Chapter Six Rory

God, I had to leave. I couldn’t breathe with them all there, needing things from me.

With reassurances to Marco—yes, everything is so beyond fine, I swear, grand smile—I’m finally alone, sprawled out on my silk cocoon of a bed. Beside me is the mysterious letter from Ginevra that Gabriele gave me, and the book. Jesus, the book.

My heart squeezes as I imagine what the book contains. No, the letter first. Like ripping off a bandage, I think. I slide my finger under the flap and tear, then pull out several sheets of paper. The top is simple notepaper with neat edges. I surmise it’s from one of those yellow legal pads Ginevra was always writing on, signing her name over and over, the same beautiful, loopy way, up and down the margins, the way some might doodle hearts or 3D shapes. She might have all the money and a grand apartment by the Spanish Steps, but she is simple, unpretentious. Not the monogrammed stationery type.

I peek below the notepaper to the other sheets—bank statements? Bizarre. I turn back to the notepaper and take in the haphazard scrawl.

Rory,

By now, you’ve seen whom I’ve assembled on the train. Forgive me for springing them on you, but I was afraid you might not agree to go if I toldyou what I’d planned. Please trust me, Rory. Truly, I only want to give you the most magical trip. You, Max, Caro, and Nate. Each of you is here for a very specific reason.

I know you are angry at Max, for what you discovered inadvertently from me. He was a child, though, Rory. Only four when you were adopted. He loves you so much, however hurt you are. Trust me, I too have a sibling. A sister. I spoke to Max, you know, in interviews for this book. It is quite clear to me that Max loves you—would die for you—just like my sister would for me, and I for her. Siblings are the most powerful of relationships, the longest of our lives. Try to enjoy this trip with Max, and ultimately try to make amends.

Perhaps you are most surprised that I invited Nate. Please don’t be angry with me for doing it. Trust I had good reasons. He told me quite clearly that he is still in love with you. That breaking up with you was the biggest mistake of his life. Rory, I try to stay out of the lives of my main characters, but in your case, I have felt the impetus to intrude. I have seen in my life love stories interrupted. People destined for each other, whose paths run apart, and each wanders off with righteous indignation into their own eternal unhappiness. I don’t want that for you. I want you to have the love of your life. People make mistakes. People get scared and curl up like snails. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your love story. I implore you, Rory. Come back out of your shell and give Nate another chance.

Now, Caroline. She is your best friend. But as you are aware, I dive deep into the life of my main character. I find out everything. Oftentimes I discover things that people don’t want me to know. You see what I’m getting at, no? I found out something about Caroline you may not want to know. But you must.

Caroline is embezzling from your brother’s company.

I read that last line again, then a third time, my heart in my throat. What? No fucking way. Caro? She would never. I would put my life assuredly in her hands. I’ve known her since I was nine.

The letter skates out my hand onto the bed. For a while I stare out the window into the dark, with a picture of Caro at dinner filling my head: her aristocratic profile, her pale skin with hardly a freckle, as she moved her ring round and round on her finger. It’s new: a Cartier panther ring. They’re wildly expensive; I know this because I, too, have champagne taste—but not the champagne salary to afford one.

Well, Caro can afford a Cartier panther ring, I suppose, with her salary from Hippoheal.

I mean, can she?

Caroline is embezzling from your brother’s company.

I blink, shake my head. Impossible. Utterly impossible. Max is family to Caro. Plus, he’s been in love with her since we were kids. And she loves him, too. She would never do this to him.

In fact, I was thrilled for Caro that Max offered her the opportunity to work at his company. Caro floundered after college, trying to indulge in her love of fashion and travel as a career, working as a stylist at Nordstrom, with a fledgling blog and Instagram account on the side. She used to pack up a carry-on with her latest purchases, then jet to offbeat places, documenting outfits and pyramids and beachscapes on Instagram—Guatemala, Bhutan, Lebanon. I was always in awe of her verve, her adventurousness, maybe her recklessness, too. She once hitchhiked across Lebanon just to reach this obscure Roman temple. I thought her photographs were inspiring and entertaining, but her account never really took off. And she always had money problems, but they never seemed to faze her. Whereas for me, security, having enough, has been my foremost guiding principle.

