I-35 was, as expected, a parking lot. Duke bit back any accusations and asked me to text the group chat that they could start eating without us. In return, I resisted the near-constant urge to research Dolores Rivera on my phone. By the time the sky screamed with sunset, we were relaxed and holding hands, dreaming up honeymoon destinations—the food in Laos was supposed to be incredible, Duke said; I told him about an article I’d read about hiking glaciers in Iceland—drunk on possibility while ignoring every practicality, beginning with the fact that we had no money and hadn’t planned a damn thing for the wedding itself.
It was nearly nine when we reached the farm, 150 acres bordered by a four-rail white wooden fence, with a stone sign reading Murphy Family Farm, Est. 1985. Duke’s F-150 jolted and clanged on the rough gravel road as we passed the goat pen with its three-walled tin structure, where the goats slept on shelves at various heights like kids at summer camp. We passed the coop with three hundred laying hens and the cow pasture and stables and corral before finally approaching the shiny red milking barn and white metal store stocked with fresh milk and eggs, in-season vegetables, and the lavender soap and candles Duke’s mom, Caroline, made by hand. Just beyond was the farmhouse. Wraparound porch lit up bright, double swing and rocking chairs waiting for desultory after-dinner drinks. The wine went down easy here. And peacefully, too. I still wasn’t used to that.
Inside, we took off our shoes at the door, lining them up underneath the scratched and scarred entryway bench. The wide wooden planks were smooth underfoot, softened in places by faded rugs in shades of saffron and ocher. We followed the sound of laughter and conversation to the dining room, where everyone was sitting at the long farmhouse table that Duke’s grandfather had made by hand right before shipping off to World War II. The table was set with burlap place mats and hammered copper salt and pepper shakers, and there were several open bottles of wine, evidence of fresh bread and butter, but no dinner. They’d waited for us. Of course they had.
“Here you are!” said Caroline. The low light from the wooden chandelier caught the three silver earrings curling up each ear as she stood. She wore her blond hair short and spiky, and when she hugged me, I melted into her strong, solid body. She squeezed Duke, then turned to his father. “Alf, come help in the kitchen, will you?”
Alf was slighter than Caroline, softer spoken, with a silver handlebar mustache and a Cowboys cap he hung off a brass hook on the wall. “With pleasure,” he drawled.
“We told you guys not to wait!” Duke said.
His younger sister Allie rolled her eyes with a smile. “Like that was going to happen.”
Allie was twenty-five, petite, with neat, clean features—bright blue eyes above youthful freckled cheeks. Stephie was in her sophomore year at Northwestern and apparently in the middle of urging Kyle, the youngest, to apply for the following year so they could be in school together again.
Five minutes later, we were squeezed between Allie and Duke’s older brother, Dylan, cutting into herb-rubbed chicken that was somehow still tender and warm. Dylan bragged about Allie’s latest barrel racing stats. She accepted the praise matter-of-factly, adding, “They never saw us coming.” The conversation meandered comfortably. How’s the food truck, Duke—Hey, Cassie, did he ever tell you about the time—Can someone pass the potatoes—Mom, do we have any coffee milk this time—Did y’all remember to restock the shelves—When’s Millie due to calve?
Being here was like getting into bed at the end of a long day—warm, safe, comfortable. But I couldn’t help wondering how many Facebook comments had been added to the Dolores Rivera story since we’d left Austin. How many article shares? There was no way I was the only reporter who’d looked at the italicized line below the article—Dolores Rivera declined to be interviewed—and seen something else: an opportunity.
I’d felt it right away. An intimate story from the perspective of a rare female bigamist, whose crime led to murder? That was special. That could be big. Harper’s big. New Yorker big. In Cold Blood had started as a New Yorker series. One long-form true crime piece to launch my career. I was so fucking sick of the blog, of being broke, consulting my overdue-invoices spreadsheet every Friday afternoon, sending my “just following up” emails, hoping to strike the right tone of polite assertiveness that wouldn’t get me blackballed from the publication. If I didn’t get paid at least five hundred dollars by the time rent was due on Thursday, I’d have to tell Duke—again. He’d say we’d figure it out—again. Suggest—again—we open a joint account. Wouldn’t it be easier to pay all our bills from the same place? Less stressful? It probably was, for some people. And I wished I were one of them, I did, but the thought of combining our finances made me feel like burying myself alive.
“Cass?” Duke reached for my hand, teasing my marquise sapphire with his thumb. The ring had belonged to Duke’s grandmother, and I always felt in it the weight of a family’s history, its memories and unions. It made me feel like I belonged somewhere. “What do you think?” he asked, smiling.
“Sorry,” I said, sheepish. Everyone was looking at me. “What do I think about what?”
Duke’s jaw tightened. “Mom was just suggesting—”
“Offering!” Caroline waved her hands. “You can absolutely say no.”
“Offering,” Duke said, softening, “that we have the wedding here on the farm.”
It had been seven months since Duke proposed. The cold Ferris wheel seat at the Trail of Lights had trembled beneath us, hovering over trees illuminated in bright primary colors, and the city itself had sparkled against the dark sky. My chest ached with an old, tender memory. I’d cried as I said yes.
But the average cost of a wedding in this country was thirty-five thousand dollars. Who had that kind of money lying around or was willing to go into that much debt for one day? Even the dresses on sale at David’s Bridal, which I’d taken a tepid look at online, cost seven hundred bucks. And as soon as we decided on a location, they’d want a deposit, which we didn’t have. So, we’d been stuck.
Now here was Caroline, offering the perfect solution, which I couldn’t believe we hadn’t already considered. I could see it now, the neat rows of white chairs arranged before a trellised gazebo Alf would make by hand. Caroline would bake a tiered naked cake, its buttery sides dusted with powdered sugar. Duke and I would walk to the altar together, and I’d officially become a part of a family where everyone had grown up sleeping with their doors wide open, no shouting to stifle, nothing to fear.
“Yes,” I blurted. “Of course. I mean, right?” I said to Duke. “That’s perfect.”
Duke grinned. In the chandelier’s low light, his eyes were the color of maple syrup spread thin. “It is perfect.”
Caroline clapped, and Dylan went into the kitchen for the bottle of champagne Alf thought he remembered seeing in the back of the fridge.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I froze midlaugh as Andrew’s face filled the screen. An old photo, his skin red-gold in the sunset at Great Salt Plains Lake. Though his legs were out of frame, I knew his jeans were rolled to the knees, his calves immersed in the clear shallow water. My heart seized at the happy way he was looking at the camera. At me.
I was suddenly aware of my own heartbeat, its guilty thuds, as I declined the call. Andrew. He’d come into my life right as my mother left it. He’d saved me that summer. From my grief, from myself. But I never knew what might be on the other end of his calls, which meant I could never answer in front of Duke. There was too much he didn’t know.
Too much to risk by telling him.