The Garden of Dead Dreams (15 page)

Carl threw a husked piece of corn in the water and reached for another, breaking off the end. His hair was growing out, and it stuck out in tufts all over his head. “I reckon we should talk.”

The kiss. That’s the last thing Etta wanted to talk about right now with hunger gnawing at her stomach. Vapor rose from the pot behind Carl, clouded into the air, and then dissipated. “I’m sort of in a rush. Can we talk later?”

Another corncob plunked into the boiling water. “Why did you stop by if you’re in a hurry?”

“I was hoping maybe I could get something to eat.” Etta smiled.

Carl set a piece of corn on the table and frowned. “You been avoidin’ me?”

Etta shook her head, as Carl scraped the pile of husks into a bucket beneath the table. “Haven’t seen you in the dining hall, and you haven’t stopped by for awhile.”

“It looks like you’ve had Mandy to keep you company.” Etta wished she could take back the words the second they were out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Etta glanced behind her at the door. She felt almost light-headed.

“Where have you been?”

Pressure swelled behind Etta’s eyes. “I’ve been . . . since Olivia . . . I can’t really talk about it right now . . . ”

“What about Olivia?” His words were sharp.

Etta dropped her gaze at the floor. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

Etta opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What could she tell him? That she’d found a story by someone named Matthew Lowther, and she was sure it had something to do with Olivia leaving? That Olivia had been plagiarizing? That someone was threatening Etta? Or that maybe none of those things were true? Maybe she was distracting herself from writing a story for her critique, which was only a few days away. A story that could win her the Buchanan Prize. And she’d written nothing. Not one word.

“Fine. I’ll talk.” Carl picked up the piece of corn, pulled the rest of the husk off in one stroke, snapped the top off, and threw the cob into the pot. He grabbed another piece. “You ever noticed how everyone here has way too much in common—Andover or Philips Exeter then Harvard or Yale. Brown, if they’re the rebellious types. They all think a trust fund is going to change them into Vincent Buchanan. It’s absurd.” He dropped his hand onto the table, and Etta winced at the clang it made. “When I first met you at the bus station in Jackson, you seemed different . . .” Carl’s words trailed off, and silence engulfed the room.

Is Mandy different?” Etta asked and regretted it instantly

Carl gazed at her then picked up another piece of corn. “I reckon she might be.”

Etta spun around and pushed against the door. She hardly felt her feet against the ground until she was outside. The sun hung low in the sky, just above the trees to the south of the lodge. Etta’s breath clouded in front of her. The sweat on her forehead evaporated in the cold, leaving behind a grimy film. She burrowed her hands in her pockets and walked toward her cabin as fast as she could, trying to ignore the hunger. She would go back to her cabin and write her story.

* * *

A note hung on Etta’s door. Etta pulled it off then fumbled and nearly dropped it. Her fingers were too frozen to cooperate.

Your presence is requested in Director Hardin’s office today at: 15:00.

Etta crumpled the paper and glimpsed something shiny next to her foot. She crouched and her fingers went to it before she recognized it. She picked it up and stared at it in her palm. Olivia’s promise ring. The white gold and tourmaline.

A shiver rose through her, and she glanced behind her. It hadn’t been there before. She would have noticed it. She clutched it in her palm and stood, unlocked her door, and stepped inside.

Everything looked to be in order. Her bed was made, her desk and dresser and the row of books on the shelf above her desk were neat and tidy. Etta slid the ring onto her thumb, crossed the room, and peered into the bathroom. It was exactly as she’d left it—the shower curtain half-way open, her toothbrush on the edge of the sink next to a tube of toothpaste. Why did she have the feeling someone had been there?

She traversed the room and sat down at her desk. Her notebook was open to a fresh, white page. Etta’s stomach twisted with hunger and panic. Her classmates would be merciless during her critique, because that’s how she’d been on theirs. Why?

Etta picked up her pen and stared at the paper. She squeezed her eyes shut. The stories that once flooded from her were gone. She rested her head on her arm. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t even do that.

* * *

Etta swung open her door. Reed and Poppy stood on the porch. Poppy rolled her eyes. “Tell him, Etta. Pea coats are for girls, right?”

