The Women in the Walls (11 page)

I see Gregory Shaw shoot Kent Dickens a look, his brow raised. I wish I knew what he was implying, and I'm suddenly wondering what they were talking about so seriously before dinner was called. Plans on horning in on the estate now that the family is weakened, maybe?

My father clears his throat and is silent for a moment. I notice for the first time that his hair isn't combed to the side as usual, and lies in soft waves over the top of his head. I remember how Miranda appeared similarly drained. This situation is sucking the life out of us all, even if for different reasons.

“We're filled with a great sadness,” my father continues, his eyes lowered, his voice strained. “But I think it's safe to say that after tonight her soul will have been sent off properly. Most of you have known the girls since they were babies. It means so much to us that you'd come tonight to show your support.”

Yes, I'm so sure that Margaret would have been just
thrilled
to know that even The Monopoly Guy showed up for a free five-star meal at the Acosta estate. I wonder for the first time how many details these people know about my cousin's death.

“To Margaret Anne Acosta,” my father says, lifting his glass into the air. “May she rest in peace.”

“To Margaret,” we all say in unison, our glasses raised. I take a short, uncomfortable sip, all too aware that most of the eyes in the room are on me.

Clinking glasses and sipping pink lemonade in her honor doesn't feel right when I know what she went through in her final days. The cemetery, the attic, the claims she was being haunted. I should do something about it, I decide. If I try to ignore what's happening, I might end up just like Margaret. The voices have started already, after all.

People begin to serve themselves once the toast is finished, chattering quietly about frivolous things, which I much prefer over ignorant comments about Margaret or Penelope. It seems that nobody's quite sure how to handle the array of choices; the people who grab cheeseburgers stay away from the paella, only filling the rest of their plates with things like french fries and corn on the cob, leaving the breakfast dishes untouched, as well. I take a little of everything, which is clearly the point of the dinner, although I'm not exactly starving.

How am I supposed to be satisfied with this as closure for Margaret, especially after my father hinted at some sort of leverage that the other club members could hold against him? I scan the crowd, desperate for any sort of clue, but everyone is too focused on their food. My father doesn't eat at all, just stares alternately between his untouched plate and the watch around his wrist.

Whatever it is, they're spreading him very thin. Could it really be blackmail? A situation where someone in my family pulled something illegal in order to obtain or hold the estate? It'd have to be something of that scale; why else would it be such a threat? Did Penelope know what was going on?

Once the dinner platters are taken away and replaced by trays of desserts, people start mingling in the parlor again, taking their nightcaps from the bar before offering their condolences to me or my father again and heading out. I need to use the restroom but don't want to go all the way upstairs, so I make my way down the hall toward the one by the study instead.

I'm almost to the end of the hall when I hear voices coming from inside my father's study. I stand close to the door and peek in, hiding from view when I see that Gregory Shaw and Kent Dickens are standing next to the desk with drinks in their hands.

“Look at this place,” Kent slurs, clearly drunk. “What does Felix even
do
in here? He doesn't work on anything hard enough to need such an extensive office.”

“I'm guessing Penelope used it far more than he did,” Gregory says and takes a gulp of his wine. “God only knows what she ever saw in that idiot.”

I bite my lip but keep silent.
Jealous bastard.
I remember what my father had said about Gregory being rejected by Penelope.

Kent bursts into a sloppy laugh. “They probably had sex all over this desk.”

If Margaret was here with me, she would kill him herself.

“Have some respect,” Gregory says, unamused. “That woman was the shining jewel of the Acosta family. Nobody expected that everything would be left to Eva. She never had much interest in upholding the tradition of the estate. It was such a joy when Penelope was able to take over.”

I nearly cry out in response. The only reason Penelope was able to
take over
at all was because my mother
died
. How dare he?

“Am I the only one who feels like all of this is a little fishy?” Kent looks through a folder of papers that is open on the desk. “First Penelope goes, and now her daughter? Did Felix even say how she died?”

“No,” Gregory says, his voice grim. “Only that she became suddenly and severely ill.”

I knew it. My father wants to hide what happened to Margaret, do whatever it takes to keep the club's opinion of our family as high as possible. If he wasn't capable of taking care of a teenager, how could he manage an entire estate? Nobody would ever know how plagued my cousin was with pain, how much more complicated she was than they'll ever give her credit for.

