Charming New Friend

CHARMING NEW FRIEND

The sun greets me, sweet and yellow. A gentle breeze swims through the open window. I pop out my retainers and set them on the nightstand, a thread of saliva glistening in the morning light.

The weekend looms ahead of me like this. Sunny and pleasant and utterly blank. So many empty, lonely hours. I imagine the time taking human form, standing there at the foot of my bed, a cute but malevolent child, ringlets and overalls, and a knife behind its back. Something that should be good but isn’t.

There’s nothing for me to do. No one for me to see. I’m relieved not to be at school, but I don’t want to be alone.

I think about my last conversation with Sam, about how he couldn’t tell me that he missed me. I hear echoes of chirps and cawing. I drop these things on the conveyor belt of embarrassing moments that’s consistently cycling inside my head. I wonder if everyone has this, experiences this constant loop of past shame and humiliation, both large and small, replaying over and over again or sometimes popping up randomly when least expected, like in the middle of spin class or while caramelizing onions.

It must be exhausting to be in your head,Sam told me once.

I think what he must have meant was, it was exhausting for him to hear about it. I exhausted him.

When we broke up, he said that our spark had fizzled. I must not be sparkly enough. I must be pretty dull.

I get the idea that doing my hair and makeup will make me feel better about myself. I stand in front of the mirror braiding my hair. If I can get it to grow long enough, I can toss it out the window and whistle for a prince.

I put on some mascara and a berry-colored lipstick. I look marginally more alive. I put music on shuffle, but “Eleanor Rigby” is the first song to come on and I decide silence is best. I start to clean my apartment. Take out the trash and the recycling. When I do, I notice the empty wine bottle and am reminded.

I do have plans this weekend. I have plans today!

I’m going to the farmers market to meet Sophie for coffee.

I dig through my closet for an outfit that might trick Sophie into thinking I’m cool. I pick out a sage eyelet dress with cap sleeves and opalescent buttons. I pair it with black Chelsea boots and a gray knit shawl.

I shove my credit cards and some cash into my small envelope bag and throw the fraying strap over my shoulder.

As I leave, I notice the strange plant hanging from the ceiling in the stairway. A spray of green leaves tied with twine. I really don’t remember seeing it before yesterday.

Maybe Lynn put it up? Is she back? I haven’t seen another car in the driveway or heard anyone downstairs.

She’s the only other person who would have keys, who would be able to get in.

Unless . . .

I remember the other night, when I left the door unlocked, when I thought I heard footsteps, movement. But who would sneak into my stairway in the middle of the night to hang a plant?

No one, that’s who.

I shrug it off, like a damp animal shaking the wet from its fur.

I walk out to a perfect day. Early September weather is pure magic.

I resist the urge to take out my phone. I want to drink in this morning. I want to enjoy a leisurely stroll in this charming town. I want to reprogram myself. In the city, everyone is rushing toward the past, trying to get to where they needed to be ten minutes ago.

Things are so different here. The sidewalk is wide and the grass on either side is beautifully green. The trees provide generous shade; the leaves hum above me. I’m able to take a good look at the houses. They’re set back from the road so they’re hard to see while driving. They’re all the same style, Victorian farmhouses. They have porches and shutters and identical landscaping.

There’s a man on one of the porches reading and drinking coffee.

“Morning!” he says. He’s older, his white hair down to his shoulders. He’s got a deep, dusty grandpa voice.

“Morning!” I reply.

It feels nice to be acknowledged. To walk down the street and not be completely invisible.

There are more people on the stretch of Main Street with all of the shops. It’s much busier now than on weekdays. There are people out and about holding coffee cups and pastries and loaves of bread and bouquets of flowers and multiple dog leashes attached to multiple dogs trotting ahead or lagging behind. Some people have grocery bags overflowing with greens. As I walk by, they turn to me, smile and say, “Good morning,” or “Hello.” Every single person.

And every time it happens, it’s like a sip of hot tea. It’s macaroni and cheese; it’s cozy slippers; it’s cashmere. It’s comfort.

I come across a sign stuck into the grass that reads Farmers Market, with an arrow pointing down a narrow path.

I follow the path, a stream of pale dirt between two rows of tall trees. If I were young, I’d want to climb them. They have those low, sturdy branches. I spot some particularly adorable squirrels scurrying around, all furry and fat cheeked. Eyes big and black and glassy.

Only animals have eyes like that. Innocent voids. I’ve held a baby before; as soon as we’re born, our eyes are filled with want.

The sun reintroduces itself at the end of the path, the shade disappearing at the part of the trees. There’s a large field with rows of white tents with peaks like meringue. There’s a circle of children playing duck, duck, goose on the grass. There are two teenage boys hovering over open guitar cases, playing a song I’ve never heard. They’re the kind of boys I would have had crushes on in high school, angsty musicians in waffle knits with good bone structure and poor hygiene. Except these boys are actually talented. All the guitar players I ever liked were terrible. I taught myself how to play when I was fourteen, thinking it would impress them. I picked it up fast and was, surprisingly, pretty good. But that ended up being a bad thing. None of those guys wanted to date a girl who was better than them at guitar.

It never bothered Sam. He liked when I played.

I drop a dollar into each of their cases.

Sophie said she would be here, but she didn’t say when or where to meet her. She mentioned coffee, so I set off to find coffee.

I walk through an aisle between tents and find vendors selling fresh eggs and milk, selling fish, selling apples and apple cider and apple turnovers, selling jams. I pause in front of the jams. There’s apricot. Sam’s mom used to make cookies with apricot preserves in the middle. They were my favorite.

“Hello,” says a very thin woman with a blunt white-blond bob. She wears giant black sunglasses, the kind that would make anyone else look like an insect, but they make her look chic. She lifts them up to look at me. She wears clumps and clumps of mascara. I’d guess she’s in her sixties.

“Hi,” I say. “Morning.”

“Here, sweetheart. For you,” she says, depositing a sample-sized jar of jam in my hand.

“It’s raspberry,” she says. “Do you like raspberry? You look like a raspberry girl.”

“I like raspberry,” I say.

“Just a little tart,” she says. “Like me.”

