June (9 page)

It wasn’t the doorbell that awoke Cassie the next morning. She certainly wasn’t done dreaming, and she’d definitely had more than her share of Jack Daniel’s the night before. But the voices were insistent; real, solid voices, not the tendrils of conversation that swirled through the dream Cassie and Two Oaks were having together—of June refusing to come home, and Lindie volunteering to rescue her (although familiar, this young version of June was unrecognizable to Cassie, and Lindie was a mystery). The kitchen had smelled divine in the dream—grease, chicken, potatoes; Cassie’s stomach ached with soured whiskey. She pulled her forehead from the pillow, wincing at her headache. Whoever was below her window was loud and logical, a point that Cassie’s hungover, half-asleep self couldn’t help but find offensive.

A woman: “I am listening to you, I am, but why we have to hike all over creation instead of just ringing—”

“I’m saying be nice. Just. Be. Nice.” Nick?

“I’m very nice.” The woman’s voice again. With a smile this time. Cassie fumbled for her glasses. The crack in the ceiling clicked into focus. Cassie traced her eyes up and down the thin line, trying to puzzle out the contradiction of the woman’s voice—she had heard it before, hadn’t she?

“You guys, I don’t understand why we can’t just ring—” (Another woman, her voice on edge. She sounded like California. Young.)

“Because I said so.” Definitely Nick.

Three of them. They circled toward the back of the house. Cassie groaned. The night had not been what one might call restful; she couldn’t quite hold on to what exactly had happened in the dreams, but she knew they’d been a tangle of hope—something about a man coming back after a long time—and, oh yes, had she dreamed about a movie? Someone—that tomboy, maybe—was excited about a movie?

Could it be the same movie? Jack Montgomery’s movie? Silly, but tempting, to think so. And irrelevant to her waking problems. What the hell was Nick doing back here? She thought she’d done a pretty kick-ass job of shutting him down. She should have known it was too easy.

“Slow down, I need your arm.” The first woman’s voice tickled at Cassie. They were nearly around the back of the house now, if Cassie’s ears could be trusted. “Slow down, I need your arm.” The sentence played over and over in Cassie’s mind. She kept almost knowing who was speaking, and then the realization would scuttle away from her. And then:

What had Cassie said just before shutting Nick out? Something about how if Tate wanted Cassie’s DNA she’d have to come get it herself?

Oh shit.

Cassie bolted upright. She ignored the swooning world, the nausea at the pit of her stomach, the throb at her temples. She put her foot to the floor, accidentally sending the empty Jack Daniel’s bottle skating across the wide boards. She ignored the clatter as she strained to hear the woman’s voice again. The trio had moved all the way behind the house now, so she could make out only occasional laughs, a light touch of conversation lilting in the open window.

Cassie discovered she was already dressed, if you could call the jeans and dirty T-shirt she’d been wearing the day before “dressed,” and though she regretted looking even worse than she had when she’d opened the door for Nick yesterday, she needed to find out—desperately, in an embarrassing, gawking, fangirl kind of way—if who she thought was down there was who was really down there.

Cassie crept down the staircase, appreciating the ancient, slippery thrill of her sock-covered soles over each step. Hangovers make every sensation raw and more pronounced, for better or worse. Midlanding, she stopped to lick a smudge of tomato sauce off the corner of her shirt, remembering now that there’d been Bagel Bites. And sleuthing! Yes, now she could remember—she’d searched the closets for a trace of Jack Montgomery. Love notes, mementos, that kind of thing. She’d found letters, but they’d been disappointing. A stack from some girl named Lindie, bearing a Chicago postmark. This particular stash of missives had started in 1956; Cassie had shuffled through, opening ten or so of them, ending with one stamped 1958 and ignoring the rest once it was apparent the chicken scratch was never going to mention Jack Montgomery’s name.

But wait! Cassie remembered brightly, suddenly, that she had found something later on, with more whiskey under her belt. Not the letters—something else. Something that glimmered with the possibility of June’s connection to Jack. What was it? Maybe that was why she’d ended up drinking even more. Celebration—yes! She’d been jubilant, huddled beside the closet of the fourth bedroom, fingers and knees covered in dust. She’d lifted the bottle and toasted the dream people and her grandmother too, and gulped the tawny elixir, which appealed to her not at all now that morning had come.

