Friday, 8:25 p.m.
David finds himself alone in the library, a large room in a back corner of the hotel, to the left of the grand staircase, beyond a sitting room. It’s like something out of a Victorian novel, a cross between a library and a men’s smoking room. Like the bar at the front of the hotel, it’s rather handsome. There’s a large fireplace against the west wall. Above it hangs an antique hunting rifle; above that, a buck’s head with an impressive spread of antlers. It looks down at him with a glassy eye. There’s a worn Persian carpet on the hardwood floor. An old sofa sits at a right angle to the fireplace, a pair of chairs facing it. French doors appear to open out to a veranda, but it’s hard to tell with it being so dark outside. In the corner nearest the door is a large writing desk, which David briefly admires. But what he likes most are the beautifully made bookshelves. David touches them and admires the craftsmanship that went into them. The bookshelves are stuffed with every kind of book—from old, leather-bound sets to hardcovers and tattered paperbacks. It’s all very orderly, with little brass plates reading “FICTION,” “MYSTERY,” “NONFICTION,” “HISTORY,” “BIOGRAPHY.” He thinks of Bradley—he suspects this is his handiwork. He pulls an interesting-looking book from a lower shelf—a coffee-table book really—full of photographs of the failed Shackleton expedition. It seems oddly suited to this room. There’s a dim overhead light, but now David also switches on a lamp resting on a side table and sits down in the deep leather armchair. What could be nicer than to sit by a fire, in this lovely room, and read about the struggles of the ill-fated crew of the Endurance at the South Pole? But the fire hasn’t been lit, and the room is a bit chilly.
He thinks regretfully of Gwen. How unfortunate that her friend is a damned journalist with the Times. He will stay away from both of them for the rest of the weekend. He doesn’t need anyone dredging up his past.
He becomes absorbed in his book, until he is interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Is that you, David?”
It’s Gwen, and, in spite of his earlier resolution, his heart leaps up. “Yes.” He turns to look at her, standing in the doorway, and sees that she’s alone.
“I remembered you saying you were going to the library.”
How lovely she looks, he thinks, getting up out of his armchair.
“It’s perfect,” she says, gazing around the room.
“Yes, isn’t it,” he agrees. Somehow he knew she would appreciate it too.
“I wonder where everyone is,” David muses. He feels awkward, adolescent.
“Riley is tired and has gone up to bed,” Gwen offers shyly. “I think some of the others might still be in the dining room, having nightcaps.”
“I can ask Bradley to light the fire in here,” he says. She nods, but he can’t tear himself away from her to find Bradley just yet.
Together they begin to peruse the shelves. He enjoys standing beside her, while the storm rages just outside. After a particularly loud gust of wind they both look toward the French doors.
“Do you think it’s going to get worse?” she asks.
I don’t care if it does, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He’d like nothing better than to be stranded here, with her. “I don’t know,” he says.
“What shall I pick?” she wonders out loud, as he stands close to her.
He points to the large book he’d chosen earlier, open on the coffee table where he left it. “I’m reading about a tragic expedition to the South Pole.”
“Perfect for tonight!” She wanders along the shelves, dragging her index finger along the surface. Something seems to catch her eye, and she pulls a volume from its place. “Oh—I’ve heard about this one,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to read it.”
David reads the title—The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher, or The Murder at Road Hill House.
“I love a good murder mystery, don’t you?” she says.
SEVEN
Friday, 8:50 p.m.
After dinner, Ian escorts Lauren—they are both a little tipsy—up the grand staircase. He can’t wait to get her into bed. Their room is located on the third floor, at the end of the hall. When they arrive there, Lauren fumbles with the key, and Ian idly notices another door near theirs. He suspects it opens onto another staircase that goes down the back of the building, presumably emptying out somewhere close to the kitchen. It would have been the servants’ staircase; the help would never have used the main staircase, which makes such a grand statement in the lobby.
He puts his hand on the door and pushes it open. He stares down the rather narrow, plain wooden staircase that winds below, dusty and dimly lit.
“What are you doing?” Lauren asks.
“Just looking,” he says.
“What’s on your dirty mind, Ian?”
She is on his dirty mind. He grabs her hand and pulls her to him. “Come with me, baby,” he says, nuzzling her neck. He slowly unbuttons her blouse. “Come on, no one will see.”
She protests softly as he pulls her into the stairwell.
* * *
• • •
Henry and Beverly return to their room on the second floor after dinner. “I think I’ll read a bit before bed,” Henry says.
“I’m going to take a bath,” Beverly tells him.
She slips into the marble bathroom, taking with her the costly, sexy new nightgown that she’d bought in anticipation of this weekend. Henry doesn’t even notice what she’s up to, his nose already in a book.
