CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I headed down to Marika’s early on Thursday, because we had a full day planned. I had texted her around midnight when I got up to use the bathroom, just so she didn’t worry, but I saved all the details about the date to share over a late breakfast.

“You really like him,” she said when I was done.

“I really, really do.”

“I mean, I never would have pictured you with a military guy, a cop, but I like how solid he sounds. And I like the two divorces.”

“You do? ”

“He’s gotten all his mistakes out of the way. He’s going to do it right this time.”

“Maybe. I hope so.” I sighed. “I hope I do it right this time, too.”

After the meal, we headed back to Peachtree Promenade to have our temporary face jewels reapplied. This time I had both rubies glued along the curve of my right cheek, so they winked and sparkled when I smiled. Marika had a pink sapphire set at the corner of her mouth and a pearl placed at the corner of her eye.

“We look stunning,” she pronounced.

Back to her house to get it ready for guests. She lived in a rambling old mansion that her grandmother, who had been loaded with money, bought for Marika when she moved to Atlanta. Most of the property surrounding it had long ago been sold off to developers, so town houses, condos and little brick bungalows filled in the rest of the neighborhood. So it was pretty hard to miss Marika’s place.

Inside—well, if you’d ever met Marika and you walked through the front door, you’d instantly realize you’d found her home. First, there was the butterfly motif on wallpaper and floor rugs and hanging mobiles and dishware. But the opulence of style, the richness of texture, and sheer hedonistic abundance of things were what really marked the place as Marika’s. Red velvet settees sat a few degrees from tapestried chaise lounges, and overstuffed pillows were piled on chairs, sofas, piano benches, the floor. In every room, vases overflowed with flowers, some real, some silk. The windows were covered by layers of curtains—flimsy lace sheers topped by thick colorful drapes, with swaths of contrasting fabric looped over the rods. The carpets were thick and luxurious. Crystal knickknacks graced every flat surface. The air was scented with perfumes too various to catalog.

Marika and I moved through the rooms, arranging candle groupings, tossing red silk scarfs over fringed Victorian lampshades, predetermining an ambience that Marika said would only become visible once night fell. We also cleared off the tables that would hold food platters, made sure there was plenty of toilet paper in the bathrooms, checked the ice supply, and called the caterer about a dozen times. This all took longer than I could have imagined, and it was nearly four in the afternoon before we could turn attention to our own beauty routines.

It was while we were admiring our jeweled faces in the mirror that Marika said, “I guess I should warn you. Axel might be here.”

“What? I thought you stopped talking to him weeks ago.”

“I thought so too, but then we had a couple of conversations that were pretty civil, and I told him about the party. He said he’d like to see Erika and a few of the other guys, so I said he could come.”

“You know Jason’ll walk out.”

“Do you think so?” she said anxiously. “Because I want Jason to have a good time.”

“Well, don’t tell him Axel’s coming. ’Cause he might not show up, and if he does, Jason might not notice him. It’s a big house.”

Marika sighed fatalistically. “Not that big.”

“Not as large as, say, Duncan Phillips’ palatial estate,” I agreed, “but surely large enough to—”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning away from the mirror where she was watching herself apply lipstick. “What does everyone think about the news?”

“What news? News about Duncan Phillips?”

“Yes! It’s all over social media that he’s engaged.”

“Engaged! To whom? Since when?”

“Apparently, he’s been dating some actress for a while. She’s blonde and maybe twenty-five years old. Big smile. Doesn’t look very bright.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I suppose that tracks. Don’t all rich assholes date dumb blonde actresses?”

“Well, if the rumors are right, Duncan Phillips has broader tastes than your average billionaire. A couple of years ago, everyone thought he was involved with the CEO of some California tech company. She was a smart forty-something brunette, so not quite the stereotype.” Marika added another coat of lipstick. “Of course, no one ever knows for sure, because he’s so secretive about his personal life. I was really hoping you’d be able to come up with some good gossip for me, but you’ve been a major disappointment in that area.”

I spread my hands to signify complete ignorance. “I know nothing. We never talk about him at the house. I wonder if Bram or Francis have heard about the new fiancée.”

“Maybe it’s not true,” she said. “You know they’ll say anything online.”

We were done with our toilettes a little before seven. Tonight, Marika was wearing a soft rose-colored flapper’s dress instead of her usual signature red. It had thin spaghetti straps and row after row after row of crystal-beaded fringes, and every time she moved, she glittered like Richard Cory.