I must react, because she laughs, holding a hand over her chest. Her hands are older than the rest of her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s a bad line.”

“No,” I say, “it’s funny.”

“I’m Rose,” she says. “I sell at Bakery on Main as well. Are you from around here?”

“I just moved.”

“Oh,” she says. “Welcome!”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m Annie.”

“Yes,” she says. “Sophie mentioned you.”

“You know Sophie?”

She puts her sunglasses back on. Then she says, “Everyone knows Sophie.”

“I’m supposed to meet her for coffee,” I say.

“She’ll be around here somewhere. Look for the flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“You’ll see,” she says. She smiles, but it’s weak and fleeting. There’s a hint of tension in her face, in her jaw, like she’s clenching her teeth.

“Well, Rose, thank you for the jam,” I say. “I’m excited to try it.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” she says. “Be sure to tell Sophie I say hello. Tell her I gave you some jam.”

“I will.”

I turn to walk away and almost trip over a little girl in a white dress. Her hair is in intricate braids. She looks up at me, and she’s so cute my body wilts.

“Excuse me,” she says. She’s holding a daisy.

“That’s a pretty flower,” I tell her. “Where’d you get it?”

“Miss Sophie,” she says. She turns around and points, then pivots and skips off past me.

“Convenient,” I say to myself. The universe is leading me to Sophie, leaving me bread crumbs.

I walk down the row of tents and look in both directions.

“Annie!”

Sophie is walking toward me. She’s on a slight hill, and the sun is perched directly above her, like it’s her own personal sun. She’s wearing another long black dress. This one is flowy with dramatic bell sleeves. It’s cinched at her impossibly small waist with a silver chain belt. She carries a bouquet of pale daisies and baby’s breath.

“I’m so happy you came,” she says. “Come, pet. Let’s get you some coffee.”

She takes my hand and begins leading me somewhere. I don’t care where.

“How’s your morning so far?” she asks.

“Good,” I say. “Everyone is really nice here.”

“Ah, yes. That’s because we kill anyone who isn’t nice.” She looks back at me, wearing a smirk like a mink coat. “Don’t worry. It’s very humane.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I was worried about that.”

She laughs her sweet, musical laugh.

“Here,” she says, stopping in front of a tent. Inside, a tall, handsome man with short silver hair wears an apron and froths milk. Next to him is a much younger version. The kid must be about thirteen or fourteen. He wears some kind of “invisible” braces; I can see the plastic over his teeth as he smiles.

“Good morning, Sophie,” he says, bowing his head to her. Is she royalty? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

Even if she isn’t, technically speaking, I think being that gorgeous and owning the only liquor store in town grants her sovereignty.

“Morning, Erik,” she says. “This is my new friend, Annie. She just moved here.”

“Hi, Annie,” he says. He’s very Tiger Beat, very CW. Striking blue eyes, good hair. He and the older guy, who I assume is his father, wear matching red flannels.

“Sophie,” the man says, “the usual?”

“No, Oskar,” she says. “Make us something special. Something festive. I want to impress Annie.”

“All right,” he says. He looks over at us. He’s got the same blue eyes as Erik, but his are attached to deep crow’s-feet. I bet he smells like coffee grounds and firewood and is a good dad. He and his son work together, passing beans and cups and cartons of milk like it’s a choreographed dance.

He’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to him. I want him to adopt me. Teach me how to make a solid cappuccino and tell me he’s proud of me.

While I’m distracted by my daddy issues, Sophie tucks a daisy behind my ear.

“I don’t know yet,” she says, “if daisies are your flower.”

She slides her bouquet into an empty mason jar resting on the ledge in front of us. I think it’s meant for tips.

“My flower?”

“I think everyone has a flower that reflects them. Their personality, their essence.”

“What’s yours?”

“I fancy myself ranunculus.”

“Do you?” I ask. I don’t know what a ranunculus is, but I don’t want her to know that. She seems very into flowers.

“Yes. A deep purple or burgundy ranunculus. They’re my absolute favorite. They don’t like the heat and need lots of sunlight, so we’re similar in that way.”

Oskar sets down two lattes with pretty leaf designs in the foam.

“Maple cinnamon,” he says.

“Oh, thank you, Oskar,” Sophie says. She picks them both up and then hands one to me. “Sounds lovely.”

He bows his head like his son did. “Would hate to disappoint you.”

There’s something a bit grim about how he says it. Sophie bats her lashes at him. They play a short, silent game. I don’t know the rules, but I know Oskar loses. He looks away, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

“Come,” Sophie says to me. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Bye, Sophie!” Erik says.

“Good-bye, Erik. Be good,” she calls over her shoulder as we walk away. She leads me to a paved sidewalk that curls around a patch of woods. On the other side is a small park. A playground, a few benches and a beautiful storybook gazebo. It’s almost too much. Too perfect. Too picturesque.

I take a sip of my coffee, and it, too, is wonderful.

“You like it?” she asks me. “Oskar owns the Good Mug on Main Street.”

“What’s his deal?” I ask. This is the kind of thing girlfriends talk about, right? Is this how we bond? Or was that an awkward and intrusive question and maybe I should just leave?

Sophie sighs. “I don’t like to share anyone’s secrets, but I will say this. He’s a very complicated, haunted man.”

I follow Sophie up the steps to the gazebo. There are two girls already inside sitting on the ground instead of on the built-in bench. They’re close to each other. They might be playing one of those hand-slapping games, or trading secrets, or practicing kissing.

When they see Sophie, they shoot up.

“Hello, Miss Sophie,” they say in unison.

“Hello, girls,” Sophie says. She pats each of them on the head. When she does this, the girls eye each other. I watch color flood their cheeks.

“We were just leaving,” one of them says. “Bye!”

“Bye, now,” Sophie says, waving.

The way people react to her . . . is there something I’m missing? Or is she just so beautiful that people don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re around her?

She sits on the bench and I park myself next to her. She sets her coffee down, removes the sleeve and wraps her hands around the naked cup.

“Did you use to date? Oskar, I mean,” I say. I regret it immediately. I don’t know what to do with myself around her. How to act. “I thought there was a vibe.”

