The Book of Someday Part 19

He's dressed in his old tuxedo, with his hair slicked down. A reddening flush is spreading high across the tops of his cheekbones, leaving the rest of his face as white as his s.h.i.+rtfront. He has the lonely, startled look of someone who has just been murdered.

AnnaLee is devastated.

"I can't survive without you, Lee," he says.

"You won't have to," AnnaLee promises him.

His reply comes slowly, as if he's distracted, as if he's being shown some ominous part of his future. "If you leave, how will I stay alive?"

"I love you, Jack. I'll never leave."

The sadness in Jack's smile is excruciating. "Never is an awfully long time, Lee."

While Jack is gone, driving Bella to the babysitter, AnnaLee is leaning in close to the mirror. Applying the finis.h.i.+ng touches to her makeup. Following Persephone's scribbled instructions to the letter.

She's brus.h.i.+ng her lashes with a coat of s.h.i.+ny black mascara. Dabbing a hint of color onto her cheeks. Lighting up her mouth with a swipe of fire-engine-red lipstick. And-as the final touch-she's tucking her hair up, concealing it under the thrift-shop wig that Persephone has shaped into a sporty, 1920s bob.

As AnnaLee is looking into the mirror she's seeing an altered, boldly rendered version of herself-one that's fascinating and dramatic. Undeniably beautiful.

This person in the mirror-this woman that Persephone has created-is spectacular.

Simply looking at her is lifting AnnaLee's spirits, making her think, Maybe tonight really will be something extraordinary. It's not impossible that everything could go perfectly-that Mrs. Jahn could see the potential in Jack and give us the chance to begin a new life. And- A clattering noise is coming from the kitchen. Followed by shouts of laughter-Persephone and someone else. Probably Rebecca w.a.n.g.

It's time to go downstairs and see the girls off to the party.

But AnnaLee, reluctant to turn away from the mirror, is double-checking her makeup and mascara. Delaying her departure from this enchanted place where she's someone so different. So glamorous and full of possibility.

When AnnaLee arrives downstairs, Persephone is at the kitchen table sharing a turkey sandwich with Rebecca w.a.n.g. Both girls are wearing ap.r.o.ns to protect their Gatsby-era costumes from any accidental spills.

AnnaLee is met with a smile from Rebecca and an outraged howl from Persephone. "You're still in your bathrobe! Why aren't you in your costume?"

"I am. Under the bathrobe." The admission has caused AnnaLee to blush.

"And you're doing the bathrobe thing because...?"

"Because I'm used to being in 'mom clothes,' Persephone, and this dress is shorter and a lot slinkier than I'm comfortable with. I feel a little awkward."

Persephone is immediately upset. "You're not going to wear it to the party? You're not even going to let me see you in it?"

"No, sweetheart, of course I am. Just give me a minute to get my courage up."

"What do you need courage for? You look fantastic." Persephone is insistent. "The 1920s hair, and your makeup-it's like totally off-the-charts great."

AnnaLee is buying time by taking a gla.s.s from one of the kitchen cabinets. While she's filling the gla.s.s with water, she's noticing Rebecca w.a.n.g's expression. It's evident Rebecca has an opinion about what's being discussed but is maintaining a well-mannered silence.

AnnaLee is fascinated by Rebecca w.a.n.g. The girl has a self-possession that's unusual in someone her age. A Zen-like quality that makes her appear to be perfectly calm, perfectly centered.

Which, perhaps, is why AnnaLee feels the need to explain herself to Rebecca. "I know it sounds like I'm being silly. But Persephone has done almost too good a job on my costume. I'm in a dress that belongs on a Hollywood s.e.x symbol, not a Long Island housewife."

Rebecca's response is enthusiastic and genuine. "I've seen the sketches. Honestly, you don't have any reason to be nervous about your outfit. It's perfect for you."

Persephone immediately adds: "Rebecca knows what she's talking about. She's graduating from the Rhode Island School of Design next year. She's like the most gifted person they've ever had."

Rebecca w.a.n.g is leaving the table, taking off the ap.r.o.n she has been wearing, giving an embarra.s.sed laugh while she's telling AnnaLee: "Persephone's just saying those nice things about me because we're friends."

Persephone's mood abruptly s.h.i.+fts. She pushes away from the table, hurrying out of her chair, muttering: "I need to go upstairs. I have to make a phone call."

Rebecca is looking at her watch, saying to Persephone: "If we don't leave now, we'll be late."

And AnnaLee is asking: "Why waste time going all the way upstairs? Use the phone in here."

Persephone seems to be unable to decide whether to stay or to go. Almost as if she's in a mild state of shock. Then all at once she's running to the phone that's on the wall near the refrigerator.