“Yes, well,” Kent says. “She seemed perfectly fine the last time we came for dinner here. How convenient that the only remaining Acostas are Felix and his daughter. Maybe they're—”

That's it.

“Get out of here,” I say, stepping into the study, my blood buzzing. Kent jumps and gapes at me; Gregory narrows his eyes into a cold stare. “How dare you come into our home and talk about my aunt and father like you did just now? Both of you are assholes.”

“So sorry, Lucy,” Kent says, red-faced and scrambling to get out from behind the desk. “We were just taking in the house, wandered a little too far, I admit—”

“Oh, a little too far, is that all, Kent?” I nearly spit. “Get the hell out of here.
Now.
”

He rushes by me and leaves without Gregory, who is still standing with his drink in hand as he takes the sight of me in.

“Excuse my rudeness,” I say, unblinking. “But I believe I asked you to get out.”

“So sorry about Margaret,” Gregory says, walking slowly around the back of the desk. “She was an extraordinary girl, indeed.”

“Leave.” I step aside, leaving the doorway nice and open, but still he lingers in the study.

“I know you and your father weren't too keen on what I said about the estate last time I was here,” Gregory says, taking a leisurely step forward. “But Margaret seemed to click with it, didn't she?”

I think about starry-eyed Margaret at the last club dinner, and how she stuck up for Gregory after everybody had left. But that was because of how she felt about my father, I know. The grudge had nothing to do with Gregory.

“Let's get something straight,” I say. “You don't know anything real about Margaret, or why she felt how she did about the estate. You probably didn't even know Penelope that well, as much as you may have wanted to.”

His composure falters for a moment. He tries to cover it by taking another swig of his wine.

“You're a pathetic, insecure old man,” I continue, still enraged that he would try to use Margaret against me. “Make no mistake. My cousin
hated
you.” It's not the entire truth, but I don't care. “Now get the hell out of my father's study before I cause a
real
scene.”

Gregory Shaw's glare sharpens—he stares at me like I'm an insect that needs to be crushed. I suddenly wonder if he's one of the club members with leverage over the estate. I wouldn't be surprised at all.
Let him try to intimidate me
, I think.
I'm not scared of him at all.
What's he going to do, hit me with a stack of cash?

Gregory sets his glass down on my father's desk, then makes his way to the doorway. When he passes me, he pauses for just a moment to look down into my eyes.

“I'm going to hold back on saying anything too harsh because you're in mourning,” he says, his voice lost of the usual pretentious charm. “But I will say this. The women in your family have been dropping like flies lately. If I were you, I'd watch myself.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask, but he's already heading down the hall. “Gregory, are you threatening me?”

He's gone, and I am left in a quiet study that still stinks of their obnoxiously potent cologne. When I'm sure the hallway is empty and nobody can see me, I take Gregory Shaw's glass of wine and throw it against the wall, shattering it.

THE NEXT MORNING
at breakfast my father asks about the broken wineglass in his study. I tell him that I saw Gregory Shaw and Kent Dickens loitering around in the hallway and that Gregory had been drinking wine.

“That man is a detriment to the club,” he says angrily and sets his newspaper down on the table. “One bad apple
will
spoil the bunch here. I'm sure by now that he's turned most of the other members against me. They won't back me down. I can prove myself to them.”

“Why would you even want to?” I ask, hoping to get a little more information about what kind of pull certain club members may have. After my encounter with Gregory last night, I can't imagine a thing in the world that would make me want to prove anything to him. If he had the power to get us out of the estate and take it himself, why wouldn't he have done it by now? “What about this place is so worth fighting for?”

My father sets his coffee cup down, hard enough to cause the dark liquid inside to slosh over the edge. “We live in a historical landmark tied to the club and a name that is worth being proud of,” he snaps. “Do you think I took the act of changing my name lightly when I married your mother? That I just did it for the money, and not for Eva and what she wanted to contribute to this club? Because if so, then you're just like them.”

“But she didn't even want this life,” I burst, remembering what I heard last night. “It was Penelope that did.”

Let him know that I know. The secrets are too much to stay hidden by now, too relevant. They could even be dangerous.

“Who told you that?” my father asks, squinting as if I've said something profoundly stupid. “Your mother most certainly
did
take her reputation seriously. It wasn't as glowing as Penelope's, I'll admit. They had two very different ways of looking at the potential of this place, but to say that she didn't want this life... She wanted it all for you!”

