A Week at the Lake (33 page)

Zoe gasped with pleasure and pretended to be their conductor as they sang “Happy Birthday,” proving quite enthusiastically that not all actors could carry a tune. At Eve's prompting, Zoe stood and moved to Eve's side. With everyone's encouragement she closed her eyes, made a wish, then blew out the oversized polka-dotted number sixteen candles.

Emma didn't know where the photographers had come from. But suddenly there was a small ring of them at the open
end of the alcove where the best shots of everyone at the table and particularly of Eve and Zoe and the megacake could be framed. Eve had her arm around Zoe and was helping her slice the first piece of cake, but her smile was aimed at the cameras. Just as it always had been when Emma was little. It was a smile that was overdone for real life but would look fabulous and completely natural in photos. Eve was the only one who didn't appear at all surprised to see the pack of paparazzi.

Emma's heart sped up as she realized just how carefully the table's location, their seating, and in fact every element of the party had been orchestrated. Eve planted a large kiss on Zoe's cheek, leaving her lips in place while turning her eyes once again to the photographers. The headwaiter handed Eve a long rectangular box tied in an oversized fuchsia ribbon that matched the cake's fondant bow. Eve placed it in front of Zoe as the photographers moved around the table snapping photos as if shooting fish in a barrel. A two shot of Zoe and Adam. A three of Ethan, Serena, and Zoe. Emma sat frozen at her seat as Zoe lifted the top off the dress box. She gasped again as she pulled a silver metallic strapless gown rimmed with what looked like Tiffany jewels out of the box and held it up in front of her. It was far too adult and sexy for a sixteen-year-old but it was beautiful—most likely Chanel or Valentino. Zoe's eyes glittered with excitement.

“This gown is for you to wear to your first Academy Awards ceremony. I know you're going to need it.” Eve's face was lit with happiness and if Emma hadn't seen her fake the emotion so many times before, she might have thought it was also infused with love. Eve paused dramatically and waited until all the cameras were aimed and settled on her and Zoe. “Because your real gift is a part in my new Scorsese film. In which you will play the granddaughter I've saved from a violent home and sworn to raise as my own.”

Zoe wasn't acting when she turned, threw her arms around Eve, and placed a kiss on her grandmother's cheek.
Flashes went off all around the room. Somehow a video crew had arrived and begun shooting, all of it choreographed by Eve, who appeared to be valiantly smiling through what might have been real tears.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you! This is the best gift ever!” Zoe was crying now, too. But Emma's eyes were dry and tight with anger.

“I want these cameras out of here as soon as I make my statement,” she said, motioning not at the photographers but at the maître' d' whom she saw beaming with happiness nearby. No doubt due to the size of the tip Eve had given him to arrange the photo op and because all of the headlines and articles that accompanied them would mention where Zoe Michaels's birthday celebration had taken place and probably every morsel that they'd eaten.

She rose and turned to face the cameras, pitching her voice so that it could be heard. “I wouldn't bother reporting on the possibility of Eve making a film with my daughter directed by Martin Scorsese or anyone else. Because that is something that will only happen over my dead body.”

E
than Miller helped facilitate their escape from Le Cirque just as he had from Mount Sinai by virtually throwing himself in front of the paparazzi. He wrapped an arm around Eve's shoulder and pulled her close as everyone else fled. “Boy, you really know how to clear a table,” he said. Mugging for the cameras, he held up one of Eve's hands and pretended to examine it closely. “And you didn't even get your hands dirty.” Eve carefully withdrew her hand but held on to her smile. “Well, not physically anyway.”

Serena blew him a kiss as she exited the restaurant. He sent her a wink. She hoped there'd be enough video of Ethan outwitting Eve to present to Emma somewhere down the road, but any tentative truce Eve had forged with Emma had been violated and therefore nullified.

