Chapter Thirty-One Rory

Papa!” His face blinks on the screen—reassuringly vital and tanned. If you didn’t know he was sick, he’d be the older man you’d pass on the street and think, I want to be that sprightly when I’m older. I know Suzette makes sure he sits outside by the lake, gets some sun, and buries his bare feet in the grass like he loves.

“Privyet,” he says, his smile neutral. It’s a quick, sickening blow—he doesn’t recognize me. Besides, Papa never speaks to me in Russian. I know privyet means “hello,” both by context and overhearing Papa in Russian mode at the diner. But he didn’t teach it to Max and me; he wanted to move on from his past, become thoroughly American. Russian dragged him back—but now, here it is.

“And who might you be, beautiful lady?”

I try to maintain my smile, but my lips struggle with that big ask. This has happened before, of course, his not knowing who I am, but it stings like new.

“It’s Rory!” Suzette says.

“Rory?” Papa shakes his head, laughs. “Rory is little. A child! Where is Rory?”

The phone clatters, and I hear a rustle. I know what is happening.

“Look, there she is at four, and six,” Suzette is saying, distant. We made Papa scrapbooks for this reason exactly—photos from when Max and I were kids.

“Beautiful,” I hear Papa say reverentially. “My Rory is beautiful.”

Emotion swells in my throat as I listen to Suzette flip through the pages—try to get Papa’s mind to accommodate me as a grown-up. It’s common with Alzheimer’s patients; they remember the past so much better than the present. So the theory is, as our social workers have counseled, that by showing Papa photos of me through various stages, he will witness the trajectory of my aging and recognize me now, all grown up.

This has happened a few times previously, and it’s worked—but there’s always the chance that this time it won’t.

“Rory at college graduation,” Suzette says.

“We ate at Pizza House after,” Papa replies.

“Yes!” I shout. “That’s right, Papa. We had chipatis.”

I hold my breath as they page through my first office; my first time on air; and then, finally, he’s back.

“Rory!” Papa smiles broadly, as if he’s only just answered the phone. “It’s you!”

“It’s me.” I hover closer to the screen, drink in the smile of a father who knows me again, aware that soon he may not. That next time, he might not be capable of following the bait.

“Where are you, Rory?”

I swallow hard. “Italy, Papa. I’m in Italy, with Max.”

“Oh, wonderful! I’m so glad you and your brother are together. It’s so important to me, that you are always close.”

“We are, Papa. You never have to worry about that.”

“I didn’t have a brother or sister. I was an only child. The best gift I ever gave you was each other. And then you both have Caroline. I’m so pleased you have her, too. How is Caroline doing? I haven’t seen her since… in…”

“Caro’s good, Papa. You won’t have seen her recently because she’s in Italy with us, too.”

“Oh, wonderful, wonderful.” But his eyes dart around. I can tell he’s growing more confused.

I try to bring him back. “It’s like you said, though. Max, Caro, and I are always there for each other.”

His smile fizzles as he struggles to maintain it, and I’m scared he’s losing the connection—that in a moment the synapse that holds me in his brain, that recognizes me, is going to misfire.

I open my mouth, then close it again. Is it fair to him to even try to probe? I shake my head, knowing I at least need to try.

“Papa, you know that fairy tale you used to tell me and Max when we were kids? About the duke and the sisters.”

I see the recognition dawn, but it’s not joyous, I realize for the first time. “The good sister and the evil sister. And the duke—the duke who was in love with the good, beautiful sister. He met her on the lake, isn’t that how I told it?”

“Yes. Exactly, Papa. Exactly. Can I ask you—”

“You can ask me anything, Rorachka.” My breath lapses at that childhood nickname I’d forgotten. He hasn’t called me that in years.

It feels so fragile, this conversation. Like one wrong sentence on my part, one push too hard, and the tenuous thread connecting us will snap.

“The fairy tale, the duke on the lake, the twin sisters—it sounds a bit like Swan Lake.” I never realized it, never even thought of the connection until now, until it spits out of my mouth. But the more my brain turns it over, the more I wonder if I’m onto something. If Swan Lake has something to do with Ginevra, even though I’m determined not to drop her name again, remembering how much it agitated Papa last time. But maybe this line of questioning will feel less intrusive to him. Help him to tell me a detail that might shine light on it all.