“Me and Oskar? Oh, no,” she says, laughing. “No, no. I don’t bother with men in that way. Or women. Or anyone. I haven’t for a long, long time. I’ve discovered, over the years, that I’m much happier alone.”

The words land square in the center of my forehead. Much. Happier. Alone.

“Are you all right, Annie?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I just . . . My boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend . . . We just . . . I’m just going through a recent breakup. We were together for almost ten years. We lived together. I thought we were going to get married. So it’s a big . . . It’s an adjustment.”

I try to retract the tears into my eyes by sheer force of will. I feel one escape.

“Oh, Annie,” she says. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s just hard.”

“I’m sure,” she says.

“We’re on good terms, which helps. It wasn’t contentious. Sometimes things don’t work out.”

“Mm,” she says, sipping her coffee. She gazes out into space, thinking something. Then she says, “I’m inclined to hate him.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “No, he really didn’t do anything wrong. We think we’re probably just better as friends.”

“This all seems quite diplomatic,” she says. “What you’re saying. Your words. But your face.”

She cradles my face, chin to cheek, in her warm palm.

“Your face, your eyes, they tell me another story,” she says, gently removing her hand. “But you can tell me that one another time. Or not at all. It’s your story to tell or never to tell.”

I shrug. “I’m not sure there is much of a story.”

She nods, but it’s a skeptical nod. She doesn’t believe me. And she shouldn’t. There is a story. Of course there is. It’s just a bad one. I thought I was settled in a stable, long-term relationship, which led to a complacency on my end that slowly eroded the romance. It’s sad and painful and, maybe worst of all, boring. I wouldn’t make her sit through it. I can barely stand it myself.

“You may not believe me,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper, “but I am older than I look. And the thing about age is, it gifts you with incredible wisdom. So you must trust me, and all my incredible wisdom, when I tell you that, though you’re hurting now and it surely feels like it’s a permanent state, like a fog that will never lift, I promise you it will.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“But,” she says, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, “you’ll discover for yourself soon enough the things that devastate us most in the moment are always the things we look back on with such gratitude.”

I wish I could believe her. I want to, but I can’t let go of my cynicism. I have to keep it close, tucked under my seat like an inflatable life vest. I’m too afraid of what will happen if I allow myself to become hopeful. What terrible disappointments will attack while I’m stupid happy and unprepared.

She sets down her coffee, and I see it. A spider. It’s moseying along the ledge toward Sophie.

“There’s a spider,” I tell her, pointing. “There are a lot of spiders here.”

“There’s a lot of nature,” she says, turning to look at it. “Hello, little friend.”

I let the spider crawl onto the discarded lid of my coffee cup, then tip the lid over the edge of the gazebo. The spider lands in a shrub.

“Beautiful little creatures, aren’t they?”

“Eh,” I say. “They’re creatures. I don’t like to kill them.”

“It’s bad luck,” she says. She turns her hand into a spider and creeps it up my forearm. “So, Annie, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Don’t have any.”

“No plans? Hmm, interesting. No plans,” she says. She’s plotting something. The corners of her mouth slowly curl into a grin.

“What?” I ask her.

“Now you can’t say no to me when I ask you to come over, because I know you have no other plans,” she says, laughing. “I’m in the mood to make pie. Would you like to come over and make some pie?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve never made pie before.”

“I love to make pie. I find it very relaxing,” she says. “Let’s go pick up some berries, and then we can go to my place, yes?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

She stands up and reaches out for my hand. There’s another spider. A smaller one. Brownish. It’s crawling along Sophie’s finger. I open my mouth to warn her, but she already knows. She leans down, moves toward the ledge, then transforms her finger into a bridge for the spider to cross. I’m amazed that it actually does. It walks in a straight line along Sophie’s finger onto the ledge of the gazebo.

“You’re the spider whisperer,” I say.

“They’re uncomplicated,” she says. “Humans are complicated.”

I follow her out of the gazebo and back to the tents. Everyone we pass smiles at us, bows their head, says, “Good morning. Good morning, Sophie!” or “Sophie! How are you?” I experienced the town’s general friendliness earlier, but this is different. Excessive. The people fawn over her. I watch their expressions as they see her, as her presence dawns on their faces.

I look at her. She is stunningly gorgeous. Superhuman. I should be intimidated. I should feel like a hideous troll walking beside someone so insanely beautiful, but I don’t. I’m just content to soak in her glow. And she’s so nice and open and warm and funny. It’s that rumored phenomenon I never believed in; I feel like I’ve known her my whole life.

So why are these people who know her acting so weird around her?

I turn to her. “Are you famous?”

She laughs. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Seems like you’re a big deal around here.”

She rolls her eyes. “I own a lot of land. Real estate. It’s silly.”

“You’re their landlord?”

She winces. “I don’t like that term. ‘Lord.’ ”

She erupts into whole-body shivers, like saying the word was physically painful.

I mime zipping my lips. “I won’t say it.”

“I hope you won’t think of me differently now,” she says, “or after you see my house.”

We stop in front of a tent where cartons of fresh berries are for sale. Ripe pink strawberries. Chubby blueberries and raspberries. The most beautiful blackberries I’ve ever seen, clusters of dark bubbles shining like satin. Sophie goes for the blackberries. She plucks one from a pile and slips it into her mouth.

There’s an ancient woman sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the tent.

“These are delicious, Tilda,” Sophie says to her. “I’ll take four cartons. Do you have a bag?”

The old woman nods and attempts to get up.

“No, no, darling. Just tell me where,” Sophie says.

Tilda points and Sophie follows. She sets the berries down to grab a large paper bag. She holds it open, and I put the berries inside.

“Teamwork!” she says, smiling. Her teeth are pearly white and perfect. “Good-bye, Tilda.”

Sophie doesn’t pay for the berries. She just takes them. I look back at Tilda, who gives a tepid wave.

Sophie leans into me and says, “Tilda and her incessant chatting. Are you all right to walk, pet?”

“Sure,” I say.

“It’s not too far, but we’ll have to cut through the wood.”

“That’s fine.”

“All right, here we go. This way.”

She leads me between two large grayish trees. At first I think there might be a path, but I was deceived by pale dirt. There is no path. We’re just wandering through the woods.