I was wearing sapphire blue, a simple sheath dress whose only glory was its lustrous color. Marika had swept my dark hair up into a chignon, held in place by sapphire-tipped pins. She’d also done my makeup, a little more dramatically than I would have liked, but I had to admit I looked striking.

“Where are all the guests?” I demanded. “We cannot keep all this raging beauty to ourselves.”

Almost on the words, the doorbell rang. “Par-tay!” we cried in unison and scrambled for the door.

The house quickly filled with people, only about half of whom I knew. Some were friends from high school, some from college, some from the neighborhood; some were from Marika’s office, or Erika’s; a few were hangers-on who got invited who-knew-how. Jason and Domenic arrived together a couple of hours after the event was in full swing and proceeded to monopolize all my friends who had been mad for them in high school. Usually, girls don’t care for your younger brother and his friends, but Jason and Domenic were different. They had always drawn attention, and they’d always loved it.

I spent way too much of my evening talking to a mousy woman named Sylvia McAllister, whom I could scarcely remember from college. I was pretty sure she had lived down the hall from me in the dorm, and that I had found her annoying then. From what I could catch of her words over the music and the continuous low buzz of conversation, I was guessing I wouldn’t find her much more interesting now. Most of her conversation consisted of complaints about her incompetent boss, domineering husband, and inconsiderate neighbors. She’d hoped to forget these troubles and have fun at the party, but all she could think about was how much she disliked teleporting and how fearful she was that she would get lost at Olympic Terminal. I tried to keep a sympathetic expression on my face, but my inner voice kept saying, What a heezling. When I found a chance to turn her over to another college friend, I quickly stepped away.

I had much more fun visiting with Erika, who talked faster than anyone I had ever met, and Jodie and Calico and Azolay (not my cousin) from high school. I also had a great time flirting with a couple of guys from Marika’s office whom I knew from running into them at Braves games.

“Next time you’re here visiting Marika, we should all go to a game together,” one of them suggested.

A voice in my head said, Sorry, I’m seeing someone. But I just smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

I scarcely saw Marika until late in the evening, when I found her frowning at food selections set out in the darkened dining room. “What’s the matter? Are we going to run out?” I asked.

“I think someone might have walked off with one of the caterer’s platters.”

I looked vaguely out into the sitting room. “Maybe someone just moved it,” I said. “Should we start a search?”

“Nah, I don’t care. As long as everyone’s happy.” Like me, she glanced toward the big crowded room, where candlelight and shaded lamplight made all the guests’ faces appear animated and angular. “And everyone seems happy, don’t you think?”

“Completely. The party is absolutely marbro.” I spotted Jason and Domenic deep in conversation with three women my age, all of them married, all of them listening with adoration to whatever the guys were saying. “Look at them. It’s like they’re hypnotists or something.”

Marika watched them for a while with a half-smile on her face. She seemed, for the moment, unwontedly pensive. Domenic stood up suddenly, illustrating a point with a wide sweep of his hands. He was dressed all in black, of course, and his long hair was caught back in a braid tied with a bright yellow ribbon. I swear I had seen a gold inset on his cheek when he first walked in, and I wasn’t sure it was temporary.

“I’ve always had such a crush on him,” Marika said softly. “My whole entire life.”

“Me, too.”

She rounded on me in complete revulsion. “Taylor! Yuck! That’s disgusting! That’s incest!”

“I didn’t mean Jason.”

She calmed instantly. “Oh. That’s all right, then.”

“Wait a minute.”

Now she turned motherly and cautionary. “You shouldn’t have a crush on Domenic, Tay. He’s not a nice guy.”

“Hold on. You’re in love with Jason? You mean, for real?”

“I mean, I adore Domenic, he’s the best friend in the world, but he’s going to hurt every woman who ever comes into his orbit.”

“I have a crush on Domenic the exact way you had a crush on Davey Kittering in eighth grade,” I said impatiently. “I’d never want to date him, ever ever ever, but I’m glad he’s in the world.”

“And now you have somebody much better in your life.”

“So much better,” I agreed. “But let’s get back to the main point. You’re in love with Jason?”

She nodded. She was as serious as I’d ever seen her, even a little sad. “I thought you knew.”

“I—” I shrugged. “I thought he was practically your brother. Like you’re practically my sister.”

“No.”

I thought a minute. “You should tell him.”