“Was the fairy tale based on Swan Lake, Papa? Or something else? Is it a true story that happened to you?”

“Swan Lake?” It comes out of him fast and angry. “I wasn’t talking about Swan Lake!”

“Okay, but—”

“It wasn’t Swan Lake! Not at all! You’re wrong! She’s wrong.” His head swivels, his blue eyes wild.

“Papa, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this anymore.” I’m trying to say it calmly, soothingly, but I’m shaking.

“Not Swan Lake! You don’t understand. The duke always knew, Rory! The duke always knew!”

“What does that mean? The duke always knew?”

But Papa disappears, and Suzette’s face seizes the screen, her jaw firm but her eyes apologetic.

“Rory, I’m—”

“I know.” I swallow hard. “Tell him I love him. Tell him Rory loves him.”

Suzette smiles sadly. “I will, sweetheart. But I don’t need to tell him. He knows.”

Then she goes. Leaving me to curl up in a ball—infinite thoughts pulling at my brain, begging to be unlocked. Beseeching me to make connections that I am finding it quite boggling, quite impossible, to make.

All the while feeling very eerily sure there are major things I am missing that are right in front of my face.

I rub my forehead, briefly flirt with a nap—is that what I need? No. I spring out of bed, grab my phone that is charging on the malachite table, check the screen. A text from Ginevra, completely ignoring the many urgent texts I’ve sent in the past couple of days. Simply saying:

Ciao, bella Rory! All will be clear tomorrow at Le Sirenuse. I promise. Yours, Ginevra

My frustration with her shoots to fury. When I finally get to speak with the author—whether she’s my mother or not, my aunt or not, bestselling beloved freaking superstar or not—I’m quite positive I’ll pop off. My gaze flits to the banquette table, to the copy of The Cabin on the Lake that I took from her office. I’m itching to read it again, to figure out what’s been nagging me. What my brain flagged but hasn’t yet deigned to clue me in on. But I don’t have the brain space right this instant for plopping in bed and spending hours reading on a potentially needle-in-the-haystack search. I’m too on edge. I need a release. A massage… a workout… sex… or at least a drink…

I riffle through the itinerary. The blasted itinerary. Nate was right, at the start of all this. Ginevra Ex is the puppeteer, and we’re her puppets. Private chef’s dinner at 7:45 p.m.

No, thanks. Dinner with Nate and Caro? I’ll pass. I’ll quite pass on that. I’m officially done following Ginevra’s plans. Time for some of my own.

I quickly change into a black midi skirt and flouncy off-the-shoulder matching top. It’s an outfit I wore with Gabriele on one of our few dates. I felt powerful when I saw the look on his face when I arrived, but even more so when I gazed into my own eyes, like now. Somehow in all this, I’ve aged, grown. I like the person I’m becoming; who maybe isn’t a news anchor; who meditates every day; who can be broken open, cracked, split, but still moseys on.

Well, maybe not moseying, but one foot in front of the other, at least. Still standing. Papa would be proud. It’s the Aronov way.

I grab my key, wave to Marco on my way out, ducking off quickly before he can ask what he can do and start to offer up his litany of suggestions.

Max and Caro are two carriages over, next to each other. I’m fired up as I stalk over there, thinking it’s another example of Ginevra plotting us like one of her books. Arranging little meet-cutes for the couples bound to get together. Although—can’t imagine she’s trying to couple Caro off with Max, but then, maybe she is. She invited Caro on this trip, after all, even after suspecting that she’s embezzling from Hippoheal.

I hesitate outside Caro’s door, trying to pull myself together, summon the wherewithal to put my anger toward her aside and focus on my friend who clearly has lots going on of which I had no clue. I knock on the door softly, wait a few seconds. No answer. Fear begins to drift across my chest, clench on my lungs. What if—what if Caro—

No, I can’t go there in my head, but hell, I have to go there. Why did I leave her alone? Why did any of us believe her excuses and leave her in there all vulnerable? My hand is an inch from the wood, about to rap harder, break the door down if I have to, when I hear a click, and suddenly Max’s face pops out from the neighboring cabin.

“I thought I heard something.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I am startled to notice silver threads amid the black.

“Have you seen her?”

