Page 21 of The Perfect Hosts
Lucy watches as the two men move toward the burned-out barn, heads tilted toward each other. She longs to go to the stables to see Sonnet, one of the horses Madeline brought back from Iowa. Lucy’s horse. Instead, she grabs her backpack from the floor and quietly slips from the truck. The rain has turned to a spitting mist, and Lucy ducks her head, stuffs her hands into her pockets and moves toward the darkened house, picking her way across the lawn littered with champagne glasses, deflated balloons, and cracked china. She half expects the deputy or Trent to come sprinting after her, but once at the back terrace Lucy turns to see them still deep in conversation. Lucy hesitates as she lifts her foot to climb the steps that lead to the wall of windows and entrance to the house. Will the backyard light up with security lights? It doesn’t matter, Lucy tells herself. Madeline is her sister. She belongs here. No lights come on as she moves up the steps, and even more surprising, the glass doors that lead inside the house are unlocked.
Lucy steps inside. The only glow is coming from the baseboards, giving the room a cold, ghostly aura. Lucy moves to the center of the large living room and looks up. Above her is a monstrosity of a chandelier made of elk antlers that cast a sharp tangle of shadows across the floor. Even in the dark, Lucyknows that everything in this house is over-the-top expensive. Madeline did always expect the best.
From somewhere at the front of the house comes the soft jangle of keys and the indecipherable murmurs of a couple trying to argue quietly. Madeline and Wes are home. From behind her comes the clatter of footsteps. The sheriff and Trent finally realized Lucy wasn’t in the truck any longer.
“Hey,” the deputy says breathlessly just as the living room lights flick on. Madeline gasps and grabs Wes’s arm.
Lucy almost doesn’t recognize her sister. She is hugely pregnant and dressed in hospital scrubs. Her face is pale, her hair lank, and she smells like an ashtray. Lucy watches as Madeline tries to make sense of who is in front of her. Their last encounter included true but harsh words and hours of debate and ended with Madeline loading up Lucy’s beloved Sonnet in a trailer and leaving without a backward glance. Madeline’s appearance, only four weeks later, is alarming.
Wes appears equally stunned at seeing his sister-in-law standing in his living room but is the first to speak. “Lucy,” he says, and there is no rancor in his voice. Lucy and Wes have always gotten along well. “Madeline didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“That’s because I didn’t know,” Madeline says, her voice hard.
“I heard about the explosion,” Lucy says. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?” She opens her arms wide and first moves to Wes, embracing him, and then turns toward her sister, ready to draw her in close, ready to tell her that she’s here now. That everything will be okay, though that’s one colossal, bullshit lie.
The slap sounds like a firecracker, and heat explodes across Lucy’s cheek.
“Madeline!” Wes says, rushing between the two women. “What are you doing?”
“Get out of my house,” Madeline says, her voice even,absolute. “How dare you come here.” Without another word, Madeline turns and makes her way up the curved staircase to the second floor.
“Lucy, my God,” Wes says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” Lucy manages to say, the sting of Madeline’s slap still radiating across her face.
“Do you want me to escort her off the property?” the deputy asks. “I’m sorry she got in the house. Trent brought her here, said she was Madeline’s sister. I thought it would be okay.”
Trent looks mortified, ready to jump in and drag Lucy from the house himself.
“No, no. It is okay,” Wes says. “We’ve had a bad scare today. Of course Lucy can stay here. Madeline will feel better in the morning. We’ll work it out then. Are you sure you’re okay?” Wes asks again, concern in his dark blue eyes. “You know she didn’t mean it. You’re family, Luce. You’re always welcome here.”
Lucy cups her flaming cheek in her palm, covering the smile that has inched its way across her face.
Chapter 9
Jamie
In the dim morning light, Jamie pulls up to the only motel in town—the Grandview Mountain Lodge. When the sun rises, he knows the view will be pretty. He has to give the founders credit for truth in advertising. But the Grandview is no lodge. No pool, no hot tub, no mints on your pillow. It is still the grim, flat-roofed, two-story motor inn where twelve-year-old Jamie and sixteen-year-old Juneau lived with their mother when they moved to Nightjar. Jamie’s mother was the night manager and cleaned for this motel. It wasn’t easy work and paid poorly. That summer, he and Juneau spent a lot of time helping their mother clean up other people’s shit, and Jamie prayed they could move on. A strong statement from a kid who only wanted to settle into the same town for more than a year or two. He didn’t expect much—his own bedroom, a nearby skate park, and kids who’d rather play video games than castrate cattle after school. Then his sister disappeared, and he was left for dead. Ultimately, Jamie got his wish when he and his mother moved away from Nightjar. He got his skate park and gamer friends, but all he wanted was his sister back.
Jamie parks and walks to the unit where a dingy sign that saysOfficehangs in the window. He pulls open the creaky door, and a jingling bell announces his arrival. Same annoying bell, even, Jamie thinks. The space is stuffy and overwarmand smells of cigarette smoke. The clerk behind the counter is in her seventies with rheumy eyes and deep crevices around her lips. “Is room seventeen available?” he asks before he can stop himself.
“Ah, the presidential suite,” the woman says with a small uptick of her mouth. “Good choice.” She runs his credit card. “Returning customer?” she asks.
“Yeah, but it’s been a while,” Jamie says, accepting the key hanging from an orange plastic key tag adorned with the faded silhouette of the motel.
He goes back outside, grateful for the cool morning air, and takes the metal steps to the second level. He walks along the balcony until he finds himself standing in front of the door with a crooked number17affixed just above the peephole. Using the key the clerk gave him, Jamie opens the door, and a wave of nostalgia sweeps over him. That’s not the right word.Wistfulness, maybe?How abouta bad idea?comes Juneau’s voice.You know you can stay at a La Quinta over in Jackson, right?
The layout of the room is the same: a small area with a pullout sofa and a coffee table with a scuffed laminate top. In the kitchenette there’s a small table that sits two, a hot plate, a sink, and a dorm-size refrigerator. Behind two closed doors, Jamie knows he will find a bathroom with dingy tile and a small bedroom that only has room for a bed and a dresser. On the walls are the same tacky velvet paintings of a buffalo, a wolf, and a bear. He can’t help smiling. Juneau had named them—Barney, Winston, and Bianca. He moves across the carpet, squishy beneath his feet, to the closed bedroom door. Inside is a queen-size bed and, thankfully, what looks like a relatively new comforter. He’s not tired, though. His nerves are still jangling from coming back to Nightjar and seeing Wes Drake at the hospital.
He goes back outside and moves down the stairs, his footsteps making the iron vibrate. The sun has risen. The sky iswatercolor-blue, and the grass is still wet with last night’s rain. The morning sunshine softens the sharp edges of the mountains off in the distance. Jamie knows better, though. There is nothing soft or welcoming or gentle about the mountains. It’s a hard life, living in this part of the world, especially if you don’t have the money to pay others to do the work for you. He unhooks his bike from the rack and wheels it back up the steps and into his motel room. There will be no bike ride this morning.
Once in his car, Jamie pulls out his phone and calls Tess.
“Hello,” she answers shortly, and Jamie winces.
“Hey, I made it to Nightjar. I’m getting ready to head to the scene now,” Jamie says.
“Okay,” Tess says, and Jamie can feel the chill over the line.