The drive passed in an oddly agitated state of silence heavy with all the things that were thought but not being said. Zoe didn't yell, beg, or plead with her mother to allow her to do the Scorsese film or even
As the World Churns
, but there were far more dramatic sighs and hair tosses than was comfortable in the sardine-like dimensions of the overfilled rental car.

Emma didn't rant about her mother, either, though any one of them would have been willing to add an “Amen, sister” to whatever she might have said. Nor did she try to explain herself further to Zoe. Once they'd left the city behind she simply closed her eyes and appeared to sleep for the entire drive back to the lake.

Mackenzie sat in the front seat next to Adam drumming her fingers on her leg as Adam drove and tried to talk her through the steps they'd need to take to make the move out to LA. How the sale of the house in Noblesville would impact what they'd be able to afford in the far more expensive California, how they'd get the cars out there. He continued to talk despite Mackenzie's somewhat lackluster responses, but whether he was trying to desensitize her to the move or simply trying to dissipate some of the tension in the car was unclear.

Serena passed the trip alternately staring out the window and down at her damned phone while berating herself for her stupidity and for her wishful thinking. If it hadn't been for the plans for Zoe's birthday and cookout she would have hugged everyone good-bye outside Le Cirque and gone back to her place, where she would have gladly climbed into bed and never come out again.

T
hey reached the lake house shortly after seven p.m. Nadia took one look at them, said, “Holy Tamoley,” and retreated to the kitchen, where she pulled out food Martha had delivered. She then set about fussing over Emma, who appeared far more wilted than any of them felt good about. “You come with me,” the nurse tutted as she directed Emma to a seat.

Without enthusiasm the rest of them settled around the table and helped themselves to cold meats and cheeses. Mackenzie warmed up a container of homemade macaroni and cheese and passed it around.

“Here, Em.” Adam put a large spoonful of the cheesy concoction on Emma's plate. “Try some of this. It's really good.”

Emma stared at the mac and cheese, clearly not the least bit tempted.

“If you not eat, I make double big smoothie,” Nadia said.

Emma managed a few bites. Zoe did the same. Only Adam consumed his food with any real enthusiasm.

As soon as Nadia took Emma upstairs the rest of them retreated to their own rooms. Serena carried a glass and an open bottle of red wine upstairs. In her room she poured herself a generous glass and drank it down as she checked her phone for what might have been the hundredth time.

She eyed the bottle for a long moment, considered cutting out the glass altogether. Midreach she pulled back her hand. The last thing she needed was to become uninhibited enough to drunk dial Brooks. Having one's worst fears realized while sober was bad enough; having them come to fruition while all your defenses were down seemed downright suicidal.

And so she paced her room for much of the night eyeing the silent cell phone and the beckoning bottle even as she willed Brooks to call with some simple explanation that she could find a way to accept.

I
n the morning she watched the sunrise from an Adirondack chair on the beach, too numb and bleary-eyed to appreciate it. By seven fifteen a.m., a time when Brooks would presumably still be in his hotel room, she had had enough. This time she called the front desk at the Four Seasons and waited while the operator put her through.

The phone rang four or five times. Serena was still trying to gather her thoughts when the ringing stopped.

“Yes?” The word was clipped. The voice impatient. But the voice wasn't Brooks Anderson's. The voice belonged to someone else, someone who was pissed off at being interrupted. Someone who was female.

Serena couldn't speak. Nor could she decide what to do. Should she slam down the phone like some teenager? Did hotel room phones have caller ID? She dislodged her heart from her throat and said, “I'd like to speak to Brooks Anderson please.”

“Is that right?” What the voice lost in impatience it made
up for in imperiousness. “I'm afraid he's in the shower at the moment.” The woman paused to let that sink in. “But if I should decide to let him know he has a phone call, who exactly would I tell him is calling?”

The air left Serena's lungs. There was no mistaking the Charlestonian accent or the inherent note of privilege wrapped up inside it. Serena searched for her backbone. “You first,” she said even though she didn't want to hear it.