While she's lifting the receiver and dialing, she's calling out in a self-conscious chirp: "Rebecca, tell AnnaLee about the master of ceremonies Mrs. Jahn hired...the guy Johnny Carson keeps inviting back as a guest on the Tonight Show."

"He's terrific," Rebecca says. "He's insanely funny..."

As Rebecca launches into her story, AnnaLee sees that Persephone is putting her mouth close to the receiver. As if she doesn't want to be overheard while she's whispering: "Forget what we talked about. When I said I'd do it, I was still making up my mind, but things are different now so-"

"There's this one routine involving the audience where he..." Rebecca w.a.n.g is continuing her story about the comedian who's such a favorite on The Tonight Show.

The next thing AnnaLee hears is Persephone saying: "Call me as soon as you get this message. Bye."

"Is everything all right?" AnnaLee asks. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Persephone says.

And she seems fine. Seems relieved, like a great weight has been lifted from her. She's taking off her ap.r.o.n, picking up her purse and Rebecca's camera.

While Persephone is following Rebecca out the door, Rebecca says: "There's only one exposure left, we should put fresh film in the camera before we get to the party."

Persephone stops short, whirling around to AnnaLee. "The party. Your costume! I can't go without seeing your costume."

"I...I don't want you to be disappointed."

"AnnaLee, I won't be. And besides you have to lose the bathrobe to go to the party. An hour from now, two hundred people will be seeing you in that dress." The vulnerability in Persephone is sweetly childlike as she's telling AnnaLee: "I just want to be the first."

Persephone is asking AnnaLee for a gift; asking for her trust and approval.

AnnaLee can't say no.

She's reluctantly shedding the bathrobe, letting it drop to the floor.

Persephone's reaction is a startled gasp.

It fl.u.s.ters AnnaLee-embarra.s.ses her.

She takes a quick step backward. Retreating into the shadow of the dining room doorway.

There is the sudden whirr of a camera.

And Persephone-saying in a murmur no louder than a breath: "Oh my G.o.d."

Livvi.

Pasadena, California ~ 2012.

Livvi and Andrew have just finished a turning, gliding dance. Which began as a slow ballet. Led by Andrew. Deftly piloting Livvi. Bringing her, first, to the thrill of small tingles. Tingles he then subtly transformed into cascades of tiny shudders. Shudders that, under his expert touch, began to blossom. Individually. One by one. Each of them, rapidly expanding. All of them diamond-bright. Effervescent and luminous. Exploding low and deep in Livvi. Sparkling, erotic bursts of s.e.xual gratification. Each and every one skillfully delivered-by Andrew-as a separate, glittering pleasure. Pleasure that coursed through Livvi like torrents of liquid electricity.

And now Andrew and Livvi are lying absolutely still. While he's saying: "This is how I want to fall asleep every Sat.u.r.day night for the rest of my life." He is spooned against Livvi's back, his breath warm on the nape of her neck.

The sweetness. The closeness. The murmured conversation. Andrew never fails to share these small gifts with Livvi after they've had s.e.x. It's an aspect of him she cherishes, a lovely place of intimacy.

Andrew's voice is mellow with contentment as he's telling Livvi: "This is perfection. You and me in your nice cozy bed. Grace sleeping in the other room, spending the weekend. The three of us leaving for Aspen the day after tomorrow." His sigh is long and lazy. "I'm a happy man, Olivia."

Livvi is inhaling the scent of their lovemaking and the clean, fresh smell of Andrew's skin. It has been almost ten weeks since the chaotic afternoon in Rolling Hills-the confrontation in Andrew's parents' driveway with his wife, and his mother.

Livvi is aware that since that day Andrew has been devoting himself to making her happy. Lavis.h.i.+ng her with time and attention. And love letters written in cocoa-brown ink on buff-colored stationery. Notes tucked into the pockets of her clothes and the corners of her dresser drawers. Little hidden treasures designed to calm and rea.s.sure her.

In each of these letters, above Andrew's signature, there is the same phrase-the thought he's expressing to Livvi now: "I adore you."

And Livvi is replying: "I adore you too."

But she hasn't turned to look at him while she's saying it. Livvi's love for Andrew has changed, lost some of its intensity and purity. Lately, there has been a thread of mistrust in it. The suspicion that, as soon as some fresh h.e.l.l breaks loose, Andrew will disappear. Into the drama of Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills.

"By the way," Andrew is informing Livvi, "the feeling is mutual."

Livvi gives him a questioning frown; she isn't sure what he's talking about.

"Haven't you been listening? I'm telling you I'm not the only one who adores you. I have major compet.i.tion from Grace. She thinks you're wonderful."