“I hope you don’t mind the forest,” she says. “I’ve always found it peaceful, but I know not everyone shares my view.”

“I haven’t spent much time outdoors,” I say. “My dad took me camping once. It was kind of a disaster. Rained the whole time.”

“Camping,” she says. “You have to be a true enthusiast to enjoy sleeping on the ground.”

“Yeah,” I say.

The memory of the camping trip seeps through my whole body. The rain hammering against my poncho. It stuck to me like a second skin. I remember shivering, listening to my teeth chatter. There was no fire; it was too wet. No hot dogs. No s’mores. We ate cold beans out of aluminum cans with plastic spoons. We slept in separate tents. I spent the night waiting for a boogeyman to rip open my tent with a bloody hook. I thought it would be funny, because he would expect to find a scared little girl screaming her head off, but instead it’d be me, sighing, pulling down the collar of my pajama top for easier access to my carotid artery. Hello,sir. Would you kindly put me out of my misery?

We pass an old stone well. It’s been devoured by moss.

“The well,” she says, “is how you know you’re getting close.”

“Old well in the middle of the woods,” I say. “Not creepy at all.”

She laughs. “Wait until the headstones.”

I assume she’s kidding until a minute later, when I see them. A small circle of headstones, chipped and worn and weathered. I can’t read what they say; whatever inscriptions were there have been eroded by time.

“Shit,” I say. One of them is split, and some kind of green goo oozes from the crack. More moss? Caterpillar guts? Inside the circle rests a mound of dead flowers.

“I like to lay flowers,” she says, “or a wreath.”

“It’s just a random cemetery?” I ask.

She sighs.

“The earth is a giant cemetery,” she says. “Not to be morbid, but it’s true.”

“Right.”

“Here we are,” she says. “See it?”

Between the trees is a small hut. An assembly of sticks with a thatched roof partially caved in.

“I’m only joking,” she says. “If I had better jokes, I would tell them.”

“What if I’d been like, ‘Oh, wow, so nice, so cute.’ ”

“I would know you were a dirty liar with a heart of gold.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen some apartments in the city that aren’t as nice as that shack and are way more expensive.”

“Dreadful,” she says. “All right, this is slippery right here, so let me help you.”

The ground slopes upward, and Sophie climbs, holding up her dress. I don’t know how she manages to look so graceful climbing, but she does. When she’s at the top, she reaches back for me.

I accept her hand and use it to steady myself. I fear I’ll take us both down, but she’s solid. She keeps us upright.

“We’re out of the woods!” she says. “I’ll reward you with tea and treats and pie.”

She threads her arm through mine, so we’re linked at our elbows. For a moment, the bright early-afternoon sun burns a hole through my vision. I close my eyes and watch the rust-colored orb float there. When it begins to fade, I open my eyes again and am stopped dead by what’s before me.

“Is that your house?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, because the structure at the bottom of the hill isn’t a house, the same way a T. rex isn’t an iguana.

It’s basically Versailles.

“Yes,” she says, her voice heavy and slow with reluctance, as if she’s a child admitting to coloring on the walls. “It would have been torn down if it had stayed empty. I thought it would be such a shame to destroy something so beautiful, with so much promise, just because it was out here alone, having lost some of its former glory.”

I’m not sure how it could possibly be more glorious. Parisian limestone with intricate carvings, multiple turrets, dormers, wonderfully ugly gargoyles leering from high above. Two massive wings unfurl from a hulking center tower with a conical roof trimmed with greening ornamental copper.

It looks like a famous museum or a summer palace for royals. It doesn’t look like a residential home. For one person. I can’t believe she lives here. Château Sophie.

“What do you think?” she asks me. “You’re being quiet and I’m nervous.”

“It’s incredible. Are you kidding?”

Her cheeks go pink, and she claps a hand to her face. “Oh, I don’t know. Everyone has their own opinions.”

“I don’t know if it’s a matter of opinion,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”

Now that I think about it, it suits her. I can’t imagine her living anywhere else. Her home is as beautiful and enchanting as she is.

“It’s not the coziest,” she says as we approach an enormous arched doorway. Sophie pauses, then digs inside her cleavage.

“Forgive me,” she says.

For what?I want to ask. For being impossibly endearing?

“Got it,” she says, pulling out a large iron key.

“That can’t be comfortable,” I say, “to have that wedged in your bra.”

“No more comfortable than the bra itself,” she says. “All right, welcome home.”

She pushes open the door, its hinges howling in complaint.

We step into a grand foyer. Far, far above me hangs the largest chandelier I’ve ever seen. Layers of crystals dripping, shimmering in the light, projecting pastels along the limestone walls.

A majestic staircase coils its way up, up, up. There’s an ornate gold banister on one side, on the other a series of Gothic wrought iron sconces.

“Don’t look at anything for too long,” she says. “You’ll see cobwebs. Dancing dust mites. This place is terribly difficult to maintain.”

“Uh, yeah. I’d imagine. You clean it yourself?”

She nods. “Mm. Sometimes I invite in some woodland creatures. They sweep. I sing.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you the tour some other time,” she says, “when I know it’s clean. Kitchen is this way.”

We make a left through one of the many archways. She leads me down a long, bright hallway. A collection of mirrors hangs on the walls, each a different style and shape. Some have thick decorative frames; others are simple, understated. They’re all placed in various spots along the walls. There’s no discernible pattern, but there is an order about their placement. Everything is where it’s meant to be.

“These mirrors are beautiful,” I say, trying not to stare at my own reflection. My hair is disheveled from the walk. I pluck a small leaf out of my tangled ends and quickly tuck it into my bag.

“I’ve accumulated them over the years,” she says. “Seems narcissistic to collect mirrors. But I think there’s something special about mirrors. Art that frames you. They tell you the truth, if you look hard enough, for long enough. Do I sound completely pretentious?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Forgive me. I’m old,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

How old could she possibly be? She couldn’t be over fifty. Not possible. I need this friendship to work, mostly because she’s warm and fun and funny and I love her, but also, I need to know what products she uses.

Probably La Mer.

“The kitchen is right over here,” she says. We duck through a low doorway. We walk down two steps and through another hallway, which opens up into a giant kitchen. Literally. A kitchen for giants.