Reed stepped forward and handed Etta a pile of books. He was wearing a black double-breasted pea coat over his wool sweater. Etta shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Poppy rolled her eyes again. “Well, I know so. They’re not the most fashionable choice for either gender, but they have all right lines, they can be slimming, and I suppose they could be appropriate for a variety of casual or semi-formal affairs . . . if you’re female.”

“Pea jacket is the preferred term in naval circles, and this one was issued by the United States Navy to my grandfather, Morton Randolph Morinsky in 1941.”

“Well, apparently your grandfather was something of a cross dresser,” Poppy said.

Etta laughed. “It’s a nice coat, Reed.”

“Thank you. You look nice too.”

Poppy rolled her eyes and clomped into the room. Etta set the books on her desk.

“Please forgive me. I could not recall the exact number. I brought everything that started with UB.”

Etta nodded, and Reed stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Poppy plunked onto Etta’s bed and flung her book bag off. She unlaced her boots and they clunked onto the floor. Her eyes went to Olivia’s deserted side of the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. You should be an interior decorator.” Poppy grinned at Etta.

“Very funny. I’ve been a little busy.”

“Yes, of course, with your critique impending. Are you finished with your story?” Reed crossed the room and sat down on Olivia’s bare mattress.

Etta sighed.

Reed’s face lined with worry. “It is easy to succumb to the pressure before a critique. Might I make a suggestion?”

Etta looked away.

“I accelerated my usual daily quota of one thousand words to two thousand in the weeks preceding my critique, which greatly boosted my productivity.”

“Or you could ask your boyfriend to make you a drink. Nothing like a Long Island Ice Tea to take away the jitters.” Poppy giggled.

“Carl isn’t my boyfriend.”

“When my grandmother found out I would be attending the Buchanan Academy, she made me take an oath that I’d abstain from alcohol.” Reed sat down on Olivia’s bed and crossed his legs. “She feared I would find myself dead in a pool of my own vomit.”

Poppy giggled.

Reed pushed up his glasses. “Chaucer, Camus, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Capote, Chandler, Poe, Dylan Thomas. Think about it, as an aspiring author, you are staring down the barrel of a loaded rifle and spirits are the trigger. ”

“Wouldn’t alcohol be the rifle and writing be the trigger?” Etta asked.

Reed narrowed his eyes as if considering it, and then pushed his glasses up again.

“I think you both need an appletini,” Poppy leaned forward. “So I have news.”

Etta snapped her gaze to Poppy. “Did you find it?”

“We have more important matters to discuss. You’ll never believe what I found in Teddy’s desk.”

Etta crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to Poppy. “Did you get the roster? Can I see it?”

“It’s important that we understand the implications of my discovery.” Poppy pulled her bag onto her lap and unclasped it, then dropped a book on the bed. Etta gasped.

Swirling red rose border. Gothic typeface. Red-haired model. Etta searched for the author’s name. Magenta Black.

Magenta Black was one of the most prolific of the Courtesan girls. At least she’d clearly been clever enough to write under a pen name.

“No one will know it’s you, honey,” Marla Epstein had told Etta. “It sounds like a nom de plume, and you’ve got a name I can sell.” Etta was twenty-three when she published her first Courtesan romance,
Dissatisfaction
. She hadn’t learned to argue with Marla yet.

She’d met Marla when she was temping at Morgan, Kane, and Associates. She’d mentioned to one of her co-workers that she was working on a novel, and within minutes everyone in the office knew. A few days later, a paralegal stopped Etta in the elevator and offered her sister-in-law Marla’s contact information. She insisted Marla was an approachable, friendly New York literary agent.

When Etta finally built up the courage to contact Marla, she discovered Marla was not an agent, nor was she friendly. She was an editor for the Courtesan Intrigue imprint. Marla e-mailed Etta the guidelines. Etta blushed thinking about writing all of the sex scenes, which Marla assured her must be “hot,” but then Marla not so casually mentioned how much money she’d make for writing four Courtesans a year. It wasn’t grand, but it was more than Etta made schlepping papers at Morgan, Kane, and Associates.

So Etta had set aside the meandering literary novel she’d been working on for a year and the short stories she’d intended to submit to literary publications. She studied the guidelines Marla sent, read every Courtesan Intrigue she could get her hands on, and eventually wrote
Dissatisfaction
—“The story of a woman pushed to her limits and the man she had to have.”