It’s been such a long time since they’ve made love. What with teenagers in nearby bedrooms, and the two of them both so tired and irritable at the end of the day, the physical part of their marriage has suffered. Time just slips away from you. But she’s going to make an effort. She hangs the new nightgown—champagne silk with ivory lace—on the back of the door and admires it for a moment while the bathtub fills. Henry hasn’t seen it yet. He’ll be surprised. It’s been a long time since she’s worn proper lingerie—she’s embarrassed to think of the tatty pajamas she usually wears, day in, day out. This silky nightgown will make her feel attractive again. She adds bubbles to the bath, and as she gets into the tub and sinks below the bubbles, she decides that this weekend is going to be the beginning of a new start for her and Henry. Perhaps they will sleep late and have breakfast in bed, like they used to, a long time ago.
She emerges from the bathroom a short time later, feeling radiant in the champagne silk, smelling of roses, her skin soft, and approaches the bed. She looks at Henry sitting up in bed with his book, and when he lifts his head from the page she smiles at him coquettishly, though she suddenly feels shy. How ridiculous.
But he doesn’t respond the way she expects. He looks more dismayed than anything. He certainly doesn’t look at her as if he’s pleased, as if he finds her attractive.
It’s a shock.
He recovers quickly and says, “I’m sorry honey. I’m just . . . so tired.”
It’s like a slap, even if she’s only getting her own words thrown back at her. She feels her face go hot, and tears start to burn her eyes. She’s so hurt that she can’t think of anything to say. Perhaps she has misjudged things badly.
“I thought we came up here to be together,” she says, fighting tears. “You don’t seem that interested.”
He gives a big exhale and puts down his book. Then he says quietly, “Maybe it’s too late.”
Too late? He can’t possibly mean that. He can’t. Now she starts to cry, sloppily. She’s hurt and scared and embarrassed, standing there in her filmy gown that hides nothing. That was the point, but now she wishes she’d never bought the damn thing, never popped into that fancy lingerie store a couple of weeks ago, blushing and hopeful. Suddenly she wishes they’d never come to this damn place, that she’d never had the idea. She doesn’t want to see her marriage fall completely apart. She should have left well enough alone; perhaps they
could have gone on amiably ignoring one another, being too busy to examine their lives, their relationship, focusing on the kids, who still very much need them. She’s not sure she really wants to put the two of them—their relationship—under a microscope. Does she really want to open this can of worms? She’s suddenly frightened of what he might say next. She’s frightened of being alone, of being left. She has a career, but she doesn’t feel that independent. Financially, a divorce would ruin both of them. They both know that. If he wants out, she thinks, terrified, he must be desperately unhappy.
Maybe it’s too late. She feels like a fool for not seeing this coming, for not knowing what he was thinking. All this slips through her mind in a flash as she stands there exposed in her expensive negligee, goose bumps appearing on her chest and arms. Embarrassed in front of her own husband, she folds her arms in front of her breasts, which are billowing out of her nightgown in what now seems to be an unseemly fashion. Perhaps he is finished with her. Her thoughts are speeding away with her like a runaway train headed for catastrophe. She longs for her thick terry bathrobe to cover herself, but is too stunned to move. She sinks down onto the bed, takes a deep, ragged breath, and says, “What do you mean?”
He sighs and says, sounding regretful, “We haven’t been happy, Beverly, for a long time.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to that. Of course they haven’t been happy. Her friends—with big mortgages, demanding jobs, problem teenagers, and aging parents—aren’t happy either. It’s impossible at this stage of their lives, with all the demands and stresses they face. He’s simply being childish, she thinks, looking back at him in disbelief. He’s probably having some kind of middle-age crisis, like some spoiled child who wants to be happy all the time, who doesn’t understand that you can’t always be happy. Life doesn’t work that way. Henry can’t be one of those men who realizes one day that he’s miserable and decides to chuck it all and do what he wants. Surely not. She can’t just throw everything aside and do what she wants so that she can be happy. Women don’t get to make fools of themselves like that. Society won’t let them. But men do it all the time. She feels bitterness rising in her heart, not only against him, but against the world. She feels so powerless, more powerless than he is. She has never had the selfishness, or even the time, to ask herself what would make her happy.
She sits looking at him, thinking how close she is to losing everything. But maybe it’s not too late. If he would just say he spoke too hastily, that of course he loves her and wants to make it work, that they’ve had things stacked against them, he knows that, it’s been hard for both of them, and they have to somehow help each other, try harder to be content together—then she’s sure they could love each other again. She’s not ready to give up. Not yet. But she waits, and he doesn’t say it.
Finally she says, “What do you mean you haven’t been happy?” She sounds so controlled, but she wants to smack him as if he were a pouting child. That’s what he is to her right now, a selfish child, and she wishes she could straighten him out the way she used to be able to straighten out the kids before they became willful, unmanageable teenagers. When he still says nothing she adds, “And what makes you think you have a greater right to happiness than anyone else—than me, for instance, or Teddy or Kate?”
* * *
• • •
Henry looks at his wife with veiled loathing. He hates when she gets like this, all high and mighty. She’s such a martyr; she has no idea how hard that’s been to live with. How joyless must life be? She’s a miserable woman, constantly complaining. At least, it seems that way to him. Maybe he’s not being fair, he thinks now, rather guiltily. She is so exposed in that skimpy new nightgown that he feels a sudden pity for her. But he is still unable to reach out to comfort her.