“This is Diana.
Anderson
,” she emphasized the last name. “Brooks's wife. But then I bet you already knew that.” Diana paused dramatically. “How have you been, Serena?”

Serena remained silent as her mind raced. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter as the woman laughed softly.

“No comment?” Diana Ravenel Anderson spoke haughtily as only a woman with the upper hand could. “Well, I have one. I don't know what Brooks has told you, but this is not the first time this has happened. Boys will be boys and all that. Who knows? Perhaps you're lucky he chose me instead of you.”

Serena couldn't seem to catch her breath. Her heart pounded so hard she imagined she could hear it. Was she old enough to drop dead of a heart attack? Diana Anderson would undoubtedly appreciate that. And Brooks? Would he care? He'd seemed so sincere. So finished with his marriage. Which only proved the man was a far better actor than she was. All these years of dating other women's husbands and the first time she'd believed she wasn't was the first time she'd been called on it.

“This kind of sucks for you, doesn't it?” The words were crude but the tone remained haughty.

Once again Serena didn't answer. But she couldn't quite hang up, either.

“On the bright side, you got to be the memory of his first love.” She continued in the same soft, relentlessly matter-of-fact
tone. “I guess I don't need to tell you that it's always the one who got away that can seem the most . . . tempting.”

M
ackenzie was out of bed and looking for something that might help her blow off steam before Adam had even thought about stirring. He'd stopped trying to convince her overtly but couldn't—or wouldn't—stop sharing his excitement about all the changes that lay ahead. It was clear he could hardly wait to leave here and get back to LA. Something he planned to do by Monday.

Mackenzie opened the laundry room door and set about sorting and organizing the baskets of dirty laundry that Martha had been unable to get to. As she worked and sipped coffee, she tried to make sense of the emotions bombarding her, anger at being expected to make so many life-altering changes so quickly and fear of what would happen once her decisions had been reached. She had not gone looking for a whole other life. She did not want or need to cast off the old and embrace the new. She wanted to go home to Noblesville where she could give this the thought it deserved. But what if she did this while Adam went about his new life in LA and he finally realized, if he hadn't already, that she was no more exciting than the place he couldn't wait to put behind him?

As she started the first load of wash, her agitation grew. She'd sacrificed her dreams just as he had. Why was she the only one who'd thought the cost worthwhile? What about the book she'd been asked to write? The blog that had begun to feel so fraudulent. Searching for a distraction she moved through the house straightening things that were not crooked, plumping cushions, restacking magazines as she began to think about how much every one of her roles—at the theater, in her blog, in almost every facet of her life—revolved around Adam. If she was not Adam Russell's wife, who was she?

She saw Serena outside on the phone, but was far too agitated to consider making conversation. The next time she glimpsed her she was still in the exact same position in the Adirondack staring out at the lake. The same was true a half hour later. Mackenzie wiped the kitchen counters, rinsed dishes, realigned the dining room chairs. Serena continued to sit as still as a statue.

Her inner turmoil spurring her outside, Mackenzie strode out onto the porch and down to the lake. “Serena?”

There was no answer or movement. Mackenzie walked closer, knelt down next to the arm of Serena's chair. Still Serena didn't turn or move. Tears slid down her cheeks, skimmed down her chin, and fell unheeded on the hands clenched in Serena's lap.

“What happened?” Mackenzie placed a hand on Serena's arm. “What's wrong?”

Serena sniffed but didn't speak.

“Okay, you're starting to scare me now.” Mackenzie moved into the chair next to Serena and slid an arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what's going on.”

“I haven't heard from Brooks since he left on Sunday. No calls, no messages. Nothing.”

Mackenzie winced and waited. Had she noticed this? She'd been far too freaked out by her own situation to pay attention after her initial shock when Serena had introduced him.

“This morning I couldn't take it anymore so I called his hotel room.” Now she looked up. Her face ravaged by tears and unhappiness. “And his wife answered the phone.”