Great Big Beautiful Life(37)

Margaret gives a belabored sigh, but still steps up to the task when Jodi retreats to wash her hands over the deep double sink, its overhead window looking out on the backyard.

“How long does it usually take a person to get used to this house?” I ask. “I don’t understand how anything is connected. I would’ve thought we were at the front of the house here.”

“There’s no ‘usually,’?” Margaret says.

I frown, which makes her laugh.

“Not a facial expression I’ve seen you do much of,” she says.

On her way out of the room, Jodi says, “No one has to get used to the house, because no one except us is ever in it.”

“Ever?” I ask.

Margaret gives an unbothered shrug. “More or less.”

“How do you sell your work, to the shops and galleries?” I ask.

She waves a hand. “Oh, Jodi handles all that. Not that there’s much to handle. Like I said—most tourists are looking for a different sort of thing than what I do.”

That certainly explains the reaction from the shopkeeper who’d finally passed along Margaret’s contact information. He’d said something along the lines of, You’re welcome to it, but if Irene Mayberry is actually Margaret Ives, then I’m Elvis.

“What about groceries?” I ask.

“Jodi,” she says. “Jodi handles it all.”

“And what, you just stay in this house all day?”

“I stay in the yard mostly,” Margaret says. “Or out on the boat. Or in my home.”

“That’s got to be lonely,” I say.

“Less so than you’d think,” she retorts. “You get used to it, isolation. Funny thing is, I was already used to it by the time I ‘disappeared.’?”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“No more chitchat right now,” she says. “It’s nearly dinnertime, and no one needs to see the inside of my mouth while I’m eating.”



* * *



? ? ?

On Friday, the morning after my best session with Margaret yet, I’m picking through my notes—and typing up an extremely uninspiring (though blessedly short) article on new skincare trends for The Scratch—when Theo texts me.

I’m shooting in Atlanta rn, he says.

Oh, nice, I write back. Who/what?

That new fashion designer Mogi, he replies. Should be a good time.

He’s not giving me a ton of conversational ammo here, but I’d rather be doing anything than working right now, while sitting out on Little Croissant’s patio, sweating through my sundress, so I write back anyway: Yeah, Atlanta’s super cool! Let me know if you want any recs.

How far is it from where you are? he says.

I do a quick search to double-check. Not that close. Like three and a half hours by car.

Shit, he says.

A second later, a new message buzzes in. What are you up to this weekend?

Oh, nothing, just more meandering interviews that manage to avoid almost anything juicy from a story I’m sure is ninety percent juice.


Nothing today, working tomorrow during the day, then nothing Sunday and Monday.



Nice, he says, adding, I prob will be done by Saturday night too.

The text just hangs there, and understanding clicks into place. He’s doing what he always does: not quite asking me to ask him to hang out. It’s annoying, how indirect he always is, but at least there’s some comfort in knowing him well enough to read between the lines. Unlike the horror that unfolded between me and Hayden the other night.

I take a screenshot of the exchange and text it to my friends.

Priya is the first to reply: A girl’s gotta eat, Alice.

Bianca is right behind her: Turn in your skincare piece. Also BARF.

Cillian slides in next: MY ENEMY.

I thumbs-up Bianca’s text first, then write out my reply: I’m going to invite him to come down but that’s where I draw the line. I will NOT be asking whether I can fly to HIM.

Tell him he can meet you there, then send him this address, Cillian says. I follow the link he’s sent.

It takes me to a map of Antarctica, a little pin over something called the Pole of Inaccessibility research station.

Will do! I say, then text Theo: You’re welcome to come down if you want. There’s not a ton to do, but there’s at least one cute bar/restaurant and a good coffee shop, and it’s beautiful.

Really? Theo says.


Yes.


Sure, why not? I could drive down when I finish up tomorrow afternoon. Meet around seven?



Sounds good, I tell him, then turn my phone over and click back to yesterday’s notes.

We covered a decent amount of ground.

Nina Gill’s mystery illness. The fluctuating weight. The hair loss. The months she’d spent in the Swiss Alps while she recovered.

During their time apart, Nina had fallen in love with her doctor, and in the aftermath of her and Gerald’s breakup, he finally reconnected with his sister, Gigi, whose English husband had died not long after she discovered she was pregnant.

Gerald insisted on moving Gigi and her new baby, Ruth, onto his estate, now that Nina had moved out and on with the doctor.

“Out of the blue?” I’d asked Margaret, and she’d given one of those dry, secretive smiles.