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Chapter 4
“Wow, Mom! Look!” Rhys held up the large china plate on which his dinner was artfully laid out, eyes glowing. They were on the second leg of their journey, which had begun in Atlanta that morning, with a change in flights in New York. Now, they were at cruise altitude over the Atlantic, gliding silently through the blue-black sky towards the south coast of France.
Rhys was right to be excited: he’d never flown first class before… but then again neither had she. The flight attendants had been especially attentive to them since they’d boarded, plying them with treats and Rhys with snacks and gifts. Melanie began to wonder if Queenie had somehow let them know they were there as her guests. It seemed like the kind of thing she would do.
Rhys’s plate was piled high with food, as was hers. She looked dubiously down at her meal, quickly calculating the calories in her head, since naturally she didn’t have her trusty food scale with her. That was safely packed in her suitcase down in the hold; no matter that they’d had a mere few hours to get ready to leave, she’d made sure to pack what was important.
She squinted at her plate: Porterhouse steak, 12 ounces. 900 calories easy… and that wasn’t counting the heavenly-smelling burgundy and mushroom etouffee sauce in which it was smothered. Scalloped potatoes: one cup. 250 calories… probably more as she could smell fresh cream and butter, rather than the 1% milk she used at home. Julienned vegetables, glistening with a buttery glaze. Normally, her go-to standard for vegetables was eat at will, but the way they glistened….
“Eat, Mom,” Rhys encouraged her softly. “It’s okay.”
She felt herself color up. She hated the fact that she was sending some dodgy signals to her son. As a mom, she should really set a better example, teach him better lessons about food and nutrition, not be the poster girl for eating disorder angst. But the jeans she had hastily dragged on this morning, moments before the town car was due, bit into her waist as if irritated at being forced to sit quietly for an entire day in a small, claustrophobic cabin.
What made it worse was the fact that pinned to her blouse like a brooch was a tiny camera, boosted by a power pack and transmitter she had clipped to her belt. It was one of Queenie’s conditions: she was to wear her camera for 12 hours a day, excluding trips to the bathroom. She was also supposed to check in twice a day by text or email to let Queenie know how they were doing.
Melanie had seen enough reality shows to know that nothing good ever came from wearing a body cam; in fact, some of the most legendary gaffes that had gone down in internet history had been recorded by demonic devices such as these. The fact that this tiny inquisitive eye was relentlessly watching her every move, including documenting every morsel she put into her mouth—or didn’t—creeped her out. She had nightmare images of the footage being edited to make her look terrible, all for the entertainment of slavering Minions.
But Queenie wouldn’t do her wrong like that, would she?
Melanie shoved aside her reluctance and nodded at Rhys, making herself smile. She’d agreed to come on this adventure, and there was no such thing as a free first-class dinner. If she wanted to change her life, she’d have to take those steps and suck up the embarrassment.
She took a bite—and almost swooned, it was so damn good! Nevertheless, she carefully trimmed all visible fat, and then, for good measure, cut away the fillet mignon, leaving just the strip steak. That alone would do her. She felt like crap for wasting food, but rules are rules, she reminded herself. That got rid of maybe 400 calories. It would have to do.
An attendant appeared like a kindly house elf, holding forth the label of a bottle of wine for her examination. She noted with pleasure that it was a dry Cabernet, offering a much lower calorie count than something sweeter and higher carb. She held out her wine glass. “Maybe half a glass,” she began. The woman began to pour, and as the rich ruby liquid began to swirl, Melanie felt her tummy growl. “Or maybe just a little more than half… or… okay, thanks.” Smiling indulgently, the attendant filled her glass to the brim, slipped Melanie the rest of the bottle, and winked.
“Good luck with your cottage,” she whispered.
Melanie watched Queenie’s undercover Minion sashay away, feeling warmed and positively motivated. At her elbow, Rhys had already made serious inroads into his steak, as if he was on a personal mission to obliterate it. She rolled her eyes, trying not to envy her son’s metabolism too much.
Males, she thought, shaking her head.
The ridefrom the Airport Nice Côte d’Azur was fast… almost too fast, Melanie thought, because she had been hoping that the drive would give her more time to sort out her thoughts. It was late night — the roads were fairly quiet, and she was disappointed she wasn’t able to look outside to watch the coast go by because of the darkness. It boggled her mind to think that less than 18 hours before, her life had been humdrum, dull, predictable and safe.
And now she was hurtling down the highway towards parts unknown. She wondered if she was supposed to angle her bodycam out the window for the viewers to get a better look, but it was all dark and moving fast, so she figured it wouldn’t make a difference.
Next to her, Rhys drowsed, head on her shoulder, stuffed to the gills on steak and whatever other fancy treats the flight attendants had been able to shower him with. His fingers loosened in sleep and his phone tumbled to the floor.
She picked it up and slipped it into her purse. It was an expensive one, a gift from his errant father, and Rhys treasured it almost territorially, as though it was a tangible connection between them. It hurt her heart to think of what it must be like for him, growing up knowing that you were a disappointment to your dad, longing for his approval, yet too anxious to be long in his presence.
“Villeneuve du Lac.” The voice came at them over the intercom, past the thick sheet of glass separating them from the driver.
“Thank you.” Melanie looked around, eager. At some point they’d turned away from the coast, which had twinkled with lights and glamor, and towards quieter spaces, which looked almost deceptively sleepy. Pretty houses in pastel or earthy colors, the kind seen on postcards and in travel photo competitions, flanked them on both sides, and off in the distance was an area of darkness—doubtless the lake after the village had been named.
The road grew narrower still, even a little rutted, and Rhys woke up as the town car began to sway and jerk. They were well off the beaten path now, and for a second, Melanie felt a tiny prickle of fear. All was dark and silent, with barely a house in view. She hoped he knew where he was taking them.
Then the car swung sharply, turning up a drive onto unfenced property and she knew instinctively that this was the place. As the headlights swung, illuminating it, she gasped. This was no ‘cottage’. Looming large against the sky, two stories tall and surrounded by spacious, unkempt grounds, it could better be described as a mansion—albeit a smallish one.
And as they drew closer, Melanie felt the clammy claws of horror curl around her heart, because to put it politely, it was a dump. ‘Charming’ was the word Queenie had used, but if that was the case, the Joker was also charming, purely because of his wide smile.
The building, she’d been told, was about eighty years old, and Melanie was willing to bet it had been painted maybe twice in that time. Windows sagged off their hinges, and she half expected a flock of bats to rise from them and take to the skies as they approached. The garden was bedraggled, with weeds rising to grasp at the wheels of the car as they parked near the front entrance.
“Is this it?” Rhys asked in wonder. Melanie’s heart ached at the note of puzzlement and anxiety in his voice.
“Are you sure you have the right place?” she asked the driver hopefully.
He gave her a cursory smile and began offloading their bags. “Oui, madame.”
“Are you positively—” It was pointless to ask again, because already he had hauled their luggage up onto the front porch, which creaked under his every step, and deposited them unceremoniously at the door. Then he fished into his pocket as Melanie and Rhys followed him, holding something out with a jangle. “Your keys.”