Every piece of equipment, every appliance, every utensil, is gargantuan. There’s a stove the size of a Mini Cooper. A fireplace I could walk around inside. Copper pans hang from the ceiling. The floor is alternating black and red tiles.

Sophie glides over to the counter and sets the bag of berries down, then spins around to turn the oven on.

She begins to rummage through the cabinets and procure things. Bowls. Wooden spoons. Sieves. Canisters of flour and sugar. A set of tin measuring cups. A rolling pin.

“Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? I have some lovely floral teas,” she says.

“Sure,” I say. “What can I do? Put the water on?”

She shakes her head, and in a swift motion, she turns the stove on, shifts a copper kettle over the flame and returns to setting up on the big butcher-block island.

She makes the dough, talking me through the process as she goes. I’m watching her closely, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. It’s too hard to pay attention. She’s so mesmerizing. The sound of her voice. The grace and precision of her movements. She presses the dough into a white ceramic pie dish, pinching along the edges.

“Now,” she says, sliding the dish into the fridge, “the berries.”

“I’m useless,” I say as she begins to stir them with sugar and the juice of two lemons. “You’re doing everything.”

“You’re good company, Annie. I’m enjoying your company.”

It’s such a nice thing to have your presence acknowledged as something of value. For a moment, everything glitters.

“What is it?” she asks. “Something on your mind?”

“I was just thinking that this is nice,” I say. “You’re fun.”

“Really?” she asks, smiling like I just named her Miss America.

“Yeah,” I say. “Why are you so surprised? You’re a very chic and fun person.”

“I don’t know,” she says, bashful. “Some people find me . . . I don’t know. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”

I lift my literal cup of tea to her. We’re drinking rose-and-pear tea, a blend she made herself. It’s delicious. “You’re my cup of tea.”

“And you’re mine,” she says.

She lifts hers. We pretend to clink. The cups are too delicate to risk the damage of an actual clink. Fine bone china adorned with flowers.

Is this how it happens? Is this how you make friends as an adult? You stumble upon someone wonderful, and all of a sudden, you’re close?

“I’m sure your friends in the city miss you,” she says, examining the blackberry filling.

“Most of my friends left the city a long time ago. They got married and bought houses and had cute babies they send me pictures of. You know that newborn pose,” I say. I clasp my hands together and put them to one side of my face, hunch over the counter to demonstrate.

“They can’t do much else, you know,” she says. “They’re limp as noodles. And so loud. Tiny, toothless beasts.”

“I take it you don’t have children?” She samples a small spoonful of the filling. She considers the taste.

“No. I’ve never had the desire. I suppose it’s made me a pariah, especially in my youth. It was expected, and I shunned the expectation. They say things are better now, that society is more accepting if you don’t want to become a mother. I’m not sure if I find that to be true. Either you want babies or, if you don’t, you must want to eat them.”

When I don’t say anything, she looks up at me and says, “Never mind me. I’m being dramatic. Bitter, I suppose.”

“No,” I say. “You have a point. And I think once you have kids, it’s such a different life. Maybe it’s hard to stay friends with someone who doesn’t, because they can’t relate. I don’t know.”

It’s easier to think that I lost touch with my friends because they got married and moved away and procreated, but I’m not sure it’s the truth. I remember the complaints when Sam and I first got together. We never see you anymore! We miss you! Come out! Let’s have brunch! I didn’t want to. I was too in love. I wanted to spend every spare minute with him. Gallivanting through the grocery store, taking day trips to the Bronx Zoo, to the Brooklyn Museum, having wild new-relationship sex.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my friends cornered me in the bathroom to accuse me of ditching them for my new boyfriend, Josiah. He was my first serious boyfriend, and I was obsessed with him. I remember crying and telling my friends that I was sorry, that I’d be better about making time for them. I promised that I would sit with them at lunch again, go to the movies on weekends. But after they confronted me like that, I really didn’t want to. It was mean. So I continued to spend all of my time with Josiah. And after he and I broke up, I started dating Drew. Then Sean, then Griffin and, after a brief intermission, Sam.

I’ve been accused of being the type of girl who always needs a boyfriend. A “relationship girl.” It never bothered me until now, because this lost-at-sea feeling proves the cruel hypothesis.

“I like children,” Sophie says, creating a pretty lattice pattern with strips of dough. “Some of them, anyway. And I don’t judge anyone for wanting to have them.”

“No, I didn’t think that.”

“Good,” she says. “Shall I stick this pie in the oven, then?”

“You mean that oven big enough to fit a few small children?”

She laughs. “Oh, Annie, you’re wicked.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“This will go in for about an hour,” she says. “I feel like I’ve gobbled up your whole day. You’re welcome to stay, of course, darling, but I thought I would give you an out.”

“I don’t have other plans, but I don’t want to put you out,” I say.

“Annie,” she says, “that was just a courtesy. I’ve actually kidnapped you and you don’t know it yet.”

“Damn,” I say. “I’m locked in a castle and being fed pie. Please, someone help!”

“I am known for my viciousness. Come, let’s venture somewhere else. Do you like to read? I’ll show you the library.”

She takes my hand and leads me back through the mirror hallway and into the foyer. We go through a different archway, down a flight of stairs and then up another flight of stairs to the library.

Oak paneling, coffered ceilings, bronze accents. Everything about the room is rich and dark, steeped in tawny light. There’s a marble fireplace that reaches all the way to the ceiling, carved with such incredible detail that I have to fight the urge to rush over and touch it, to run my fingers along each individual swirl, every last groove.

There’s so much to drink in, so much room, so much stuff, that when I finally get to the bookcases, I’m not at all surprised by them, despite their grandeur. And there’s a sliding ladder! I didn’t know people actually had those.

“Look around,” she says, “or sit.”

She distributes herself across a chaise longue, extending her legs out, letting one arm rest overhead, the other dangle at her side. There are plenty of chairs around, and a set of small uncomfortable-looking couches. That’s the downside of antique furniture. Beauty over function.

“After the conservatory, I think I spend the most time in here,” she says. “So many stories.”

“Yeah,” I say, sitting down in a hard armchair. “I don’t read as much as I should. Especially for an English teacher. I should read more. Watch less TV.”