The salty tang of Bagel Bites lurched in Cassie’s stomach, especially as she tried to think, more reasonably, about the implications of her discovery, of Nick coming back, of the possibility of Jack and June having made her father together. The initial shock had worn off, and in its place had settled sorrow and trepidation and, on the other hand, movie stars and millions of dollars.

The Bagel Bites wanted to come back up. She couldn’t hear the voices anymore; she guessed the people were coming around the far corner of the house, turning behind the kitchen, which meant she had a few moments left to pull herself together, but not enough time to empty her stomach and come out on top. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. She gripped the banister and forced down the bile, closing her eyes against the sunny colors the stained glass was insisting on painting her home.

Down the stairs to the foyer and then what? Right to the dining room and kitchen? Straight ahead into the back parlor? Left to the front porch? She strained to listen. The visitors passed the triple windows at the parlor floor. She crouched to spy. One of the three people was certainly Nick; she herded her mind away from the miasma of doubt and excitement and fury and worry that she felt at the sight of him. There was also the question of the young woman with long blond hair, and another woman—petite, lean—but she was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, impossible to identify between the overgrown rhododendrons and fluttering curtains and the contrast of the bright day.

Cassie made it to the front door, mentally applauding the Cassie of yesterday, who’d been inspired after slamming the door in Nick’s face, if not to go through the pile of mail in the foyer, then at least to push it wholesale into the office. It looked as though she was planning to start a bonfire in there—tempting—but at least it was no longer blocking the front door.

Which she then opened, discovering the light was all funny for morning. Too yellow, too flat. The revelation of afternoon made Cassie’s conviction waver; she knew what Nick would think when he saw her: not a grown-up. But why should she care? Did she care? Why did she care? She wished she had time to go back upstairs, change into something better. No, that was caring, wasn’t it? Not caring was standing here, wearing whatever she wanted. Wasn’t it? Should she disappear back into the house, and let them wait by the front door, let them ring? She wasn’t sure she could handle that horrible sound again.

Before she had a chance to decide, the people emerged around the edge of the front porch and looked up at her, one, two, three.

Nick, with a smug smile on his face, as though he’d accomplished something grand.

A lean, blond girl of about Cassie’s age, who squinted first and then flashed a winning, white smile.

And Tate Montgomery.

Good god, yes, Tate Montgomery in the flesh, removing her glasses and cap, climbing the steps, getting closer and closer like she had stepped out of some ridiculous Technicolor movie where she was larger than life and a chorus of strings swelled at the sight of her. But this was not a movie at all. It just kept going.

Tate Montgomery’s eyes were the color of the Atlantic on a sunny day. She held out her hand. “I’m Tate,” she said. Her voice was liquid. Her grip was strong.

New York had taught Cassie to be cool around famous people. There was Susan Sarandon, that one time in Union Square, and that opening Cassie’d worked at Alexander Pyke when the cast of
Girls
showed up to support someone’s husband, and that afternoon Jeff Bridges popped in to buy his wife a painting. Jim, the Pyke girls, and New Yorkers in general played it cool around famous people. It was an easy pose to adopt: the hooded, brief glance at someone whose work happened to put them on the big screen and pay them obscene amounts of money, followed by a feigned disavowal of caring.

But as Cassie clasped Tate Montgomery’s baby-soft hand, she heard herself babbling. “Wow. You’re really Tate Montgomery! I’m Cassandra. Cassie. You should call me Cassie. Hi. Nice to meet you. So nice to meet you. Hi.”

“Can I…?”