She laughed a little wildly. “Oh, right. Just think how weird that would be for the rest of our lives. He’d call and say, ‘Hey, Taylor, me and Domenic are going out for pizza, wanna come?’ and you’d say, ‘Sure, let me call Mareek,’ and he’d say, ‘Oh, better not. I feel so awkward around her ever since I found out about this big gaudy torch she carries for me.’ It would never be the same.”

I thought about all the girls Jason had ever dated—nice girls, wicked girls, smart girls, stupid girls—and how any time I’d asked him to explain what had gone wrong, he had just shrugged and said, “Just not what I wanted” or “Not what I’m used to.” Who was he used to but Marika and me? “I think you should tell him.”

“No. And you can’t either.”

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” I said.

A sound caught her attention and she turned her head. “Was that the doorbell?”

It must have been, because some woman I didn’t recognize hurried over to admit a latecomer. An exchange of greetings at the door, and she stepped back so I could see his face.

Axel.

“Looks like your evening just got better,” I said.

“Maybe no one will notice him.”

At that moment, Jason looked up, as if sensing our attention on him or, who knows, scenting the presence of a hostile invader. He looked straight at Axel, now talking with Jodie, came to his feet in one unhurried movement, crossed the room in about eight strides, and punched Axel in the face.

Jodie screamed. Marika screamed, too, then ran over to try to stop the fight. I missed some of the action, because there was a sudden shouting crowd around Jason and Axel, who appeared to be going at it with a fierce exchange of blows. Domenic was standing nearby but had made no attempt to interfere, so I assumed Jason wasn’t being pummeled to death. Within a few minutes, the other party-goers had separated the combatants, though Axel, pinned against the wall by some of Marika’s officemates, continued to shout invective at my brother.

No one was holding Jason back. He shook his head, resettled all his clothes, and looked around for Marika. She spoke first.

“Jason, you have to apologize.”

He glared at her—Jason, who was usually so cool and so collected. “Get him out of here.”

“It’s my house! I can invite anyone I want.”

“Fine,” he said and headed toward the door. Axel aimed a kick at him as he passed, but Jason ignored him.

“Jason! Wait, Jason!” Marika wailed, running after him with her crystal fringes flying. The door closed behind them.

Those of us left in the room looked at each other and wondered who would be the best companion in a little gossipfest.

Axel shrugged free of his captors and brushed his tangled hair out of his eyes. “Where’s the beer?”

He disappeared. Jodie and Azolay and Calico enveloped me.

“What was that all about?”

“Why does Jason hate Axel so much?”

“Do you think Marika’s left her own party?”

“I hope Jason’s not really mad.”

By the time we had talked this all over in low and excited voices, the party had more or less reasserted its own rhythm, despite the fact that the hostess had not reappeared. I supposed it was now up to me to make sure everyone was comfortable and cared-for, so I canvassed the rooms, smiling, inquiring after everyone’s well-being, and noting who was off in a dark corner with whom. Axel had found consolation almost immediately with a statuesque brunette whom I did not know, but she seemed awfully sympathetic to the grievances he was detailing in her ear.

Everyone, in fact, seemed just fine except sad little Sylvia. When I circled back through to the front hallway, she was standing near the door, clutching an empty wine glass and looking miserable. “Something wrong?” I asked.

“I have to go,” she said. “I wanted to say goodbye to Marika, but I can’t find her.”

“She does seem to be missing. I’ll tell her you left.”

She made no attempt to depart. “I have to go,” she repeated somewhat desperately.

“What’s the matter?” I asked as gently as I could.

She looked like she was about to start crying. “I’m afraid to teleport by myself. I’ve never done it alone. I mean, my husband brought me here tonight, and I said, ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll know someone who will be going home at the same time,’ but no one looks ready to leave and I—I guess I’m just afraid.”

I managed to tamp down my uncharitable surge of disdain. “You want someone to walk with you to the neighborhood gate?” I asked. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I want someone to come with me to Olympic Terminal. I’ll be fine once I get to John Wayne Station, I’ve come home from there lots of times, but Olympic is so big—”

“I’ll be right back.”

I found Domenic holding hands simultaneously with two women and feeding them some bullshit line about how to increase their libido or their psychic powers or some such thing. I’d been right before; he did have a gold graft on his cheek. Looked fabulous.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” I told him. “I have to make sure Sylvia gets home safe. You’re in charge.”

“I’m right on it,” he said with a lazy smile

“Knew I could count on you,” I said and returned to the door. Sylvia was watching me with apprehension. “Let’s go,” I said.