“Yeah.” Max nods. “She’s resting.”

“Is she—I mean, Max, do you think…?”

His shoulders budge up a touch. “I think we really need to get her a doctor tomorrow.”

“But do you think… like, will she be fine through the night? Will she…?”

I just don’t get it. I can’t believe this is Caro we’re talking about, although I know theoretically that suicide doesn’t spare anyone. That there’s no “type” to which suicidal thoughts attach. And I suppose it makes sense—I’ve been absorbed in my own stuff, but Caro’s been through the wringer, too. Even if both situations are her own making: sleeping with Nate and stealing from Max. Poor Max—he doesn’t even know the latter yet. Now is not the time to tell him, though. I don’t have the strength to add more tumult to my list.

“I think she’ll be okay, Ror. Till Positano. Plus we’ll check on her. I’ve already given her my key, told her to come at any moment in the night, if she needs me. And I’m gonna bail on dinner tonight. I’ve asked Francesco to order dinner to the room. I have work to do anyhow, and then I’ll be close if Caro wants to talk, and to check on her, in case…”

I exhale deeply. “You’re the best.”

Max shrugs. “She’s… you know what she is to me.…”

“I know.”

He loves her, of course, but neither of us needs to speak it. Love—their kind of love, the type I thought I had with Nate, too—it just exists, breathes, an organism unto itself.

“How can you forgive her so quickly?” I ask him. “For sleeping with…” My tongue lingers on the word, rejects it.

“It was a mistake.” He smiles sadly. “I don’t think it actually meant anything. And we’ve all made mistakes. Except for you, maybe.”

I groan. “Oh, I’ve made plenty. You’re the perfect one. Not me.”

“Papa would disagree. He’s always seen you as perfect.”

“Really?” I’m surprised to hear it, the way Max has perceived things. To me, Max could do no wrong—always winning awards, the best grades, succeeding. And now, with his Alzheimer’s vaccine, he’s poised to save millions of people, billions. Papa, most important.

“Well, I’m not so perfect anymore. News career down the toilet and all.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you,” Max says.

I cock my head, surprised. “Seriously? You’re not? Because I am. After this trip, I literally have zero income. Zero security. I don’t even have a home anymore.”

“No, I’m not worried. About other people, I might, but you? No. You always land on your feet. The sky is beyond the limit for you, Ror. When we were kids and Papa said he could see you as a news anchor, I could visualize it, too, but…”

“What?” I move closer to Max to let a couple squeeze by, surprised at everything he’s saying. I want, need, to hear the rest of it.

“Well, I could also imagine so much more for you even. You could be the president, Ror.”

“The president!” I laugh. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t smile. “Seriously. I read a little of the book, you know. Before all the copies got stolen. What you did when the kids wrote Maxie’sTinyOne on my locker—I never knew that.”

I blush. “Oh. That was forever ago. That was nothing. I was a kid.”

“It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t. It’s…” He shakes his head, his face flushed with palpable emotion. “Pretty remarkable, is what it is. You were always brave, Ror. So much braver than me. There’s no way that kid—the one who did that—doesn’t land on her feet. And maybe… maybe the path you’re on will lead to something Papa couldn’t have foreseen in his crystal ball conch shell. You know?”

I feel a catch in my throat. “Wow, thanks, Maxie. That—that’s really…”

“Of course.” He pulls me in for a hug, kisses the top of my head. “Hey, Ror,” he says, when I pull back, “you know that thing you said about not having a home?”

“Oh. I didn’t mean like a roof over my—”

“No. I just wanted to tell you—that you always have a home. With me. You have to know that. Please don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” I tell him, and smile at my brother. “Hey, I’m gonna—” I point down the hall, toward the bar car and then mime throwing one back.

“Enjoy.” He laughs. “I’ll toast you from my room, when I’m on the phone with my lab director.”

“And you’ll—” I point to Caro’s room.

“Of course.” He nods.

“If—”

“If she even so much as blinks the wrong way, I’ll get you. How’s that?”

“Thanks. Have a good night, BB. A good, uneventful night. We could use one of those, don’t you think?”

Max snorts—an involuntary snort like Papa makes sometimes, too. “We could use one of those, indeed, Ror. A good, uneventful night to you too, LS.”