“I don’t own a television,” she says.

“Really?”

“Really,” she says. She starts to laugh, letting her head fall back. “I use a projector. Please. I love it. Well, I watch films mostly. I like movies. I don’t have channels for television. Or what is it now? Streaming? It’s all too much for me. But I’ll watch a film anytime.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I like a good story,” she says. She leans forward. “I bet you have a very interesting story.”

“Me? No, not really.”

“No?”

“I’m boring.”

“I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”

I shrug. “I grew up in a small town in Connecticut. I went to NYU. I teach. That’s pretty much it.”

“Annie,” she says, stretching an arm out to me, “why did you want to become a teacher?”

“My mother was a teacher.”

“She’s not anymore?”

“Um, no. She died when I was really young, so . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be like her,” I say. I feel like this chair is sitting on me, not the other way around. I stand and walk over to the bookcases, begin to browse, feel the spines.

“You pursued teaching as a way to know her experience,” Sophie says.

“Yeah, maybe. I guess,” I say. I don’t talk about my mother often. Ever.

Sophie swings her legs around and pats the area beside her, an invitation for me to sit. I do, and she begins to stroke my hair.

“Is this okay?” she asks me. “You have beautiful hair.”

“Yes,” I say. She gently lets the strands run across her palm and through her fingers. The show of affection moves me. I picture one of those videos of an iceberg melting, chunks falling away into the dark ocean. I think that’s what’s happening inside my chest.

I tell her about my mother. I tell her the stories I remember, describe her from the pictures I’ve seen, the ones I keep in a thin album with pressed flowers in between the pages. I tell her about my dad, about our nonexistent relationship. I tell her about my isolated childhood. I tell her my middle school horror stories and about my high school dramas and college escapades. Then, in spite of myself, I tell her about Sam.

She leads me back into the kitchen and we take the pie out of the oven. She fans it with a cloth as it releases whorls of steam, but she does not stop listening. Not once. Not for a second.

By the time we’ve each finished a slice of pie, she knows more about me than pretty much anyone aside from Sam.

“I’ve been talking too much,” I say. “You’re sick of me.”

“Have you learned nothing this afternoon?” she asks me. “You are not boring. You’re a very, very interesting person with a very, very interesting story. I was right. That’s the thing about me, pet. I’m always right.”

“And you make a great pie.”

She winks at me.

There’s a lull in conversation, and I allow it, fearing I’ve talked too much. In the absence of my monologuing, I can hear a faint tapping. I look out the window and see fat drops of rain glimmering against the glass. The sky has gone pale. The trees sway, their leaves nodding, collapsing under the weight of water.

“It’s raining,” I say.

“Is it?” Sophie asks, turning toward the window. A flash of lightning answers her question. It thrills her. “Oh, I love a storm!”

“They make me anxious,” I say, interrupted by the boom of thunder. “I don’t like loud noises.”

She stands up and takes my plate. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here with me.”

She walks over to the sink and sets our plates down on top of all of the other dirty dishes. Mixing bowls, spoons, measuring cups.

“I can help you with those,” I offer.

“Nonsense,” she says. “You’re my guest. Also, darling, I don’t want you walking home in this.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m assuming she’ll be able to drive me back to my apartment. Should I ask?

“Before you think I’m incredibly rude, I can’t offer you a ride because I don’t have a car. Or a license. Which is ridiculous, I know. But here we are.”

“Did you grow up in the city?” I ask. I met a few people at NYU who’d lived in the city their whole lives and never planned on leaving. A license was unnecessary, a car a nuisance.

“No,” she says. “I’ve never been. I don’t get out much, really. I lead a very simple life.”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to the room around us. “Simple life. Simple house.”

She rolls her eyes. “You judge me.”

“I don’t!”

“Someone else built this house. A man with too much money and too much ego. He lost it all and left it to rot. I merely saved something beautiful,” she says, “though I do have a fondness for beautiful things, especially ones in need of saving.”

She begins to fill the kettle. “So, Annie, you should stay here tonight. Imagine the muddy mess it will be out there. To navigate it in a storm or after dark—no. No, no. I’ll make up my favorite guest room.”

Is she asking me to sleep over?

There’s a hesitation, a small anxious creature inside me pulling on my veins, using my stomach as a trampoline. All I’ve done for the past week is lament being alone, and now I’ve made a new friend, who’s offering for me to spend the night in her mansion. Why am I not more excited? Why am I experiencing this strange trepidation?

“What is it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s really nice of you to offer, but I don’t want to impose.”

“I invited you,” she says. “It’ll be fun. I’ll open a bottle of wine. We can eat cheese and bread and read or watch a film. Or I can make up the room and you can sleep. Or take a bath! I made some new soaps and candles.”

“Made?”

“Yes. Teas, soaps, candles, salves. Tonics. I grow things. I make things with what I grow,” she says. “I told you. Very simple.”

“What you think is simple and what is actually simple are two very different things.”

She pouts. “What do you say? Will you stay?”

“Sure. Yes,” I say, extinguishing my nerves, “if you’re sure you want me hanging around.”

She claps. “Do you like red or white wine for tonight? I’ll get us a bottle, and then we can go somewhere more fun. The ballroom? Music room? Do you play piano?”

“I don’t. And red or white. Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you. The wine from your store was delicious.”

“Oh, it’s not my store,” she says. “Well, not entirely.”

She gave me a bottle of wine and let me take it without paying. Was I wrong to assume she had permission to do that?

“I’ll be right back,” she says. She opens the door to the pantry and steps inside. There’s the unmistakable screech of rusty hinges, then fading footsteps.

Curious, I stand up and look inside the pantry. It’s big, and at the back, there’s a set of steel cellar hatch doors. They’re open, and between them is a dark void.

“Sophie?” I say. “Do you need a light?”

In the gummy darkness, I think I see movement.

“Sophie?” I call out.

There’s a quick succession of sounds. Fast stomps getting louder and louder, a rush of volume. It’s as if she’s running up the stairs, but no one’s there. I expect the top of her head to emerge from the dark of the cellar, but it doesn’t. Nothing does.