Her face cleared. “Oh, you’ll come with me? Thank you so much. I know it’s an imposition—”

“I can’t walk too fast in these shoes, but other than that, we’re good to go.”

We stepped outside into the scented Southern air, still warm and dreamy at what must have been very close to midnight, whether before or after. I looked around but saw no sign of Jason and Marika. Either they were hiding somewhere in the back yard, or they’d taken a very long walk—or they’d snuck back inside through a rear door and were somewhere in the house hashing things out. I could hardly wait to hear the story.

“So. Taylor. Tell me what you’ve been doing lately,” Sylvia invited. Her voice sounded falsely brave as if, even with my imposing presence, she feared the shadows on the streets.

I smothered a sigh. Half an hour. It couldn’t take much more than that. “I’m still teaching at Sefton, and I’ve been doing a little tutoring on the side—”

There was no one at the local gate when we arrived. Sylvia, it turned out, didn’t have a transit pass in her thumb chip and seemed worried about the expense when she asked what I thought the fare would be. Just to hurry things along, I presented my own thumb chip, pushed her through the door, and punched in the appropriate numbers.

“As soon as you close the door, hit this ‘go’ button and you’ll be sent to Olympic,” I told her. “Step outside of the booth and wait for me. I’ll be along in a few seconds.”

“Okay! I’ll be waiting!” she trilled. A small flash, and she was gone.

I squashed an ignoble impulse to turn around and head back to the party. Instead, I stepped in the booth, hit FOLO, and found myself instantly in Olympic Terminal. Poor Sylvia was standing as close to the door as she possibly could.

“Here I am,” I said brightly. “Let’s find the California gates and look for John Wayne Station.”

Ten minutes later, we had found the right portal and she was stepping inside. She assured me she had enough money in her account to cover the next jump, but I agreed to wait until the system actually accepted her payment before I headed back to Marika’s. I was never in my life so glad to see anyone disintegrate behind the glass of a teleport door. Once she rematerialized in Orange County, she was on her own.

I retraced my route, not exactly ecstatic about walking alone down Marika’s street in my thin sheath dress and my high-heeled shoes. However, I made it safely, no terrors to chase me back. I heard Marika’s antique grandfather clock strike a single note as I walked through her door—twelve-thirty? one? one-thirty? It was the least helpful chime of them all—and I looked around to see if I could assess what I had missed.

Most of the tableaux appeared unchanged, except Axel and the brunette were missing and Marika was back. She was talking to Calico and laughing, and she seemed unreservedly happy. I didn’t see Jason anywhere.

I walked up behind her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away from her conversation in mid-sentence. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Taylor! Where have you been?”

“I told Domenic. Taking Sylvia to Olympic. What’s going on? Where’s Jason? Where’s Axel?”

“I don’t know where Axel is,” she said airily. “Jason left. But everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s fine how?”

“I mean, he’s not mad any more. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Oh, you better believe it.”

“Right now we both need to circulate,” she said and returned to her conversation with Calico.

The rest of the evening became progressively fuzzier as I got wearier and the people around me got drunker. I sat next to Domenic for a while, his arm around my waist and my head against his shoulder, as he described to a fascinated circle of women some ancient Native American ritual that I was pretty sure he had manufactured on the spot. When he briefly lost his audience—three went for drinks, one went to the bathroom—I stretched my head up and whispered in his ear.

“What do you think’s going on with Jason and Marika?”

“Could this be love?” he demanded, hand to heart, thunderstruck.

“Be serious. What do you think?”

“Dunno. He’s always been crazy about her, but I don’t think he realized it until a year or so ago. I mean, anyone could tell.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“You’re his sister. You’re stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” I said sleepily and closed my eyes.

I don’t know if I actually fell asleep there on the couch, but I do know that the party seemed to have fizzled to a close by the time I opened my eyes. Marika was moving through the almost-empty rooms, picking up discarded plates and pushing fallen cushions back into place. A few people were still standing around talking in small groups, but she ignored them, and most of them appeared to be edging toward the door. Domenic, bless his heart, was filling a plastic trash bag with napkins and bread crusts and other pieces of garbage. The grandfather clock struck three.

I shook myself and climbed unsteadily to my feet. “What can I do to help?”

“Just look like you’re cleaning until everyone leaves. Then we’re going straight to bed.”

It was another half hour before the last guests had departed, Domenic had kissed us and headed out the door, and we were upstairs brushing our teeth.