He wonders how other people see his wife. What do Ted and Kate think of their mother? He doesn’t really know. They complain that she nags them too much, but she clearly loves them. She’s a good mother, he knows that. He doesn’t know how the kids feel about either one of them. He doesn’t know what teenagers feel at all. He loves his children, but he no longer loves their mother, which is what makes this so hard. He doesn’t want to hurt them, or damage them in any way.
He’s stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. And now he’s found himself here, snowed in with her for the weekend. What will they do with all this time they have together?
“I don’t think I have a greater right to happiness than you or the kids,” he answers her stiffly. Surely that’s not it. How typical of her to hear his We haven’t been happy as I haven’t been happy. He doesn’t think he’s more important than the kids are, or than she is. He doesn’t think she’s happy either. The difference between them is that he can see it, and she can’t. Or maybe it’s just that he can admit it. That he might be willing to do something about it.
Perhaps, by the end of the weekend, things will somehow be clearer.
Friday, 11:30 p.m.
Gwen knows she’s being reckless but she doesn’t care. Something has happened to her, and she’s opening herself up to it. Perhaps it’s the Veuve Clicquot that’s gone to her head. Or maybe it’s the way he smells—like expensive soap and imported suits. And he hasn’t even touched her yet.
David has Bradley bring them more champagne. Bradley freshens up the fire, then discreetly pulls the library door closed behind him.
“I like that boy,” David says, and she giggles as he refills their glasses.
In the library, they talk. She loves the sound of his voice, especially now, when he’s talking to her alone. It’s lower, more intimate, but gruffer somehow, and it makes her feel desired. When he speaks low, he moves in close, so that she can hear, and she leans in more toward him too.
They both know what’s going to happen.
When they reach his room—he’d offered to walk her to hers, but she shook her head—he closes the door behind them with a soft click, and she shivers. She doesn’t move; she waits in the dark.
He reaches behind her neck and unclasps her necklace and removes it and she feels as if he’s undressed her. She breathes in, a little gasp, waiting.
He gently drops the necklace—costume jewelry, but pretty—on the bureau just inside the door. Then he kisses her.
The kiss releases something in her that’s been pent up too long, and she kisses him back, but not frantically—slowly, as if she’s still not sure. And he seems to get that. As if he’s not entirely sure either.
* * *
• • •
Beverly has a difficult time falling asleep; she always does when she’s away from the kids, and now her world is falling apart. It doesn’t help that she can hear a muffled argument coming from the room next door—Dana and Matthew’s room. Is no one happy?
It annoys her that Henry fell asleep so quickly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world—and now he’s snoring away. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them. She resents that she has to do the worrying for both of them. It always falls to her to do all the emotional work.
They’d agreed to stop talking about their marriage before either of them said something they might regret. They agreed to sleep on it and see how they felt in the morning.
Finally, deep into the night, she’s falling asleep at last, when she hears a muffled scream. But sleep has her now, and the scream becomes part of a dream—a nightmare. Someone is trying to suffocate her. In that strange way of dreams, she is screaming loudly even while someone holds a pillow firmly to her face.
Saturday, 1:35 a.m.
Riley lies in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She wonders when Gwen will come to bed. According to her watch, it’s after one thirty in the morning. She doesn’t think for a minute that Gwen and David have been in the library all this time. She’s gone to his room. She’s gone to bed with him. Maybe she will spend the entire night with him and not come back to their room at all until m
orning.
It makes her terribly uneasy—the panic is rising inside her like a tide. Not because she’s a prude—far from it. She’s had a lot of lovers. And not because she’s jealous either. But because she’s certain that there’s some cloud hanging over this David Paley. She just can’t remember what it is. Again she curses the lack of an internet connection.
She fights an irrational urge to get up and go knock on David Paley’s door. But she doesn’t even know which room he’s in.
She hates this constant, generalized anxiety she always feels now. She tells herself that nothing can possibly happen to Gwen here, among all these people. Riley knows that Gwen is with him.
Finally, she slips uneasily toward sleep. As she drifts off, she thinks she hears a scream, somewhere far away. She persuades herself it’s not a scream, but a memory; she often hears screams as she’s drifting off to sleep. She’s used to it. They’re a precursor to the nightmares.
EIGHT
Saturday, 5:45 a.m.
Morning comes slowly. Overnight, the falling snow, so peaceful, has turned to sleet, coating everything in brittle ice, making the landscape even more dangerous to navigate. It seems everything is about to snap. Inside the inn, there’s a distinct chill in the air.
Lauren rises early, freezing, even with the warmth of Ian pressed up beside her. Her neck is stiff. She gets out of bed, shivering, and hurries to put warm clothes on, wondering why it’s so damn cold. She slips on jeans, a T-shirt, a heavy sweater, warm socks. They hadn’t closed the drapes before they went to bed, and now she glances out the front window to the landscape below. Even though it’s still quite dark, she can see that the branches of the huge tree in the front yard are bent, weighted down with ice. She sees where one of them has broken off; there’s a large, pale gash where it has been ripped from the trunk. The heavy limb lies broken in three separate pieces on the ground below.