Maybe I never did.
I wanted to shout his name. I wanted to scream like some vengeful witch in a fairy tale, causing clouds to fast-forward across the sky, wiping the smiles off their faces: “Jim Mason, in four years you’ll be dead!”
He leaned back so carelessly, hooking his arm around Luciana’s neck and nuzzling her ear, my heart felt freshly sliced in two.
I’d been so stupid, so blind.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I veered around and ran out into the street, nearly getting hit by a taxi before the driver slammed on the brakes, honking.
I climbed in.
“Honey, are you okay? What the—? Jesus!”
The driver blinked, mystified at the sight in front of him. The green awning to Jim’s apartment building had come entirely free in the wind, detaching from the sidewalk. It was barreling down Fifth Avenue, clanging and swooping; it collided with the rear windshield of a town car before soaring straight up into the air, gold poles flying out, bystanders shouting as it was flung through the sky like some strange soaring monster.
I’m anything but okay.
Martha had said to meet back at Wincroft in the event of an emergency.
Always go back to the original wake. If we have that as our meeting place, there remains a hope we can all eventually convene there across space and time. To change the wake again, go back to the coastal road if you can and do the exact same thing, okay? If you can’t get to the coastal road, find a suicide.
I took the train back to Newport. When I arrived it was after ten. I climbed into a waiting cab at the station, asking the driver to take me to Narragansett. It was a half-hour drive, and I didn’t have money, but I figured I’d be able to think of something at Wincroft.
The gate was open. The lamps were lit. As the cab accelerated down the drive, I could see the driver sit up and glance at me curiously in the rearview mirror, wondering if I was an heiress. The house lights were on. There were eight gleaming cars in the driveway. As the cab waited, I went running up the steps and rang the bell.
When the door opened, I found myself face to face with E.S.S. Burt. He wasn’t as creepy as I remembered. In fact, he looked like any rich man in a pastel sweater. There were voices coming from the dining room, glasses clinking. Apparently I had interrupted a dinner party.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Whitley.”
“She’s not here. She’s up at her boarding school. Darrow-Harker.”
“We were supposed to grab dinner tonight.”
He was surprised. “Did you try calling her?”
“She’s not picking up.” I went on to explain that unfortunately I didn’t have enough money to pay the forty-eight dollars for the cab. Blinking in bewilderment, Burt pulled out his wallet, jogged down the steps, and paid the driver.
“I guess I’ll go back to my hotel and try Whitley later,” I said.
He nodded, puzzled. “What did you say your name was?”
“Beatrice.”
Burt didn’t know what to make of me, a gawky girl in a black mink bulky as a killer whale. I waved to him and took off on foot down the driveway. He watched me, then disappeared back inside, apparently too preoccupied with his party to wonder, if the cab had driven off, how I was going to get anywhere. I circled back to his vintage-car garage, typed in the four-digit security code. Thankfully it was the same code as five years later, and the door rose with a groan. I hurried to the key stand in the back and unhooked the keys to the Rolls.
Driving out to the coastal road, I expected sirens. None came. My heart began to pound. I could feel the wake coming on. Checking the time, I realized in surprise that this wake had shortened. It had been barely eight hours. I could feel the crushing heaviness pressing into my legs. I floored the gas, engine roaring. The prospect that I might end up with Jim again, back in Central Park, if I didn’t make it into another wake willed me to drive faster and faster. My legs went numb. As I rounded the curves, the car seemed to fly out from under me, tree branches scratching at the windshield like an angry mob. When I reached the hairpin curve, I veered into the bushes, narrowly missing a tree. I barreled out, lurching into the middle of the road, the strong wind shoving me down across the yellow line.
I rolled onto my back, gasping. The sky was a deep night-blue, freckled with stars.
I had no idea whether this plan would work. Would the open window even be here anymore? I slowed my thoughts and closed my eyes. August 29. Villa Anna Sophia. Amorgos Island. Greece. I waited for a car to come, but there was only the deafening wind in my ears, the shrill hiss of crickets, the distant whoosh of the sea, even as a metronome. I heard a piercing whistling, growing louder. A bicycle. It came at me suddenly, the rider swerving to avoid me, losing control, crashing into bushes on the side of the road with a clang of metal, shouting. The biker was uninjured. After a moment of gasping and swearing, he lurched to his feet.
He stared down at me, faceless in the dark.
“What the fuck?” he whispered as his head jerked up in surprise, headlights of an oncoming car illuminating him like a flash camera.
He threw himself out of the way as my world went dark.
When I opened my eyes I was lying on my stomach on wooden planks. Instantly, streaks of vivid blue tore into my vision. It was the ocean. I raised my head, blinking. I was wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded pink Captain’s Crow T-shirt. I was lying on a dock, barefoot. I turned my head and saw the white wooden staircase zigzagging up the sheer rock face, at least a hundred feet high.
Villa Anna Sophia. I’d actually made it.
Light-headed with relief, I lurched to my feet, only I was so woozy, I stumbled and was sick, nearly falling into the water. Catching my breath, I lurched to my feet.
I headed up the stairs. With every step I took, pebbles and rocks loosened under the planks, bouncing, plummeting down the cliff into the ocean. I kept moving. I didn’t look down. When I reached the top, panting, the house—a wild architectural marvel of glass and steel—sat before me, totally silent. It looked deserted. I hurried past the pool, an inflated swan raft drifting leisurely in the center, and tried one of the glass doors. It was locked, the windows shaded. I was just wondering if I’d gotten the wrong day when I heard a woman scream. With a pang of unease I tore down the stone path, past the olive trees, to the front, where I saw Kipling outside the massive double-oak doors. He appeared to be keeping watch.
I was so relieved to see him, I threw my arms around his neck.
“Thank goodness,” I whispered.
“What—my—how did you manage it, child? Martha said we’d lost you, maybe forever.”
I pulled away. There was no point going into what had happened, not yet. Blinking up at Kipling, though it hurt me to think it, I reasoned he could have very well have been the one to stick me with the pin. Yet he seemed genuinely relieved to see me.
“I made a mistake,” I said. “Where is everyone?”
“Inside.” He made a face. “We’ve tied the whole family up and we’re tryin’ to extract information. But it’s not going well.” He shrugged, visibly nervous. “We tried the nice way. Arriving casually, announcin’ we happened to be on vacation, and were friends of Jim’s, and we wanted to know about his death, and so on. But they’re slippery eels, the Masons. They served us grilled octopus and basil sorbet and invited us for a dip in their pool. Before we knew it, four hours had passed. We were all drunk on ouzo, and we hadn’t had one real conversation about Jim. Whitley got fed up. So these last few wakes, she’s gone nuts on these people. The deluxe Whitley special, you know, with the screamin’ and the punchin’ of walls and the throwin’ dishes.” He sighed. “Edgar Mason has his twenty-four-hour security detail, but they switch shifts at noon and they’re lazy, so that’s when we strike. We’ve got two tied-up guards at the end of the driveway.”