I sit on my bed and remove the letters from the shoebox. They crinkle as I unfold them. My mother shared more of her heart in these tear-stained words than she ever did in person. She was good at writing letters.
When I was seven, our neighbor’s dog died—a slightly overweight Labrador retriever named Honey, who’d been keeping me company from the other side of our fence for as long as I could remember. I loved that dog. I was heartbroken when she died.
“Maybe you could write Honey a letter,” Momhad suggested one evening, when she caught me crying in bed.
So I did.
I wrote Honey a goodbye.
And when I was finished, we stuck it in the fence.
The niggling thing sticks like spider silk.
I run my hand down the cover ofThe Great Gatsby. Five years ago, Mom returned to Foggy Hollow. For closure, Mr. Tulane had said. She wanted to say goodbye. And in so doing, she spent a long time alone in the library.
42
CHRISTMAS EVE
As Dad and I walk along the shoveled path through the courtyard, the manor looks like it belongs in a gothic Christmas snow globe. The sharp roofline glitters in the moonlight, its steep gables and spires softened by snowcaps. Tall chimneys exhale smoke. A candle glows in every frosted window and twin wreathes cast twisting shadows down the front doors.
Three cars are parked along the circular drive.
I recognize two of them.
The Calloways are here. So are Naomi and her parents.
I lift the brass knocker while Dad tugs at his tie.
Tulane greets us with his trademark bow.
Behind him, a massive evergreen dominates the antechamber, decorated with burgundy ribbon and glass ornaments. I peek at the library, which I’ve been fixating on ever since I remembered Honey and Mom’s suggestion to write her a goodbye letter.
Tulane takes our coats and escorts us to the drawing room where the guests have gathered. Upholstered sofas and wingback chairs have been arranged for polite conversation. Two servers in black tuxedos glide around the room, silver trays in hand, pausing just long enough for guests to take a drink or an hors d’oeuvre.
Isabel stands at the helm in an elegant black dress with cape sleeves, one hand fingering a string of pearls, the other holding a flute of champagne as she not-so-discreetly surveys the room while mingling with Everett McBride, her escort at the masquerade ball, and Naomi’s parents.
The Kapoors are everything Isabel aspires to be—effortlessly impressive. It’s no surprise she would gravitate toward them. Dr. Arjun Kapoor is a cardiologist, and his wife, Priya, an attorney. Naomi often jokes that her grandparents are eternally disappointed in their daughter’s profession, which is wild. She’s a successful lawyer. But apparently, medicine was the only acceptable choice.
On the far side of the room, next to a fireplacecrowned with garland, Henry and Cosette Everly—a formidable couple in their sixties—converse with Jude. He paints a flawless picture in his black tie, so devastatingly perfect, he’d fit right in on the cover of Vogue. It’s so easy to picture him posing on the hood of a Jaguar, his suit coat slung languidly over his shoulder while he broods at the camera.
He catches my eye.
I look quickly away, my heart fluttering.
Mayor Ridley sits on one of the sofas, donning a plaid Christmas blazer, his tried and true phoenix pin fastened to his lapel—a symbol of his loyalty to a town that has recently turned on him. He looks strained and drawn, like a man who has lost weight too fast. He and his wife chat with the Calloways. Though they are dressed in their Sunday best, I don’t think Isabel approves. She keeps glaring at Mr. Calloway’s red sweater, which pulls snuggly across his barrel of a chest. Twig’s argyle socks, too, which are quite visible between his scuffed shoes and too-short pants. He smiles at me. So do Kate and Naomi. The three of them sit together, snacking on the hors d’oeuvres.
One of the servers approaches with drinks, deftly turning his tray so the flutes of champagne face my father and the tall glasses of sparklingwater adorned with sprigs of rosemary face me. I take one with a polite nod.
“I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t,” Mayor Ridley says to Mr. and Mrs. Calloway, his voice carrying. “Half the town will be furious if it’s cancelled. The other half will think I’m endangering lives if it’s not.”
He’s talking about the Hollow Frost Fair, an annual event that takes place between Christmas and New Year’s. A very hot topic in public discourse as of late.
“But surely, whoever is—well, I mean to say…” He frowns, like he isn’t sure what he means to say. Whoever is kidnapping teenagers? Targeting students? Disappearing bodies? “There hasn’t been a single development in nearly a fortnight. We can’t live in limbo forever. So long as we take certain precautions, it should be fine, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Calloway attempts to reassure him, or at least, empathize with his predicament, while Mr. Calloway spots Dad and waves him over.
I stay where I am, doing my best to ignore Jude’s stare, but the heat of it has warmth spreading beneath my skin. I tuck my hair behind my ear and try really hard not to fidget, even harder not to look at him when Rafe steps into the room behind me. He slides his hand along thesmall of my back and whispers, “Merry Christmas Eve, sweet Selah,” as he passes by.