Fourteen Courtesans later, Marla had let Etta out of her contract, but Courtesan would own her birth name, Loretta Ann Fox, for the next ten years.

“Right, Etta?”

Etta jerked her head up.

“Which passages do you think Teddy reads to Hardin over their morning coffee breaks?” Poppy grabbed the book out of Etta’s hand, opened it, and flipped through some pages, grinning. “He had, like, five of these in his desk.”

“I don’t understand. Why would Theodore read to the director?” Reed looked perplexed.

Poppy giggled. “Because Teddy’s in love with him, silly. Haven’t you noticed that your friend follows Hardin around like a lost kitten? It’s sort of pathetic.”

“I assure you, Theodore does not have romantic feelings for the director.”

Poppy closed the book. “Did he tell you that? Because if someone has to tell you something, it means the opposite is true. I mean if Etta insisted right now that she’s not in love with Carl, we would be wise to assume that she is beside herself with lust for him. Do you see how that works?”

“Poppy!” Etta said as her face flooded with heat.

“Relax, it was a hypothetical. The point is: Teddy is crazy about Hardin. Case closed.”

“But he’s not. Theodore is in love with somebody else here.”

Etta snapped her gaze to Reed. “Please tell me that by here, you don’t mean here in this room.”

Reed blushed. “Forget I said anything.”

Poppy grinned. “Reed, are you and Teddy secret lovers?”

Reed’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. He shook his head.

“Don’t tell me he’s got a crush on Etta?” Poppy grinned and raised a thin eyebrow at Etta. “I bet he thinks of you when he reads this.”

A wave of panic rushed through Etta. She could almost hear Petra’s words:
I thought I saw a fox.

Reed shook his head again. “It’s not Etta.”

Poppy shifted her eyes from Etta to Reed. Silence settled across the room, and the grin faded from her lips.

Poppy dropped the book in her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “I found the roster. You said 1985, right?”

Etta had to stop herself from lunging across the bed to grab the envelope from Poppy’s fingers.

Etta reached for the envelope, and Poppy jerked her hand back. “First you have to hear how I found it. Teddy’s office was a bore, except for that, of course.” She nodded toward the Courtesan. “Pens, stationary, budget reports, paper clips. I figured the student records might be kept in that closet next to the administration office. Of course . . .”

“Can I see it?”

“I had to find the key.”

“Poppy . . .”

Poppy continued, with an explanation of how she found the key, opened the closet, and found file boxes for each year since 1958. “But get this—there’s a blank space between 1984 and 1986. A freakin’ hole there.”

Etta stiffened. “How did you find it?”

Poppy waved the envelope in the air. “I almost didn’t. The 1985 box was totally out of order, sitting right next to the door. And there was so much crap in it—playbills, application packets, this weird handmade hippie yearbook made out of straw and weeds . . . it’s a wonder I found this. You shouldn’t be too embarrassed for doubting me, Etta. Everyone makes profound misjudgments at some point in their lives.”

“I still don’t understand why we’ve burglarized the administration office.” Reed’s glossy eyes flitted back and forth behind his glasses.

“I would explain if Poppy would let me see that envelope.”

Poppy sighed and shoved the envelope in Etta’s direction. “I don’t think you get it; I was like a Charlie’s Angel in there—the one Farrah Fawcett played, except decidedly more stylish.”

Etta slid the piece of paper out of its envelope: the school’s emblem and the stately typeface of the letterhead were the same as on Etta’s acceptance letter last spring.

“Matthew Kenneth Lowther,” Etta read aloud from the middle of the list.

“I do not understand.” Etta hadn’t noticed Reed crossing the room, but he was sitting beside her now, his arm pressed against hers, and Poppy was squeezed on her other side. All of them stared at the sheet of paper in Etta’s hands.

“Robert North was here in 1985?” Poppy asked.

Etta’s gaze darted down the list. Robert Evan North, two names below Matthew Lowther’s.

“I do not understand,” Reed said again. “The second name.”

“Galen Vincent Buchanan,” Poppy read aloud. She met Reed’s gaze. “Is this the Galen wandering the school grounds?”

“Is he Vincent Buchanan’s son?” Etta asked.