“That,” said Peter, “is neither here nor there. What’s important is setting her on a right path. Preventing her from making some irreversible mistake. Can you imagine,” he said—but he stopped himself.
Alice understood. A boy in Barbara’s room at Emily Grange meant the possibility of sex—if not now, soon. And sex meant the possibility of a pregnancy.
Prior to marrying into the Van Laars, Alice had never met a family so obsessed with its own reputation. Peter had explained it to her once, concisely, when they were younger, when Bear was four or five.
“Banking is an industry that relies on trust,” he said. “If we wish for customers to trust us to make decisions about their money, then they must trust our judgment in all things.” This, said Peter, was one of the reasons that Peter I had founded the Preserve and Camp Emerson; their interest in conservation was genuine, but also shrewd, designed to augment their reputation in the region. The friendships they’d curated with well-connected people over time were just the same: Shrewd. Chary. The Van Laars were meticulous about anyone they brought into their life, and ruthless about those they excised.
• • •
The thing was: Alice still hadn’t told Barbara about their plans in the fall. She was stopped, always, when she considered the commotion that would ensue: Barbara raging, making a scene. There was something so violent about Barbara, something inherently aggressive that Alice had noticed since her birth. Even beyond the tantrums she had had as a younger child, the teenage Barbara now seemed permanently stormy, always one misapprehension away from throwing a vicious punch.
When Barbara asked to spend the summer at Camp Emerson, therefore, it became in Alice’s mind another excuse to defer the announcement.
Her latest decision was to tell Barbara at the end of the summer. That would be best, thought Alice. One swift single blow, and then up to Élan. Perhaps she could even tell her after she was in the car, packed for Emily Grange. After they were safely in the car, with a driver at the wheel.
She had planned it all out.
Barbara, she would say—speaking quietly. There’s been a change in plans.
• • •
Suddenly, Alice is roused from her thoughts by a sound someplace far in the distance.
It sounds like a young girl, crying out.
“Does anyone else hear that?” she says.
She turns to look over her shoulder, but the ranger assigned to attend to her is gone.
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Through the kitchen window, Judy watches as the elder Mr. and Mrs. Van Laar move across the lawn in the direction of the woods. He walks with a quick aggressive stride; she hustles along behind, trotting every few steps to keep up. These men never seem to really like their wives, Judy thinks. Not the ones at the club, and not the ones here. Her own father—as strict as he is with his children—not only defers to her mother but practically worships her. Once, on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he read to her a god-awful poem of his own creation, paper rattling in shaking hands, Judy and her siblings willing themselves not to laugh.
Judy gathers her strength once more before turning back in the direction of the large main room with the fireplace. Gathered around it, still, are young men and women who aren’t so much older than she is. She isn’t certain how they fit into this picture, but she understands it will be her job to find out. All of them, she thinks, look inappropriately casual, their demeanor almost offensively relaxed.
She hovers for a moment, looking down at her pad as if noticing something important on it.
“Officer,” someone says. In her tone is irony, derision.
Investigator, she thinks, before turning. A young woman, reclined on a sofa with her feet draped over its back, is looking in her direction. Her head is resting in the lap of a young man. She looks familiar—an actress? A singer? Judy feels as if she’s seen her on TV.
“What’s the working theory?” says the girl.
The young man she’s resting on puts a hand over his mouth, as if suppressing a laugh.
Judy ignores her. Looks down at her pad again.
“Who’s the prime suspect?” the girl tries, sitting up now.
“Shut up, Polly,” says another girl across the room, curly-haired, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
Polly looks to the young man next to her. “What are you laughing at?”
“The way you said that,” he tells her. “It’s just so—earnest!” And he allows the laugh he’s been hiding to burst forth.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking at Judy. “I know this is serious. I’m hungover.”
“I’m interested,” says Polly. “I want to know.”
Judy detests these people. And then remembers her training; feels guilty about her quick leap to hatred.
Unswervingly, surprising even herself, Judy walks straight through the main room, ignoring them all, and heads down a hallway on the other side. She’ll gather her thoughts before interviewing any of them.
• • •
A part of her acknowledges that she is moving in this direction, away from the crowd she is supposed to interview, out of personal curiosity—she has always wondered about the homes of the members she serves at the golf club, and this one, she is certain, is even grander—and yet she assures herself that if she is caught by a colleague, she’s within her rights to tell him she’s simply looking for more people to interview.
Some of the doors along the hallway are open, and some are closed. She limits herself to the open ones. Into these, she pokes her head, knocking softly.
Most are untidy. Beds unmade, suitcases open, contents spilled out.
In one, she finds a man still asleep, snoring loudly, apparently unaware of, or uninterested in, the commotion on the grounds.
She goes on her way. The next door is closed but not latched.
She puts a finger to it and pushes. Inside, there is the vague smell of fresh paint. The walls are a light pink that makes Judy wrinkle her nose.
Someone’s suitcase is open on the floor in front of her.
Judy steps forward tentatively, her weight on her heels.
Inside are feminine things that someone has not taken care of: dresses and slips and high heels and a bikini, bright orange, still wet from a swim. Judy—herself very neat—suppresses the urge to hang it up someplace.
Inside the room, it becomes clear that the walls have been hastily painted. A quick effort on the part of the hosts to make things look nice before the start of the party, Judy guesses. Her own mother might have done the same.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a rapid knocking on the front door. The voices in the great room quiet.
Judy goes to investigate.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Annabel, as it turns out, does have a different story.
Alone in her dressing room—Denny Hayes has excused himself, has told her to wait there—Louise can no longer hear the anguished indiscernible outbursts that punctuated the first thirty minutes that went by. Instead, she hears Annabel’s laugh, on occasion. She’s calm now. Off the hook. Denny Hayes is joking with her mom and dad.