We both come from families with precarious finances, but where Caro is more trusting that things will work out, I always feel like the bottom is always about to drop out from beneath me. Indeed, it did.

After my stint for Ginevra, I have no more money coming through, and I feel the familiar pinging sensation in my chest that, while I’m fine just now, there’s no more income on the horizon. That soon in the future I may not be, fundamentally, okay. Caro has never seemed to share the same fears, opting to glide close to her zero point, even accrue debt, in a way that has often seemed to me irresponsibly nonchalant. Once, I lent her two thousand dollars, and it took her several years to repay it. I thought about that loan every day, irrationally wondering if she’d abscond with the money, even though I had enough then, and I knew she was good for it. Eventually she did come through. And maybe it’s unfair to revisit those times, because Caro is infinitely more grounded now, building something with Hippoheal that could finally have roots. Gone are the days of her last-minute travels. Now she’s the high-flying businesswoman, in a chic pink linen suit and white cat-eye sunglasses, on her international business trip, with the Burj Khalifa as the backdrop. And she’s finally making bank, more money than I suspect she has ever raked in.

She would never embezzle from Max, from anyone. She would never. And besides, does Caro even know how to embezzle? I mean, I’d have zero clue. It sounds inordinately complicated, like Madoff and that whole crypto FTX catastrophe. Caro’s smart, for sure, but embezzling? It’s so farfetched.…

Reluctantly, I force myself to retrieve the letter and keep reading.

You won’t want to believe it, but I’m including the proof. Bank statements. Transfers—huge transfers—from Hippoheal that are not part of Caroline’s compensation or bonus structure. Transfers shuttled through intermediary shells. Gabriele has informed me that it’s quite a complicated crime. Others in the company may be involved. Be careful, Rory. I didn’t pass this on to the authorities because I wanted you to know of it first. I wanted you to be the last word on how to handle it. You understand what you must do, though, right? You need to tell Max. There must be a way of remedying things without further damage—to get Caroline to see the wrong in what she is doing. To admit to the full scheme, repay the funds. To get Hippoheal back on track, to ensure its important mission is unobstructed. I thought it most certain that you would want to be the one to help fix things.

I’m sorry to lump it all together in this letter—the good with the bad. Truly, I apologize for springing everyone on you. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t strongly believe that gathering them all here was in your best interests. Despite the situation with Caroline, I feel certain you can have a wonderful, fruitful trip, especially after you patch things up with Max and Nate. Three days of luxuries lie ahead, three days of anything you wish coming true. Truly, whatever it is that you desire, tell Gabriele. He will make it happen.

And please, Rory dear, do not worry about your career. You are an incredible interviewer and a talented news anchor. I have the connections to get you another job—an even better one. We will speak after the trip. Indeed, I have already put things in motion. So please, don’t worry one bit about your future livelihood, about all the hard work you have put in to achieve your dreams.They will certainly, no doubt, come true. If you don’t know it already, I am firmly—eternally—in your corner.

I do have one last request which I hope you will indulge. In three days, when the Orient Express arrives in Positano, I ask that you go to Le Sirenuse. It is the best hotel in town. You have a reservation at the restaurant there at one in the afternoon. Please bring the others. I can’t tell you whom you are set to meet there, only that it is a surprise worth showing up for.

Things may seem confusing. You might question my motives. I promise you, at Le Sirenuse all will become clear.

I realize everything I am asking of you and telling you is substantial. You may be irritated with me. You may be more than irritated. But, please, if you can, think of me like your fairy godmother. You’ve had some tough breaks this year. Your career. Your relationship. Your father’s illness. This trip can resolve everything capable of resolution. I hope that you will take my advice and allow it to do so.

With fond regards,

Ginevra Ex

When I finish the letter, I feel the dizziness of being spun around and around on one of those teacup rides at a fair, unsure exactly where I’ve landed when it’s stopped.

