Tina lived in the Spanish-style mansion in Clyde Hill. Everybody knew the house. A few years back, some old Texas millionaire blew into town and built a six-bedroom behemoth with a red barrel-tiled roof and a grand central courtyard. On either side, two ranch-style homes squatted like the estate’s ugly stepsisters. People had been up in arms, and I learned a lot of new words then: gaudy, ostentatious, arrogant. I knew what arrogant meant because I had a sister-in-law. I just hadn’t realized it was something a house could be too.
I’d never actually laid eyes on the Texas millionaire. He was rarely in town, and when he was, he remained in his fortress. The Spanish mansion was not his main residence, and it was a mystery as to what he was doing in the Seattle area. Rumors flew—he was there to buy out Dixon Group, to run for mayor. But he never did anything except build a gaudy, ostentatious, arrogant eyesore too close to the neighbors, and then he died. I saw his picture in the paper and barely registered the news. He looked like someone who would die. He was at least eighty years old. I could not believe that was Tina’s late husband. I imagined sharing a bed with him, his scabby legs sanding mine in the night. I was a little bit disgusted with her, a little bit impressed.
I approached the house, taking small, demure steps, the way I had when I walked down the aisle to CJ. I was never one to be self-conscious or intimidated by people with money. Quite the opposite—their privilege triggered a sort of serenity within me, ums and uhs lifted from my speech, and my ankles wound like those of a noblewoman taking her seat in a European court. The etiquette came so naturally that I almost believed in reincarnation. In another life, I’m sure I was a wealthy woman.
* * *
No one came to the door for a while, but I could hear voices inside. Angry voices. Two women, fighting. There was another car in the driveway, next to Tina’s, but I had just assumed that was hers as well. If she’d had to have sex with that old man, I hoped she’d at least gotten a second car out of it.
When the door finally opened, I could tell Tina had been crying. She’d made a poor attempt to cover it up. Her bloodshot eyes were ringed with a foundation much too pink for her skin tone. “You’re early,” she said, “but come on in.” She held the door open resentfully.
Whatever was going on, this felt fair to me. She had witnessed an ugly scene inside my house, and now it was her turn under the microscope.
The house was spectacular and freezing cold. I must have shivered, because Tina said with rancor, “The heat is on. It’s just always cold in this fucking ghost house.” The weighty wood door clobbered closed behind me, rattling a glass vase on a table.
“I was just about to set out some coffee and snacks,” Tina said, walking in the direction of the kitchen, I supposed. “You can help if you want.”
I was dying to check out the rest of the house. I followed Tina with my head tipped back, admiring the wood beams on the ceilings. The walls were pure white stucco, absolutely nothing painted or wallpapered. There were no photos or art hanging up; there was no need. The wrought-iron grillwork on the windows and the bronze candle-style chandeliers were decoration enough. I wished everyone who had called this place gaudy could see the inside. Tina knew what not to do with money, and I approved. My approval probably didn’t matter to Tina, but I felt she should know it was not easily earned.
On the kitchen table there was a dead flower in a clay pot. Nothing on the countertops—no sugar or sponges or cooking utensils. Tina opened the refrigerator and removed a tray of vegetables and dip that she had bought preassembled from the grocery store. My mother was always pointing to it and saying what a rip-off it was. You could buy three bags of carrots and a bottle of ranch for a dollar less.
Tina placed the platter on the counter and stared at it. “I guess I need napkins,” she said, and then she burst into tears.
I was staring at her, stunned, when another woman entered the kitchen. She was older than we were, midthirties, striking but not beautiful, and wearing pounds of silver jewelry. She jangled and glinted as she put her arms around Tina, who was sobbing by then.
I had no idea what to do. I stood there, still as a statue, as Tina wept into the crook of the woman’s neck. “Why don’t you go upstairs and pull yourself together before your guests arrive?” the woman suggested to Tina. “I can set up for you.”
“Okay,” Tina agreed in a wobbly voice. “Oh”—she gestured at me as if I were a feature of the house a new homeowner needed to know about—“that’s Ruth, by the way. She came early.”
I was tongue-tied a moment. “Sorry,” I ended up saying.
Tina shrugged miserably as she started for the stairs in the kitchen. The house had two sets of stairs.
The woman picked up the platter. “I’m Janelle. Grab those plates. The den is on the left at the end of the hallway.”
The den was dim and warm, a fire dwindling in the hearth. Janelle picked up the poker and nudged one of the logs; it hissed at her, serpent-like, and reared back up again. I stationed myself in front of a sideboard cluttered with pictures of Tina from over the years. I wondered if this was how she’d felt when she discovered the photograph from my brother’s wedding in my dining room. Tell me what I don’t already know about you.
There was no nice way to say it—Tina had looked wrong as a child. Standing between her parents, she was a runty girl scowling in a dress, a proper towhead with jet-black eyebrows, her extremes even more pronounced back then than they were today.
On her wedding day, Tina was beautiful and stoic next to her happy groom. Some women might have said that at his age, he was still a handsome man, but those women would have been much older than we were. All I could think about, looking at the two of them together on their wedding day, was the two of them on their wedding night. My stomach made a sickly sound in protest.
Then there was Tina at her college graduation, holding her cap to her head and laughing against the breeze that threatened to blow it away. It was the only picture without men and the only one where Tina was smiling. I’m not saying the two are related.
I looked closer at the other women in the picture and gasped, realizing one was Frances. I didn’t recognize the woman on Tina’s other side; she was nearly six feet tall, with waist-length silver hair.
“Who is the other woman in this picture?” I asked Janelle.
Janelle tilted her head to see around the glare set off by the fire. “Oh. That’s Irene.”
Irene. Tina had mentioned an Irene that day in her car. When I’d asked who she was, I could tell Tina had withheld something from me.
Janelle leaned the poker against the wall, saying, “Can you let Tina know I’m going? I know everyone is arriving soon, and I don’t want to get blocked in.”
“Do you think I should check on her?” I asked, realizing how much I wished she would give me her blessing to go upstairs.
“Frances will be here soon,” Janelle said, tucking her shiny hair into the collar of her raincoat. “Nice meeting you. Good luck.”
I wondered if she meant with Tina or with the complex grieving.
* * *
Tina still hadn’t come downstairs by the time the other women started to arrive. They all seemed excited to see me answer the door. With me, they could widen their eyes as if to ask, Can you believe it? Their families had talked about this house around the dinner table too. When Frances walked in—like it wasn’t a Hollywood estate, like she’d been here before—I told her that Tina was upstairs and that she was upset. I don’t know what came over me, but when Frances started for the stairs, I barged past her, saying, “I don’t mind!”
At the top of the stairs, the hallway went left and right. But there was only one door that was expressly closed.
“Tina?” I knocked gently. “Everyone’s here.”