Just hearing Grace's name lights Livvi with happiness. "And I'm crazy about her."

"Believe me, she knows. The idea of the three of us going on this trip to Aspen has put her over the moon."

Livvi props herself on one elbow, worried a little. "Do you think it'll be a problem for her to miss a whole week of school?"

Andrew slides Livvi's elbow toward him and pulls her near. "It's the middle of November, and Grace is in kindergarten. She's five. The biggest thing she'll miss out on is making Pilgrim hats out of construction paper. And my guess is...not knowing how to turn cardboard into headgear won't hurt her chances of getting into a decent college." Andrew is yawning, switching off the light.

After a while. When Andrew is asleep. Livvi quietly gets out of bed-she's thirsty and wants a gla.s.s of water.

On her way to the kitchen, she pa.s.ses the sofa in the living room, where Grace is sleeping. The little pink pig is nestled on Grace's pillow. And on Grace's hands are a pair of brand-new, pink-striped, woolen mittens-a present from Livvi, for Grace to wear on their Aspen ski trip.

At the sight of Grace's hands in those mittens, Livvi whispers: "I love you too, Gracie."

For a long time Livvi simply watches Grace sleep. In complete, peaceful silence.

And then, unexpectedly, jarring noise is coming from a few feet away. In the kitchen. Loud, buzzing sounds. Livvi, worried that they'll disturb Grace, hurries to put a stop to them.

Livvi's phone-the source of the noise-is on the kitchen counter where she left it when she, Andrew, and Grace came home from dinner. While she's taking her phone from the counter, she's checking the caller ID.

It's a number Livvi recognizes; one that she has seen more and more often, over the past few weeks.

Every time it appears it brings stomach-churning dread.

Yet she has no choice other than to answer. The person who's calling refuses to interact with voice mail. If Livvi doesn't allow this individual to connect with her, in person, even for a microsecond, the calls will continue. Relentlessly-throughout the night. Until Livvi surrenders and picks up the phone.

The pattern has become for Livvi to say h.e.l.lo and then quickly disconnect, before the whispery-voiced caller can get out more than a word or two.

Now, as she's putting the phone to her ear, Livvi is thinking of Grace, and their trip-not wanting their time in Aspen to be shadowed by this stubborn intruder.

Determined to prevent the person from coming, even in the form of a phone call, anywhere near Grace, Livvi is insisting: "Don't call here again. And don't even think of contacting me in person. I won't speak to you. I will not deal with you. Now. Or ever."

Livvi is for a brief moment triumphant. But her bravado is rapidly turning into fear. Fear that she's just jeopardized everything she was trying to keep safe.

The whispery voice has become an angry hiss. Warning her: "You're wrong, Olivia. You will deal with me. Much sooner than you think."

It has been a perfect Sunday morning for the three of them: Livvi, Andrew, and Grace. Silly games and laughter. Pancakes for breakfast. And a rush of last-minute packing for tomorrow's trip to Aspen-to sleigh rides and fresh-fallen snow.

The exuberance of this morning and the beautiful California November weather, the clear skies and warm suns.h.i.+ne, are calming some of Livvi's uneasiness about last night's phone call. Making the threat it carried seem less meaningful.

With Grace's hand snug in hers as they're hurrying across the lawn that separates Livvi's guesthouse from the main house, Sierra's house, Livvi is trying to believe she's being irrational in thinking the whispery-voiced caller actually has the power, or the desire, to reach beyond the confines of the phone. After all, the person who's calling is someone from another place and time. And that's where-Livvi is convincing herself-they'll probably stay.

Grace is pulling at Livvi's hand as she's skipping up the steps of Sierra's back patio where Sierra, in a rhinestone-studded warm-up suit and oversize sungla.s.ses, is stretched out on a lounge chair.

"Livvi," Grace is saying. "I bet I know what you're thinking about."

She pauses on the top step and gives Livvi a conspiratorial grin. "You're thinking about chocolate chips."

"Really?" Livvi has no idea how Grace has come to this conclusion.

Grace, running ahead, eager to greet Sierra, is calling over her shoulder to Livvi: "I know you're thinking about chocolate chips 'cause that's what I'm thinking about too."

While Livvi is coming up the steps and onto the patio, Grace is telling Sierra: "After Livvi's finished talking to you, we're going back to her house to make cookies and that's the kind I think we should make, chocolate chip. They're for us to take on our trip tomorrow."

Sierra lowers her sungla.s.ses and announces to Grace: "Just for the record, honey-bun, when it comes to chocolate chip, I'm a purist. No nuts. And I demand a cut on any cookies baked on my property. Got it?"