunday playing volleyball or tennis, drinking and dancing. There were always parties, hard drinking. People slept around. It was the sixties. But a lot of their friends say those marriages could have survived if it weren’t for the scrutiny that came from the book.”
“Because when he publishedTarboxhe told everyone’s secrets.”
“I don’t think he meant to. But Greenhead is a small town. It was even smaller then. Out of the twelve marriages in the group only two of them survived the scandal.”
“Does that disturb you? Making a movie that’s going to upset people?”
“I suppose.” Ned considered. “But I represent the estate. Preston chose his grandson to helm the estate. He didn’t choose his ex-wife. We have to assume there was a reason for that, that he felt his grandson would serve his memory better. And the film does important things for his legacy.”
“Once a writer is dead it’s hard to know what they might have wanted.”
“It’s morally gray,” Ned agreed. “But that’s art. Art is supposed to challenge us, to make us uncomfortable.”
“Hmmm.” Caroline reflected. Was her story making readers uncomfortable? Or just the subjects? “Would there be a situation where you wouldn’t make the movie? Where the human cost was too great?”
“Sure,” Ned said slowly. “Are we talking about the Preston movie, or are you talking about your novel?”
“Yeah,” Caroline said sheepishly. She tried to drink her water, but her heart was beating quickly, that terrible anxiety back in her chest.
“I don’t know the situation, but I would say that you need to believe in your own creative abilities. This isn’t the only story you’ll ever write. You have so much more inside you, so don’t cling to it too tightly. Don’t blow up your whole life at the first opportunity.”
It was bizarrely humane advice, a kindness from the last person she’d expect. “Ned?”
“Yes, Caroline?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Did you get the Preston estate to give me the fellowship?”
“No.” Ned shook his head. “I had nothing to do with that. Even if I were involved in applications, I would have recused myself since we knew each other.”
“Hunh.” Caroline digested this. So, she’d won the fellowship all on her own. There was relief there, but something still nagged at her. “One more question?”
“Sure.”
“Were you using me to get to my mother?”
“Oh.”
She’d said it. The thing she’d wanted to ask for more than a year. But instead of looking ashamed, Ned shrugged.
“I wasn’t. The timing looks bad, but I wasn’t actually pursuing her. She fell in my lap after you and I had gone to that party.”
“So then you just stopped speaking to me?”
“Look, Caroline,” Ned said, almost kindly. “I wanted to fuck you, but I wanted to represent your mother more.”
Caroline sat back in her seat in surprise. It was an insane thing to say, but it was honest. She hadn’t been crazy. Maybe that was enough.
Back at her cottage Caroline showered and covered her bites in antiseptic and band aids, making herself a dinner of cheese, crackers, and apple, eating over the kitchen sink. Through the window she could see families picnicking on Pavilion Beach, armed against the flies with long-sleeve shirts and bottles of Skin so Soft. Children dragged buckets across the pebbly shore, screaming at the small waves and chasing seagulls. Little boys collected sticks.
When Caroline wrote her story, had she done something truly malicious? She had written her story from a place of hurt, she had been so focused on her own pain that she hadn’t really cared what it would do to other people, and the acknowledgment made her hot with shame. She had been deluding herself, thinking they might not read it, might not recognize themselves, and worst of all, she had outed Colin as bisexual. That was a million times more evil than calling Bailey cheesy or RJ a drunk. It was worse than just alienating herself. She had been vindictive toward their little group and hurt their families along with it, and she would hurt them again when the book was published and again with a film, with every interview, with each word that came out of her mouth.
Her first-edition copy ofTarboxsat on her dining room table on top of her book contract, just where she had left them, two betrayals, one fifty years old and one brand new.
“Mom?” Caroline calledhome.
