“Jesus,” Miriam said.
“I know,” I said.
She laughed again.
“Why do you keep laughing?” I asked, wincing as I realized how much I probably sounded like an unfeeling robot.
“You, Dee,” she said, calling me by the short version of my name, Daniella, she had been using since the first day we met. “You’re all wound up and shit about your house. You embarrassed?”
“A little,” I said, sitting on a long chair and putting my beer on my knee. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Hell no!” she said, still laughing, still smiling. And then she frowned and looked at her bottle.
I offered my hand, and she handed her bottle back to me. In a trick I’d learned in boarding school, I braced both bottles against each other at the caps and popped both of them off simultaneously. As I handed hers back to her, she grinned.
“What?” I said.
“I just figured,” she said. “You know…” I shrugged. “You know,” she tried again. “The way you look … and how, um, awkward you can be around the other art kids. I figured you were super preppy. Just don’t see a lot of girls do shit like that. It’s, like, you’re a different person almost. Isn’t what I expected, is all.”
“Good,” I said, trying unsuccessfully not to blush.
For a while after that, we were quiet. There was a lot to unpack from that conversation, and I think we both just took some time to think and relax. She was right—about my awkwardness, at least. I really wasn’t comfortable around the other students in the art program. Probably because they were all meant to be there. I was just taking art history as a general education requirement. My parents, Mother in particular, would never brook any dallying in the arts. But that wasn’t the only reason I felt like an outsider. The cliché would be to say that these were the people my parents warned me about, but they had never done that. They hadn’t bothered, probably out of the presumption that they needn’t have. These were the people my family referred to in the lowest possible terms, and every time I was around them, I could hear in my head the words spoken around the dinner table. And yet, I envied the other students.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that I almost jumped when Miriam set down her beer, stood, and went to sit next to the pool. Rolling up her pant legs, she stuck her bare feet in the water and sighed. I went to join her, and when I stuck my feet in the pool, I knew her sigh had been one of relief.
“This is nice,” she said softly and laid herself down on the pool deck.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You’re nice,” she said.
“Ye—what?!”
Miriam laughed, her belly shaking and her feet splashing. “You’re too easy,” she said.
This time, for whatever reason, I didn’t feel like she was making fun of me. Bending down, I splashed her with a little water from the pool. She yelped and kicked her feet, which only ended up splashing us both. I laughed in delight. I was finally beginning to let go. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad weekend after all.
And then I heard the squeak of the front gate open followed by the sound of Mother’s SUV, the one she used to transport large antiques.
“Shit,” I said, feeling my happiness fizzle out.
“What’s wrong?” Miriam asked.
“Come on,” I said, standing and straightening my clothes. “Hurry.”
Miriam did as I asked, and I guess it was because she heard the urgency in my voice. We scurried back through the rear door of the house, and I had Miriam unpack the art history study materials from her bag and then take the rest upstairs. Maybe she dealt with a version of this bullshit at home, too, because she didn’t waste time with questions. While she was upstairs, I spread the books and notes out on the dining room table and did my best to make it look like we hadn’t just been goofing off.
I saw a shadow on the other side of the front door’s frosted glass, and I went to open it.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mother said, stepping past me. She wore a beige pantsuit that was no doubt tailored specifically for sudden heat waves in late autumn. She always had a plan. And she had one today. “How is the house?” Not, How are you? Of course not.
“Fine,” I said, following her to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of rosé. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I come bearing gifts, of course,” she said, as if said gifts were for me and not her somehow.
“Really,” I said, following her again toward the front door.
She turned. If she had had hair like mine, it would have spun out to the sides, but hers was cut short, all business. Of course. “Dear, you really are such a grouch,” she said. “Here I am, giving to my only daughter, and what do I get in return?”
“Sorry, Mother,” I said, only sort of sorry.
“Hi, Mrs. Hamilton!” Miriam leaned on the upstairs bannister and waved down into the foyer. Mother’s inviting smile remained, but I felt the room turn cold. Now I really was sorry.
My friend skipped down the stairs in her bare feet, and I saw Mother’s eyes go to the hemp bracelets she wore on her ankles. Miriam must have seen my expression, because she slowed to a more cautious pace. Mother extended a hand, and Miriam took it gently and curtsied slightly. Mother’s eyes softened instantly. This was the respect she deserved. “And who might you be?” she said not completely threateningly.
“Miriam, ma’am,” the girl said, keeping her eyes on Mother. “I’m in your daughter’s art history class, and she was kind enough to invite me up here to study.”
“Well,” Mother said, “at least she’s making friends. She can be terribly moody.”
“Nonsense,” Miriam said. “Your daughter is a delight. I can see where she gets it.”
“I’m also standing right here,” I said.
“Of course you are, dear,” Mother said, barely turning her head in my direction. “Well, Miss Miriam, it has been a pleasure.” And then she checked her watch. “Down to business,” she continued, more to me this time. “I have to meet up with your father in two hours. We have an investor’s meeting, and then we have to meet up with the, ugh, Callaways for a week on their yacht. An entire week, can you believe? What a nightmare. Anyway, come.”
She started out the door, and Miriam and I followed. I tried to make eye contact with Miriam, but she had her gaze fixed on Mother, as if she were a cobra that might strike at any moment. She had good instincts. In the driveway in front of the house was the black SUV, and in the back were two large dark shapes, obscured by fogged glass. Mother went to the rear and opened the door, and down jumped two large dogs: a Rottweiler and a Shepherd.
“Mother, what—” I started, but was not allowed to finish.
“For your protection, dear. They’re guard dogs, not pets,” Mother said. Of course. “Now listen: they have been trained by experts and have come at no small expense, so treat them well.” She pulled from the SUV two large flat cardboard boxes. “These are their houses. They’ll sleep in these, outside in the car park. They are only to come in the house in emergencies, and they know this. Here,” she said, handing me a folded piece of paper, “is a list of their commands. And here,” she added, handing me a whistle on a lanyard, “is an emergency whistle. If you need help, or if they are doing something they shouldn’t and aren’t following commands, blow this. It will bring them to attention. Keep it with you at all times.”