If she’s not making that sound, if she’s not approaching, who is? It’s sudden excruciating confusion. I ready myself to turn, in case I’ve somehow mistaken the direction of the stomping and it’s actually coming from behind me and something is fast approaching my back. But before I can move, a gust of air hits my face. It breaks like an egg, a cold yolk dripping.

The shock of it, the frigid bitterness, robs me of breath. I close my eyes.

“You all right, darling?” Sophie asks. When I open my eyes, she’s standing in front of me, right there in the pantry. She follows my eyes behind her.

“I . . . I didn’t see you,” I say. “I heard . . .”

“What is it?”

How can I explain? Say that I heard stomping and was attacked by a cool breeze? I’d sound crazy.

“Um. Never mind,” I say. “I thought I heard something.”

“It’s a creaky, drafty old house. It likes to complain,” she says, closing the cellar doors. “I chose a bottle of rosé. Whenever I can’t decide between red and white, I go pink.”

I touch my face. My cheeks are freezing, my lips stony.

“Shall I show you the ballroom?”

“Yeah, okay.” I can’t shake the cold. It’s a chill in my marrow.

But then Sophie puts her arm around me, rests her hand on my shoulder, and I feel an overwhelming sense of safety. She smells so good. I need to know how she smells so good. I inhale her. I don’t even care if she thinks it’s weird. I breathe her in.

Everything else melts away as she walks me out of the kitchen, through the mirror hallway, through the foyer. We go through a different wing, down another long hallway, but instead of mirrors, this one is lined with paintings. Mostly oil paintings, landscapes. A few seascapes. There’s the occasional tapestry.

“I feel like I’m in a museum,” I tell her.

“I do call this the gallery,” she says. “But no museum would hang my paintings.”

“You painted these?”

She nods, gazing at the paintings with her lips curled in. “I’m not very good.”

“What are you talking about? They’re amazing!”

She squeezes me. “You’re an absolute dove. Pure sunshine.”

Every compliment from Sophie is like a straight shot of dopamine.

“All right, here we are,” she says. She opens a set of towering French doors. We walk into a dark room, and by the echo of our footsteps, I know it’s big. Lights above us begin to glow awake, slowly illuminating our surroundings.

Even considering the truly extraordinary size of the house, it’s a struggle to understand how this room could ever fit inside it. It’s titanic.

A dreamy sea of marble. Ornamental plastering, appliqués, crystal chandeliers. It’s somehow even more ornate than the rest of the house. The tall ceiling is painted a rich aqua, and there are delicate gems of constellations strewn across it.

“Wow,” I say. “I mean, goddamn!”

She laughs. “I thought you might like it. I never come in here! But it’s such a beautiful room.”

She releases me and glides onto the dance floor. She does a spin, her dress levitating; then she curtsies to me.

“Really, Sophie?”

“You, my darling, do not take me seriously,” she says. She sits on the floor and produces a corkscrew, seemingly out of thin air. She begins to open the wine. “Oh. I forgot glasses.”

“We could swig straight from the bottle like degenerates,” I say.

She removes the cork with a satisfying pop! She waves me over. “You first.”

She offers me the bottle and I take it. I lift it to my lips and have a small sip. It’s great wine. It slinks across my tongue and down my throat. It leaves a sweetness in its wake.

I give the bottle back to Sophie, before I’m tempted to down the whole thing.

“Annie,” she says, “may I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” I say, seating myself beside her. I’ve already told her about my dead mother, my aloof father and getting dumped a few weeks shy of my thirtieth birthday. What could she want to know that’s more personal than that?

She gives me the wine back. I take a gulp.

“What do you want? Out of life, I mean,” she says. She’s now lying on her side with her head on her shoulder, arm outstretched.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Like, my goals?”

“Not goals. Wants. What do you want?”

“I guess I haven’t really thought about it. I wanted to be a teacher. I’m a teacher. So there’s that.”

“Did you want to be a teacher because you wanted to be a teacher, or was it only because you wanted to find a way to be close to your mother?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bolt of lightning slice through a monstrous black cloud. This room is all windows, and they provide a frightening view of the storm outside. It rages over the flat green of the lawn, a series of sculpted hedges, a rose garden.

I wait for the thunder to come, and when it does, it shakes the chandeliers.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie says. “We can talk about something else.”

“No,” I say, “you have a point. I don’t know if I want things. I guess I wanted Sam. I wanted for us to get married, be happy. Be together. To have someone.”

“Were you happy? With Sam? I mean truly happy. Did you feel fulfilled? Did you wake up excited? Have a sense of contentment, of gratitude?”

I don’t know how to answer, so I drink more wine.

“Forgive me,” she says. “I thought, perhaps if I knew what you wanted, I could help. You’re such a joy, and yet you’re sad. It seems an injustice.”

“That’s nice of you,” I say. “Thank you.”

“We don’t have to talk about anything serious for the rest of the night,” she says. “We can finish the wine and I’ll get us some food and we can watch something. I keep my thickest, softest blankets down in the theater room.”

“Okay, yeah,” I say. “Yeah.”

There’s another flash of lightning, and the lights flicker.

Sophie rolls her eyes. She stands up, marches over to one of the windows and says, “Stop that.”

I assume she’s talking to the sky. “You tell it,” I say.

The clouds mumble.

“There’s a limit to my powers,” she says, though the clouds have suddenly rolled back, and I no longer hear the rain. “Shall we?”

“You want the rest of the wine?”

She shakes her head. “No, you drink it.”

“If you say so.” I finish the bottle. It puts a fuzz on everything.

We go back to the kitchen and Sophie prepares a platter of cheese and bread and different spreads. She gets another bottle of wine. It’s night now, and the house is so dark I can barely see.

Being a little drunk probably isn’t helping.

Sophie helps me down a narrow, winding staircase to a room that’s all red velvet drapes and big chairs. There’s an elevated stage flanked by gold Corinthian columns. There’s a projector screen that Sophie has to pull down.

“What would you like to watch?” she asks me.

“Whatever you want,” I say.

She puts on Gaslight starring Ingrid Bergman. She opens the wine and this time she’s remembered glasses. She pours me one, and by the time I finish it, I can barely keep my eyes open.

