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Jane supposes it’s the sort of approach Aunt Magnolia might have taken, if they’d had a private bowling alley. “That sounds kind of nice.”
“Ravi and I have had a lot of character-building conversations while bowling,” Kiran says with a wistful sort of amusement. Jane finds herself studying Kiran. Her eyes are too bright and she’s blinking. Jane wonders, how much sleep did Kiran get last night? Did Colin share her bed? Has Patrick ever shared Kiran’s bed, lying to her when he has to get up suddenly to take care of some spy emergency?
“What about Ivy and Patrick?” Jane ventures. “Would Octavian give them talkings-to too?”
“Oh, no. They got their lectures from their parents, and from Mr. and Mrs. Vanders.”
“I see,” Jane says. I’ll bet they did. “Would Patrick tell you about the lectures he got?”
“He used to,” Kiran says. “Then he stopped.”
“Stopped?”
At that moment, Ravi sweeps into the hall below with wet hair and an air of injured righteousness. Coming to a halt before Mrs. Vanders, he speaks in a voice that booms into all the high spaces.
“I’ve invited the New York State Police, the FBI, and Interpol to the gala,” Ravi announces. “I’ve given them the run of the house.”
Jane’s stomach drops. This is her fault. “You’ve what?” cries Mrs. Vanders.
“The New York State police, the FBI, and—”
“To the gala? Have you completely lost your gourd?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” says Ravi. “It’s my Brancusi and my Vermeer! It’s my house! It’s my party!”
“It’s your father’s Brancusi and your father’s Vermeer!” says Mrs. Vanders. “It’s your father’s house and your father’s party!”
“My father is a ghost,” Ravi says. “He wouldn’t care if we built a bonfire in the courtyard with his art. If he’s stopped caring, that leaves me to care double.”
“I’m already in touch with the police,” says Mrs. Vanders. “They are already investigating, discreetly.”
“Where? Why haven’t I seen them?”
Patrick has walked onto the bridge and is standing beside Kiran. He rests his forearms casually on the banister, as Kiran is doing. Kiran doesn’t look at him or even acknowledge him, but Jane senses a new tension in her. Their shoulders are touching.
Jane stiffens when Ivy arrives on the other side and stands beside her.
“What a fun party it’ll be for everyone,” says Mrs. Vanders acidly, “with the FBI and Interpol asking all the guests rude questions.”
“Why should it bother anyone who isn’t an art thief?” Ravi demands. “Honestly, Vanny, I could almost think you don’t care.”
“Damn you, Ravi,” says Mrs. Vanders. “You know I care, it’s my job to care. I only wish you’d had the consideration to ask me whether inviting law enforcement to the gala might create undue strain for all the people your family has hired to guarantee that the guests of your gala have fun. That’s our job too, you know. You’ve made things more difficult for me and Mr. V, Patrick, Ivy, Cook, all the staff, because your single-mindedness makes you thoughtless.”
Mrs. Vanders raises her eyes then, to Jane, and pins Jane with the same accusation. Heat suffuses her. Grace Panzavecchia is going to be discovered by someone who shouldn’t discover her, and it’ll be her doing.
“Hey,” Ivy murmurs beside Jane. “Don’t worry. You did nothing I wouldn’t have done.”
“I wasn’t looking for reassurance,” Jane says, suddenly resentful of Ivy, who has no right to be reading her mind.
“It’s our job,” Ivy says. “We’ll deal with it.”
“You do that.”
Kiran has been quiet on Jane’s other side. Jane has no idea if she’s overheard this conversation, or what she’d make of it if she did.
“Good morning, Ivy-bean,” Kiran says across Jane, to Ivy, ignoring Patrick.
“Hi, Kir,” says Ivy, her eyes bleary behind her glasses.
“Want to go bowling?” Kiran asks.
It takes Jane a moment to realize the question is meant for her, not Ivy. “Me?” she says. “Okay, sure.”
Kiran takes Jane’s wrist and leads her away, carefully skirting Patrick. “Come on,” she says. “The bowling alley will be the only quiet room in the house.”
* * *
There is, of course, nothing quiet about throwing weighted balls onto a maple floor. But the initial crash, the deep rumble of the rolling ball, and the high-pitched, plasticky explosion of pins are the punctuation to a mostly uninterrupted silence between Jane and Kiran.
Kiran stalks to the foul line, throws a loud strike, and spins back, grim-faced, and Jane registers that she’s been angry this entire time. Kiran was angry when she walked into the campus bookstore back home. Imagine how angry she’d be if she knew the truth, Jane thinks. She’d bowl a perfect game.
Jane slips her fingers into a ball. “The gala’s soon,” she says, hoping it might get Kiran talking.
“Maybe that’ll interrupt the boredom,” Kiran says.
“Do you always come home when there’s a gala?”
“Pretty often,” Kiran says. “I might make three out of four most years. It’s sort of a family tradition. Octavian always gives me a special invitation call about it, or anyway, he used to.”
“He stopped?”
“I doubt Octavian’s raised a phone to his ear since my stepmother left. He’s depressed.”
Jane strides toward the foul line and releases the ball with a satisfying thud. Idly, she watches its progress toward the pins, six of which go flying. “You did
tell me Patrick was the one who invited you this time.”
“Right,” says Kiran. “With all those vague noises about wanting to confess something.”
“He still hasn’t confessed anything?”
“Nothing,” Kiran says.
Jane’s ball pops onto the ball return. “What do you think he wanted to say?”
“Who knows?” Kiran says. “It’s typical, really; it’s his specialty. He expects the people who love him to be clairvoyant. Can you imagine loving someone like that? Someone who’s not going to help you understand him?”
“I—yes,” Jane says.
“The problem is,” says Kiran, “I’ve seen a different Patrick. I’ve seen two or three different Patricks, and they’re different from my Patrick.”
Jane’s next ball misses her remaining pins entirely. “Yes, well, people have many sides.”
“My Patrick is secretive,” Kiran says. “Pointlessly secretive.” Then she flings her ball down the lane, barely waiting for the pins to reset. As her ball eviscerates the pins, she says, “They’re not all secretive like that.”
“All men?” Jane says, a bit lost.
“All the Patricks,” Kiran says. “I’ve seen a Patrick married to a Kiran. They’re happy together. That Patrick isn’t secretive. I’ve asked her.”
“I’m confused,” Jane says. “Are you talking about ideas of you and Patrick that you’ve imagined?”
Kiran lets out a short, impatient sigh. “Yeah,” she says. “Something like that.”
“But the real Patrick is secretive.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Kiran says. “It’s ridiculous, the questions he won’t answer. ‘What did you do last evening, Patrick?’ ‘Why are you running around the house shining flashlights into all the closets, Patrick?’ ‘Where were you that time you disappeared for three days, Patrick?’ I mean, I respect his privacy. But it’s not like the questions I ask are nosy. We grew up together. I’m his friend. I don’t even need to know! I trust his reasons are good ones, whatever stupid thing he’s doing. But it’s hard that he doesn’t trust me.”