Cassie realized what Tate was asking only after she felt herself pulled into a hug by America’s Sweetheart. Cassie’s lungs were filled with the sweet smell of honeysuckle as her eyelids fluttered shut. Cassie’s heart became a hummingbird. She hadn’t allowed herself to fully luxuriate in what it would mean to be a Montgomery until this moment. Her aunt would be this woman—this perfect, rich, ultrafamous woman. And Cassie would be rich too, rich beyond any measure—away would float all her anxieties about keeping the house, about what to do with the rest of her life. Not to mention she’d be able to buy herself clothing woven from the fairy fabric with which Tate’s white shirt was apparently made, which was softer and lighter than the white fuzz that spun aloft through St. Jude yards on summer afternoons.

The movie star pulled back. Her small hands fell upon Cassie’s shoulders. Her eyes glistened. Tears? Joy? Up close, her beauty was exquisite, something Cassie had never noticed on the big screen, where a goddess apparently passed for a perfect average. The woman’s skin glowed with either a flawless tan or the illusion of it. Not a golden strand of long hair was out of place. And the parts of her that Cassie had always seen as round on-screen were actually angular. She was muscular, lean, and didn’t stand over five foot five; Cassie felt like a towering beast above her in her size ten jeans and large T-shirt.

Tate turned to Nick. That smile had graced a million photographs. “You didn’t tell me she was so pretty.”

Nick flashed Cassie a careful look. “Good afternoon.”

“I see you’re back,” Cassie uttered, trying to ignore the wincing disappointment that he hadn’t told Tate she was pretty. No, she thought, no, shut up, you don’t care.

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” he said. “We didn’t want to…ring.” A playful, teasing hesitation before the final word.

“Actually,” she volleyed, “I’ve been awake for hours. I heard you circling. I was in the bathroom.” From the croak in her voice and the sleep still in her eyes, she was obviously lying. Not to mention she had just invited all of them to imagine her on the toilet. Off to an epic start, Cassie, she thought. But she doubled down under Nick’s careful gaze. “I wondered who was trespassing.”

Tate’s eyes were back on her, her knuckles smoothing Cassie’s cheek. “Blame me. For everything. I shouldn’t have sent him to do my job. I should have been brave enough to face you myself. Forgive me.”

Cassie noticed Nick open his mouth. But then he stopped himself. He took up his phone and was rapidly absorbed; whether his sudden interest was feigned was impossible to tell. The blond girl—she was too skinny and fresh-faced for Cassie to consider her a woman—was texting. So the moment was Tate and Cassie’s (Cassie was to come to learn this was how the entourage worked—they were fully opinionated individuals when Tate deemed them necessary, and expected to retreat into invisibility when she decided they were not).

“I want to thank you,” Tate purred, putting her warm palms on Cassie’s cheeks, her face a symphony of sorrow and joy and compassion. “No, I need to thank you. For giving me a second chance. For inviting me. I’m thrilled to make this moment ours.”

“Oh,” said Cassie, wondering if, in fact, what she’d done was extend an invitation. Not that she minded—it was just not exactly how she remembered her conversation with Nick going. She snuck a quick glance at him, wondering what kind of game he was really playing. But any cynicism or doubt melted away in the heat of Tate’s attention. Tate Montgomery was here in St. Jude and she might be Cassie’s aunt. Cassie mumbled, “Thank you so much for coming. It’s really nice. I can’t believe I’m meeting you, actually. I’m such a huge fan.”

Did Nick snort? Cassie glanced at him, but he seemed locked into his little machine. Tate’s hands fell from Cassie’s skin; the spots where her palms had been now pulsed. The grackle babies squawked greedily as their mother returned with food.

“Hank?” Tate turned toward the blond girl, whose head snapped up from her phone as though she’d been in sleep mode. She stepped forward, beaming a winning grin at Cassie.

“This town is awesome! So old-fashioned! I superlove it!” She climbed the steps and offered an outstretched hand. “I’m Hank, Tate’s right-hand gal. I thought Ohio was all strip malls and Burger Kings!” One of those tall, pretty people who could compliment and insult in the same breath, and was, apparently, serious about the fact that her name was Hank.

“Okay,” Cassie heard herself say, seeing herself and the moment in a dizzy twirl from above. “Okay. You guys want to come in?”

“You know what, Cassandra?” Tate said, and Hank and Nick and Cassie all looked at her at once, each of them appreciating the empathetic angle of her head. “I’d love that.”