“Sorry. I’m just . . .” I shook my head. “If I’m going to do this, I can’t start feeling sorry for her and tiptoeing around the details. She ruined your life. Your father’s life. She ruined my life too.”
The words hung in the air, jagged and raw, but full of an odd pulsing power. It was the first time I’d said something like that so directly. I enjoyed the feeling. In fact, I relished it.
Doro raised her head, and our eyes met. Something that felt like the striking of a match against a rough surface sparked between us. We were two people whose hurt had come from the same source, and we were ready to do something about it. But we had to be smart. And we had to do it together.
“I hope I haven’t upset you,” Doro said.
“I’m not upset,” I said. “Not in the least.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 5
“Give that to me,” Carl growled—and then, “or I’ll tell them where they can find Miss Bolan’s necklace.”
Fay heard a thump and clatter. Then another, louder thump. A blur of blonde pigtails and overalls streaked past Fay, out into the hallway. In its wake, a flat, pale-blue plastic compact clattered to the floor, splitting into two pieces.
Fay’s heart thumped. She’d seen her friends with compacts like that, containing foil packets of tiny pills. She’d seen her friends furtively tuck the compacts into purses and between mattresses. She hadn’t a reason to get pills like that, not yet anyway, but she knew what they were for.
Carl Cormley stumbled out of the room, and Fay melted back into the shadowy alcove. He knelt, retrieved the pieces of plastic, and pocketed them. After looking down the hall each way, he withdrew into his room and slammed the door.
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Twelve
At the end of a long hall that led (and led, and led) from just beyond the main staircase to the back of the house was the enormous, old-fashioned kitchen. Doro introduced me to Laila, a rangy Cherokee woman in her fifties whose ears were loaded with rows of sparkly studs, who’d cooked a breakfast of waffles and wild-boar sausage and kiwi.
Doro told me Laila had run her own fleet of food trucks back in Florida, and it showed. The woman worked with lightning speed. After we sat at the long, scarred wooden worktable, she leaned against the counter, drinking coffee and shooting us furtive looks.
“Laila, sit,” Doro said. “Fix a plate.”
“I already ate.”
Koa, hunched over his food, shook his head. “Woman never eats. I don’t know how she stays upright.”
“Pure meanness,” Esther, Laila’s shorter, rounder mother, said from across the table, and Laila swatted her with a dish towel.
“Cooking for such a small group makes me nervous,” Laila said. “I’m used to crowds.”
Doro’s eyes flicked to me. “Those days are over. We’re going to have to get used to having this island to ourselves.”
Esther dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “I, for one, have no problem with that. None whatsoever.”
“It’s going to be yours soon. All of you will be part owners of Bonny with me, and then you can do whatever you want to here. Retire or start a restaurant or . . . whatever.”
Doro lifted her orange-juice glass and they all followed suit. I lifted mine too.
“Praise you, Maker of Breath,” Doro said and drank. “And Megan, for writing this book. Making a future for all of us possible.”
I snuck a glance around the table and found everyone staring at me.
The deal memo wasn’t an actual, official contract. There were a lot of variables at work here—the imprint, the editor, Asa—and they all made me seriously skittish. But Asa had promised to help me get this book written. He’d sure as hell better. These people were counting on me.
As we ate, Doro recounted a brief history of the hotel. Turning the island over to his Native employees had been her father’s original plan, she said. But it wasn’t long until he realized that managing an island was more expensive than he’d expected. The employees would need guests in order to pay for keeping up the place. And guests would only come if William Kitchens and his daughter were there, putting on the real-life Kitten show. So he stayed, toiling away at the Sisyphean task of running Ambletern.
Doro didn’t mention any attacks or her father’s lawsuit against Frances.
When we’d cleaned up the breakfast dishes (and Koa kissed Laila on the cheek for the meal, which she clearly enjoyed), I went back upstairs. I made a couple of wrong turns, but eventually found my room and settled on a wrought-iron chair on the balcony to call Asa. My phone only showed one bar, but I gave it a try anyway, propping my feet up and studying my chipped bright-red pedicure. After a couple of rings, I heard Asa’s nasal voice.
“Give me some good news.” He sounded like he was deep underground.
“Asa?” I yelled. “Are you there? Connection’s shit.”
“I can hear you. Fire away.”
“Okay, well, I’m here. On the island. And Doro’s talking to me.”
“Excellent.”
“The hotel’s enormous. Kind of run down, though. Definitely in need of a major spruce-up. Money’s tight for Doro now, but before that, it sounds like she made a killing.”
“Oh, good. Puns. Please tell me you’re writing all this down.”
“I will be, soon.”
I looked back into the room. I should probably make the bed and put away my clothes. I didn’t want Doro or any of the staff thinking I believed room-cleaning fairies always trailed after me. Even though, technically, they had.
“Looks like Doro’s email to you was spot-on. It seems like, until a couple of months ago, Ambletern was a money machine. Booked solid, year-round. Mostly die-hard Kitty Cult members, coming here to do their freaky murder-mystery, cosplay stuff. The weirdos were her bread and butter. So, the book—my book—is her lifeline.”
Asa grunted. “No pressure there.”
“I’m trying not to dwell on it. She’s only got three people left on staff. A cook, a housekeeper, and a grounds guy. All Native American, and she’s worked out some deal with them, to sign over ownership of the island at some point. She’s all about preserving the heritage of the place.”
“An American hero. I love it. Play that up, for sure.”
I looked out over the banister and the string of carved Welcome, Cappies. I repressed a shiver of revulsion. Below me, Koa, on a rust-laced riding mower, was circling the fountain in ever-widening spirals. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. I ducked a little to get a better view through the balusters.
“It’s actually quite beautiful here,” I said, taking in Koa’s torso.
“Nice,” he said. “Look, Meg, I don’t mean to cut you short, but you should be writing, not talking to me. Remember, I’m going to need the first ten chapters next week.”
“I know.”
“Do your childhood stuff first. Purge the shit, then you can move on to the Kitten/Doro section. It’s going to be great, Meg. Don’t think, just write. I have someone who’s going to go over everything you send in and put it in order.”
My fingertips did their little tingle thing. “Who?”
“Nobody you know. An editor. A friend of mine. A trusted friend.”