My face flushes hot. “It's something I heard Gregory say,” I admit. “Something is going on around here and I think that he might know what. I think you might know, too.” At the very least, he's hiding information about whatever leverage the club has over our family.

Aside from that, there's another thing that doesn't add up to me—why everyone always talks about the
potential
of this place, as if it's something more important than a place being used for parties. And they're not even a real country club! At this point, only an idiot would try to pretend this is all normal. Yet, even now, my father still won't admit the truth to himself: we should be running.

“Enough,” he finally says. “This is your legacy, Lucy. Embrace it and you'll be set for life, as will your children, and theirs.”

“I have no interest in living here any second longer than I have to,” I say. “It's boring, it's empty and, apparently, it's corrupt.”

It's not just the club I'm thinking about now: I'm also thinking of the scratching sounds in my room, like fingernails scraping across the walls. And I'm thinking about the moment I found the jar of old, gnarled teeth, and about Penelope believing she was a witch. I'm thinking about Margaret's voice in the darkness of the closet. I can't imagine a single piece of information that would convince me it was all worth it.

“It's
more
than that,” he insists, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. I notice he didn't correct me on my use of the word
corrupt
.

He rubs his fingers over his temples as though he has a headache. “This sort of opportunity, this lifestyle, never would have been possible for me if I hadn't met and fallen in love with Eva. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live like a king. If you want to play on this level, upholding the tradition of the estate with a club that doesn't ask for much in return, you've got to sharpen your teeth.”

“For what?” I cry out, unable to speak calmly any longer. “To protect a
legacy
of being a party host? That's all you are to them!”

“There are plenty of people who would love to take our place,” he snaps, hitting his hand on the table, causing me to jump. “I don't know about you, but I don't plan on letting them anytime soon.”

“Honestly, I wish you would.” I nod angrily as I stir what remains of my oatmeal. “That's not honorable, Dad, that's just sad.”

“You never would have said any of this to Penelope,” he scolds, disgust evident in his tone. “You respected her more than anybody else, and yet you criticize me for doing the exact same thing she was? For upholding the life that she valued?”

I can't explain to him why it's different now, why I'm not so sure anymore that I ever knew my aunt in the first place. The teeth, Margaret hearing her voice, the blood splatters on the attic floor I found when I was a kid. All of these are things he would refuse to listen to. All of these are things that would have him send me to a hospital of some kind.

Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. There's nobody for you here anymore.

“I don't care if you understand or not.” My father stands, leaving the paper at the table instead of bringing it with him like he usually does. “I'm going to continue running the estate, no matter how many people are against me. I will overcome this for her.”

I wonder if he's talking about my mother or Penelope.

“I'll never understand what you're fighting for,” I call after him. “I'll never understand
you
.” I want him to hurt like I do now, feel the weight of my disrespect over the entire situation.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. Again, I become angry at myself for feeling hurt. He finishes leaving the room, and I breathe in slowly through my nose to keep from breaking another glass. At this point, I feel like I'm just sitting around, waiting to die.

I rise to bring my dishes to the kitchen, wondering what I could possibly do to fill another day before I can go to sleep again. Browsing faraway schools has become a habit, but I think it may be eating away at me from the inside, all those quiet hours surrounded by nice things and swirling wallpaper. I remember again how I thought I heard Margaret say my name in my bedroom before the memorial dinner last night. I wonder if things will get even worse; how could they not?

Nobody's in the kitchen, which is a relief. I sigh and load the dishes into the dishwasher, and as I'm leaving I can swear I hear the sound of someone crying.
Not again
, I think.
This is not happening again.

It sounds like it's coming from outside, in the courtyard. With a deep breath, I open the glass door of the kitchen and step out. Vanessa sits with her back against the wall, crying into her hands. She doesn't notice me until I'm standing over her.

“Hey,” I say after a moment, wrapping my arms around myself in the cold. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She wipes tears from her face with both hands. “No, I am not.”

I've never been able to stand the sight of somebody else crying. It's too vulnerable for me, not okay to plague other people with, but then again, nowadays I wish more than anything that when Margaret had been crying in her room at night, I had gone over to see if she was okay. Plus, Vanessa could be crying because she saw or heard something disturbing. If she did, I need to know about it.

I sit beside her on the ground.

