The house loomed ahead of them, a grand estate more than a hundred years old that Charles’s great-grandfather had passed on to Sylvie. It was made entirely of stone with a low wall around it, a little balcony on the upper floor surrounded by a wrought-iron terrace, and a six-car detached garage across the driveway. The house had several chimneys for the four fireplaces inside, three gables that demarcated the separate wings, and a brass weather vane in the shape of a rooster at the very highest point. There were three patios, a sunroom, and a pool out back, and the whole thing was surrounded by thick, shapely pines and an elegant garden. Whenever Joanna beheld the estate, she got reverent chills; she always felt that she needed to be on her best behavior here. It was like what her mother used to say to her when they went to Mass at the drafty, icon-filled, stained-glass Catholic church in Lionville, Pennsylvania, where she’d grown up: Don’t make any noise. Don’t touch anything. God’s looking at you.
Sylvie was already waiting for them on the large brick side porch, her hands clasped at her waist, a brave smile on her face. As always, she was impeccably dressed in an ironed lavender skirt and a perfectly tucked-in eyelet blouse. She even wore heels, lavender, to match the skirt, and pearls looped twice around her throat. She always dressed this way—to go to the grocery store, to go for a walk. The ring Charles’s father had given her a few months before he died glimmered under the porch light.
“I made banana bread, Charlie,” she said after everyone hugged. “Your favorite.”
They entered the house through the kitchen. Dim, golden light filtered through the stained-glass window, dappling the white wooden cabinets, the ancient, rounded Sub-Zero refrigerator, and the stout, space-age MasterChef stove. The smell of banana bread drifted comfortingly through the air. Sylvie had put on an old classical record, presumably plucked from the collection that belonged to her grandfather.
“Sit, sit,” Sylvie urged, gesturing toward the kitchen table. A bunch of vacation property brochures were spread out on the surface. As Joanna and Charles sat down, a very different sort of song thumped through the walls to their left. Joanna cocked her head, listening to the thumping beat, the muddy bass, the muffled shouting. Scott’s suite shared a wall with the kitchen. She tried to meet Charles’s eye.
“So listen—we’re so behind!” Sylvie said, fluttering from the oven to the cupboards to the sink and then repeating the cycle all over again, though bringing nothing to the table. “We haven’t picked out a vacation house for this summer! But I think I found a good one. It’s on the water in Cape May. July seventh to the twenty-first.”
She plucked a magazine from the pile on the table and leafed to a marked page. “Here. It has seven bedrooms, which seems like a lot, but you know those houses—they’re all huge. Really, I wonder if we should just buy a place instead of rent. Then we could decorate it the way we want.”
Charles shifted in his seat. Joanna wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking: planning a vacation in the middle of a scandal seemed inappropriate. Only, was that what was going on? A scandal?
“And it’s brand new,” Sylvie went on, pointing at the tiny pictures of the house’s interior: a country kitchen with white bead board on the walls, a master bedroom with lavender striped curtains, and a shed filled with beach balls, bicycles, plastic kayaks, and kites. “It won’t have that smell—you know that old beach smell? Even the nicest houses get it sometimes.” She flipped through the catalog to another page. “Though this one’s nice, too; it’s closer to town. It’s hard to decide.” She looked up at Charles, her face softening as if a thought had just struck her. “Honey, don’t feel like you have to come for the whole time. I know you have to work. But at least for a week, right? And then for the weekends?”
The volume on the other side of the wall rose higher. Joanna glanced at Charles again, but his eyes were stubbornly fixed on the rental magazine.
“And we’ll need so many supplies,” Sylvie added. She grabbed a Land’s End catalog from the bottom of the pile. “I’ve marked lots of things.” She turned to a page that displayed flashlights, travel mugs, a fondue pot. “We could make s’mores on the beach,” she crowed gaily. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Huh,” Charles murmured vaguely.
Sylvie folded her hands over the magazine. “How is work, by the way?”
Charles shrugged. “You know, busy.”
“Dealing with any interesting clients?”
There was an abrupt, fuzzy thud next door, and then a faster-paced song. Joanna flinched, but she didn’t bother glancing at Charles again. He was obviously ignoring it, and her.
“Not really,” Charles spoke over the noise. “Same ones.”
“And Joanna?” Sylvie turned politely to face her daughter-in-law. “How’s the new house coming along?”
Joanna smiled. “Good. Lots of boxes to unpack still, though.”
“Have you met any of your neighbors?”
She looked down. “Uh, no one yet. But I’m sure we will soon.”
Sylvie nodded. Joanna could tell she was searching for something more specific she could ask her about—a hobby, maybe—but was coming up with nothing. “Excellent,” she finally said. And then, “Goodness. The bread.”