I’m on the crazy caboose. That’s what this is. This whole wonky train trip, and now Caroline embezzling from Max’s company? How is that even possible?

I riffle through the bank statements that accompanied Ginevra’s letter, my mind churning. Okay, so it’s Caroline’s account at UBS, and on the first of every month… going back June… May… April… shit. Ginevra’s right. For almost a year, one hundred thousand dollars has been deposited into Caroline’s account, like clockwork, on the first of each month. I trace through the papers, showing LLCs and offshore accounts, entirely disbelieving. If Caroline were the CFO, or CMO, or even the director of HR, this could possibly be in the realm of plausible for monthly compensation. But she’s not—she’s on the sales team, that’s it. Rising up the ranks, sure; Max always says she’s doing a stellar job. But I see there are other deposits into her account, direct, not routed from anywhere strange, for $12,666 a month, which must be her monthly salary after taxes. I do mental mathematics and decide that $12,666 per month on its own is quite generous, in my mind, for a woman who until a couple of years ago was barely scraping by, who had no formal sales skills.

I feel something acrid rise up in my throat. If this is true, how could Caro do it to Max? To his company? To Papa? To me?

Lately, I’ve wondered if Caro and Max would finally find their way toward each other. My brother’s infatuation with her has been a foundational fact since the moment I brought her home. Max has always adored Caro, full stop, even trailed around us, sitting on my bed, long legs dangling impatiently, just to hang out with us when we’d give each other makeovers. He simply liked being around Caroline’s energy. Well, most people do. Caro’s enthralling—she could sell dust to a shepherd in the Sahara. Somehow she flashes her smile; focuses her still, shrewd attention on you, and everything she describes sounds immensely appealing, everything she offers sounds legitimate.

Maybe it’s the prospect, however slim, that she can turn all your shit into her clear brand of gold.

Max and Caro hooked up when Caro and I were in college and Max in grad school, and the hookup was good, from what I understand from Caro (although, ew). And it seemed to me in the last couple of years that Caro was increasingly opening to the idea of a relationship with Max. But then when I lightheartedly tossed out the question mark of her and Max a couple of months ago, she was in a different mindset altogether—they would never, ever be. It was like overnight she threw up a brick wall, both between her and Max but also weirdly between her and me. Like the prospect of her and Max was a ridiculous notion that she’d never truly considered.

But she had truly considered it. I know she had.

Is this why she gave up on her and Max? She didn’t want him to question her latest indulgences? She would find it easier to embezzle from my brother if there were no romantic entanglements between them?

I roll over on my side as the contents of the letter reverberate through my brain, knocking against my skull. It hurts—it all hurts, and I don’t understand any of it. At some point, there’s a rap at my door, and I hear, “Ror? Are you still up? It’s just me.”

Just her. My supposed best friend.

The closest thing I have—have ever had—to a sister.

I close my eyes and feign sleep, as if Caro can see through the peephole, and eventually, when I hear footsteps retreating into the distance, I feel my breathing shakily resume.

I shift onto my stomach and prop myself up on my elbows, staring out the window, at a glistening pool that has now eclipsed the trees. My eyes focus, and I realize it’s not a pool, it’s inky sea. We’re crossing south toward Cinque Terre, a place I’ve long had on my vision board. Somewhere I always dreamed of going, when I had the elusive time and money. I should sleep so I can enjoy it tomorrow.

Try to enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime trip.

But I’m not tired. I’m so not tired. I need a distraction. Something for my brain to do, other than ruminate on Caro stealing from my brother, and Nate potentially wanting me back, and Max champing at the bit to know why I’m mad at him—to ruminate on the reason why I am mad at him.

I suppose I could watch TV. I could—My ankle nudges against a hard edge. Oh. Ginevra’s book.

The Cabin on the Lake.

I could suck it up and read the book about me. See what Ginevra’s created out of my life and the lives of those closest to me. I recall Max, Caro, and Nate on the train, when Gabriele gave us the books. They all looked sort of… anxious, didn’t they? I wonder why.

Well, buckle up, Rory. You can’t avoid this.I take a deep breath and crack open the book.