“You've got enough shit going on,” Vanessa says. She doesn't seem irritated that I sat down by her. “You don't need to listen to mine, too.”

“I can't really disagree,” I admit with a humorless chuckle. “But I think I'll try, anyway. Did something happen?”

Vanessa's eyes well up again.
What is it?
I want to cry out and grab her by the shoulders. I remember how terrible Miranda looked at the memorial dinner. “Is it about your mom?”

“Yeah,” she says, struggling to keep her voice level. “How did you know? It's like she's starting to let the stress of planning these stupid events get to her so badly,” she says, then stops as if she's said something wrong. “Sorry.”

“Don't be,” I say. “They are stupid.
Really
stupid.”

So she isn't out here crying because she heard or saw something crazy. I guess I should have known, it really could be my head making all that stuff up. But now we've gotten too far into the conversation to end it quickly without being rude.

“Well, they're definitely not worth losing sleep for,” Vanessa says. “She never does anything for herself anymore. It's like she lives to serve this place, to serve
Felix
.” She says his name with a touch of resentment. I don't blame her for it, not one bit.

“I'm sorry if he's been demanding lately,” I say awkwardly, feeling somehow responsible. “He takes this stuff way too seriously, and with everything else that's been happening—”

“It's not that,” Vanessa says. “Not exactly. I mean, he has been kind of demanding, but I think my mother might have some sort of silly crush on him. It's obvious to me that the feelings are not reciprocated, but she's totally unreasonable about it.”

Miranda is setting herself up for supreme disappointment if she thinks there is any chance that my father would ever return her feelings. He's so obsessed with Penelope, there isn't room for anything else in his head or his heart.

“She wants to be able to take care of
everything
Penelope would have done,” Vanessa continues. “So that he can rest and take it easy and mourn. These last two dinner parties have taken so much out of her, and now she's already on to planning that holiday party, of course...”

I forgot all about the winter holiday party. It's always been a major, grand event, the biggest of the year. I refrain from telling Vanessa that the planning for it will likely be about four times as intense as the planning for the smaller dinner parties.

“Miranda should take a vacation,” I say, wishing they'd just go. Let him see what it's like to live
like a king
without anyone willing to serve him. “After everything that's happened since she started here, she deserves a break.” I pause. “I think what she probably deserves most is to quit.”

“I tried to convince her of that, actually.” Vanessa sighs in frustration. “She keeps saying that everything here will crumble without her, but I really think she's just running away from everything back home. The divorce was starting to get really ugly when she applied to live here. I'm pretty sure she'd do anything to get away from it all. That, and she wants to impress Felix.”

We stay quiet for a few moments, looking out over the courtyard that is riddled with dead rosebushes. When the cold season ends, the roses will bloom again, just in time for galas and brunches and cocktail hours for the club that will apparently continue coming here forever.
There may be a pretty bow tied on top of it all
, I think bitterly, my eyes wandering the length of the courtyard.
But to me, it's still hell.

“Look,” Vanessa says, her voice soft. “I'm sorry to load all of this onto you. This is the last thing you need right now, to hear someone complain about your father and all this stuff that's out of your control.”

But my whole life has been out of my control
, I would tell her if I wanted to tell the truth.
No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise.

“No,” I say, looking her in the eye. “I'm glad you told me. Keeping stuff like that inside can lead to some pretty horrible things.”

I think of the secrets Margaret kept from me: the picnic basket, the contents of the shiny black wallet, whatever else she knew but never told.

“Yeah,” she agrees, then starts to stand from where she sits against the wall of the house. She brushes dirt off the back of her pants as I stand, too. “Thanks for listening. And, Lucy... I'm also sorry about what I said to you the night Margaret died. About you guys being fucked up.”

The comment had bothered me at first, but compared to everything else that happened that night, it's practically irrelevant by now.

“Don't worry about it,” I say, suddenly light-headed at the sight of the forest in the distance. “You weren't wrong.”

“Well, maybe I wasn't,” Vanessa agrees. “But it's not like the same couldn't be said about anybody, really. We all have bad stuff.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I make my way to the door, anxious to get past this strange conversation with the cook's daughter. We may all have bad stuff, but I'm starting to think that what's wrong with me may be irreversible, especially since hearing the voice in the closet. Maybe that's the way it was with Margaret. Maybe our paths are one and the same.

No
, I tell myself.
You burned that box for a reason. You will not kill yourself like Margaret did.