“I’ve turned off my EarFone, and I am begging you not to wake me up before eleven tomorrow,” I called out from the guest bathroom, just down the hall from hers.

“Right back at you,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

*

It was actually closer to noon the next day when I woke up and heard Marika moving around downstairs, so I padded down to see what was available for breakfast. The house was a complete disaster despite our half-hearted efforts last night, and I foresaw a long ordeal of cleaning ahead. Fortunately, I would not be able to stay for it all; I had to be at Quentin’s in about three hours.

“Morning,” I said, flopping down in one of the kitchen chairs.

She handed me a glass of orange juice. “How’d you sleep? Are you hung over?”

“Slept great. Nope, no hangover. I only had two beers.”

She laughed. “Me too. So who was drinking all those beers and leaving all those bottles all over my living room?”

“Your inconsiderate guests.”

She sat across from me at the table. “It was a good party, though, wasn’t it? Erika had fun, anyway.”

“It was good until the fistfight,” I agreed, “and until the hostess vanished for, oh, an hour. What happened?”

“Well, I guess Jason saw Axel walk in and—”

“I mean, between you and my brother.”

She glanced down at her hands, clasped loosely around the base of her glass. Her hair was barely combed, so it was even wilder than usual; her red bathrobe was made of silk and velvet. Marika never looked like an ordinary woman.

When she looked up again, she was smiling. “I told him.”

“And?”

“You were right. He feels the same.”

“So he—so you—I mean, are you going to be my sister-in-law or something?”

She laughed gaily. “We didn’t get that far. We just talked about—everything, really. Things we liked about each other, things we’d noticed—we remembered some of the strangest things, the smallest details, things that had happened years ago. He remembers the dress I wore to junior prom! I mean, he was only thirteen then. He remembers the name of every guy I’ve ever dated.” She shrugged. “Of course, I could list his girlfriends in order and by year, so I guess that’s not so surprising. But what was surprising was—this sense of connection. It goes so deep. I can’t explain it.” She took a sip of her orange juice. “It was the most marbro thing ever.”

I started laughing. “You don’t even know what the word means.”

“I do now.”

Well. This was an event that could not be covered in one conversation, so we recurred to it multiple times during the next couple of hours as we made a stab at reordering the house. A little after two, I had to quit to put on real clothes instead of the pajamas I had worn since I borrowed them from Marika last night. I gathered the rest of my stuff and got ready to go.

“Sorry to leave you with such a mess. Want me to come back tonight?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Jason’s coming over.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to take this for long,” I grumbled. “My little brother making someone all googly-eyed. It’s kind of gross.”

She made a prim face. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Well—yeah—but with Jason? I don’t know.”

She shoved me toward the door. “Go. Have fun. Give my love to Bram.”

I decided not to answer that, just waved goodbye and set off down the street. A little less spooky in broad daylight, I had to admit.

Olympic Terminal was crowded, and I had something of a wait before I could step into the gate for Chicago. Then O’Hare, as always, was packed with people, and there were long lines at all the local ports. I would have been impatient anyway, but today I was almost jumping out of my skin. Bram would be there at the mansion. We wouldn’t have more than a few minutes to talk, and I knew he was busy tonight, but I would see him. He would smile at me. We would both remember—

I shook my head. A few minutes before three, it was finally my turn to enter the booth. I typed in my personal code for the Phillips mansion and punched the “go” key.

And was confused and disoriented to find myself stepping out of the port, not in the formal foyer, but at the security gate a quarter mile from the house. There were people everywhere—guards, and uniformed policemen, and reporters loaded down with cameras and mikes. Rows of ambulances and cop cars lined the drive as far as I could see, lights flashing, figures leaning from their windows to shout at people attempting to cross the wide lawn. This was no journalistic frenzy caused by the announcement of the billionaire’s impending nuptials. This was something much worse.

I stood there, stupefied, staring around me, until a security guard grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the way. I knew she couldn’t be one of Bram’s people, because all of his hires were men.

“Ma’am? Please step to one side. You’ll need to give me your name and your reason for coming here. Ma’am?”

I stared at her, scarcely registering her face, which she was trying hard to mold into an impassive professional expression. Disaster had unfolded at the Phillips mansion, that much was certain. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t even bring myself to ask a reasonable question. Unbidden, the Wordsworth lines came rushing into my head, modifying themselves, terrifying me:

Oh mercy, to myself I cried, If Quentin should be dead!