The next thing I know, Sophie is pushing my hair out of my face and whispering, “Let’s get you to bed.”

The house is a maze, especially at night. We go up the main staircase and make a series of turns, and then we’re in a frilly bedroom. There’s a large canopy bed. The curtains and bedding both have busy floral patterns.

“The bathroom is through there,” Sophie says, pointing to a door next to a large armoire. Sophie opens the armoire and takes out a fresh set of sheets. “I’ll change these for you.”

“I can do it,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says. “Why don’t you wash up? There should be a spare nightdress in the dresser.”

I turn to find a double dresser. I open the top drawer, and there is a single article of clothing folded inside it. A long, formless white cotton dress.

I take it into the bathroom to change. I’m so tired, so tipsy, I feel like I’m being pulled down, like there are invisible creatures hanging off of me, wrapped around my legs like difficult toddlers. I start to undress. It’s freezing in the bathroom. It’s a windowless room. It’s not small, but it feels small compared to the rest of the house. There’s a claw-foot tub, an old-fashioned toilet with a chain and a pedestal sink. There’s a vanity in the corner with a pretty round mirror, the frame accented with delicate silver butterflies.

I stumble over to peek at my reflection.

I look incredible. Maybe it’s the lighting in here, flatteringly dim. My skin looks smooth, glowing, my eyes bright. I linger so long it’s shameful, just standing around admiring my reflection. I’m so focused on me, on my face, on how my hair isn’t greasy at the roots like it usually is, on how my lips have natural color, that I almost don’t notice it.

The other face.

It floats over my shoulder, an orb of pale skin. Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. It’s small, far behind me. I gasp, the sound surprising me as I spin around to look.

There’s no one there.

I turned too quickly, and an intense dizziness destabilizes me. I collapse onto the vanity stool. I take measured breaths until the room stops spinning.

Clearly, I didn’t see what I thought I saw. It wouldn’t even be possible for someone to be standing behind me; the space wouldn’t allow it.

I wobble over to the sink with all the grace of a baby giraffe taking its first steps. I lean down and drink some water straight from the tap.

This is embarrassing. I had too much to drink. What will Sophie think?

I change into the nightshirt, or whatever it is. It makes me look like a Pilgrim. I fold my clothes and set them on the vanity, avoiding the mirror.

When I open the door, I find Sophie smoothing the covers.

“Ready for you, darling,” she says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll take you to breakfast. Have you been to the diner yet? Tom makes the fluffiest pancakes.”

“Haven’t been yet,” I say. I want her to leave so I can collapse into bed, but I also don’t want to be alone. This room is too formal. There’s something unsettling about it.

“Good night, Annie. Sweet dreams,” she says. “If you need anything else, help yourself. Just don’t go into the east wing. That wing is forbidden.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m only joking,” she says, laughing. “It was a joke, darling. Anyway, sleep well!”

She leaves, closing the door behind her.

I feel the floor teetering beneath me. I stumble into bed, silently pleading with the room for it to hold still. A single voice cuts through the wine slush in my head.

Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep.

---

—My eyes are open. I’m on my back. The room is dark. I don’t remember turning the lights off, but I must have. My mouth is dry, my tongue limp. My limbs are incapable of movement. Up! I tell them. Let’s go. I need water. I need to pee. But my body refuses to move.

I stare at the bed canopy. I try to identify the flowers in the pattern, a challenge in the dark. I see a rose. A peony. My eyes go cross and I blink twice. There’s something unusual about the canopy, about the fabric, the way it’s draping. There are some places where it sags. I count four. I wonder if it’s from the chandelier hanging too low or if maybe there are some rips.

I blink again, and in that brief moment, in the darkness of my own head appears the face I saw in the mirror.

I’ve never been the type to scare easily. It’s one of the few ways in my life I’ve always been practical. I’ve never been fazed by slasher movies or ghost stories or urban legends. I was the one at sleepovers rolling her eyes, putting her hands on the planchette. I’m not scared of poltergeists or vampires or Freddy Krueger. I’m scared of real things, like economic recessions and dying alone.

So this kind of fear is unfamiliar to me, and I’m more disturbed by the fear than by the face, or the fact that the impressions in the canopy are now moving, like there’s something up there crawling across it.

The fear sends an electric jolt through my body. I catapult out of bed and stare up at the space between the top of the canopy and the ceiling.

I don’t see anything unusual, but I keep my eyes locked there. I take a few steps back to get a better view. Another few steps. My back hits the wall.

There’s nothing on the canopy. I breathe a long sigh of relief. I turn to walk toward the bathroom, and the wall seems to jump back away from me. My eyes slowly shift to the side, and in my peripheral vision, the distance between where I stand and where the wall is seems significant. A few feet.

So what was I up against? What was at my back?

The relief is sucked from my body with such force that my knees buckle. I listen for something, some noise that would confirm the presence of someone other than myself. The give of the floor. Breathing.

In listening, I discover there’s something else at my ear. Not a sound. Well, not really. It’s more a sensation. I realize I’ve been feeling it for a few seconds but have been too flustered to acknowledge it.

It’s hot air.

Humidity.

My hand reaches up instinctively.

ShhhhhhSssssss!

Someone is hissing in my ear.

I run.

I run to the bathroom, slam the door shut, lock it. I flip the light switch and look around. I slowly approach the tub and crane my neck to see inside. Empty.

I go back to the door. I wait for the knob to spin or for a set of fingers to appear in the narrow space between the door and the bathroom floor.

I think of what Sophie said earlier. A creaky, drafty old house.

I wonder what Sam would say if he were here. He’d probably still be asleep. He’s a heavy sleeper.

If Sam were here, I wouldn’t be afraid.

It’s just because I’m alone.

The realization is sobering. I go pee, wash my hands and splash some cold water on my face. I drink from the tap. I open the door out to the bedroom without any fear or hesitation, just bleak, boring logic. I get back in bed and pull the covers up high over my shoulder.

I close my eyes and pretend I’m back in the city, back in my old apartment. I pretend that Sam and I are still together, that the breakup never happened. I imagine him next to me. His occasional snores. The rise and fall of the sheets. The warmth there beside me.

I can almost feel it.