The Children(88)

Mrs. Carter was back. Guinevere pictured the sticky pink kiss she’d leave on her daughter’s cheek. The manicured fingers claw-gripping her shoulders, as if to say, Mine. My piggy bank. You could almost feel sorry for Maeve.

Then she heard Edith. Speaking not in the low and practiced tone she used with guests but something rattled, higher. Guinevere crept into the hall to peek down through the spindles.

The Carters stood in the arch of the open front door, bookended by Maeve’s fancy suitcase and luxe-brand duffel. The older woman did indeed have her talons stuck to her daughter’s shoulder, like a big blonde parrot.

“It’s not that much to ask!” Edith wore a big gray T-shirt and apparently nothing else. Her hair was a mess, her words pitchy and shaking.

Jonathan spoke blandly from out of sight. “Edith, can we just—”

“You can just eat shit, Jonathan!” She snarled it, then whirled back to face the Carters. “You’re not leaving till you empty your bags. It’s the least you can do, and I forbid you to leave until you’ve done it!”

Guinevere gripped the spindles. Edith was yelling at Maeve? Confusedly she wondered if she knew about Maeve and Ennis.

Mrs. Carter pushed her daughter behind her. She was wearing a cropped pink sweater and pink plaid pants, and big pink sunglasses pushed up over her unnatural hair. She looked like a teenager who’d been cursed to age thirty years in one minute. “You will not speak another word to my daughter,” she said icily. “I’m calling our director and our agent the instant I have reception again. Once we’re out of this hillbilly backwater. Maeve, we’re leaving. Now.”

The actress didn’t move. She looked, for the first time, uncertain. In a rush she said, “I’m so sorry you can’t find it, Edith. Please believe me, I would never take anything from you. Never. I’m such a fan. I’m really looking forward to playing Guinevere. Thank you again for having me.”

“Maeve,” her mother barked. Ducking her head, the girl followed her out the door.

Guinevere heard a faint creaking and looked up. She’d been so riveted she hadn’t seen Ennis there, spying like she was. She opened her mouth to speak, and he shook his head, retreating to his room.

Edith stood alone. Guinevere watched as she pressed her forehead to the front door, then both palms, flat. Her shoulders were heaving, though she made no sound. After a minute of this she pushed off the wood and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Guinevere crossed to her brother’s room and flung open the door. “What happened? Does Mom think Maeve took something?”

Ennis lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring fixedly at the ceiling. “Necklace,” he said.

Her hand went automatically to her own throat. “The one—the necklace? Her necklace? She never takes it off.”

“Apparently she does.”

He was evading her eyes. Something struck her and she stiffened. “En.”

No answer.

“Ennis. Did you—” She looked hastily behind her, shut the door. Crossed the room and rested a knee on his bed. “Is that what you were doing last night? I stayed up forever waiting for you.” She felt better, though. He hadn’t forgotten about her, he’d been punishing Edith on her behalf. “So, what? You snuck into their room? How’d you get it off her neck?”

He rolled onto his stomach and spoke through a face full of pillow. “Very carefully.”

Guinevere stared at him. His shaven head, the gentle dip at the back of his neck. “Where is it?”

“Don’t worry,” he said instead of answering. “She won’t find it.”



* * *




The idea was unpleasant: the necklace without Edith. Unworn, unattended.

It wasn’t that it was ugly. Guin had managed glimpses of it over the years, and it was actually kind of interesting. Though something about it made her nervous.

Ennis thought she must’ve had it specially made in the city, paying thousands for all that heavy gold. But Guinevere was sure she remembered their mother wearing it—the glint of the chain over her neckline, the charm beneath her shirt—before she made her money. Before she wrote the first book.

She figured Ennis would hide it somewhere for Edith to find, after a day or two of worry. Or maybe he’d destroyed it. When she pictured him trying, all she could think of was the One Ring.

She was thinking these thoughts, sliding in her socks down the first-floor hall, when Edith stepped into her path and grabbed her by the shirt. Guinevere yelped, stumbling as her mother jerked her forward, fabric burning the back of her neck, and looked down her collar. Flat chest, swell of belly. No necklace. She grunted and let go.

“Now your pockets,” she said.

Guinevere breathed hard through her mouth, trying not to smell her mother, stress sweat and ashtray. Edith looked so frighteningly capable of anything that she obeyed, turning her pajama pockets out to reveal a cat’s-eye marble and a Kleenex. Edith glared at her findings, then said,

“If you go straight up and get it, I won’t be mad. You won’t be in trouble. We’ll just forget all about it.”

“Get what?” Guinevere said snidely.

Edith slapped her. It was the uncontrolled strike of a toddler, more startling than painful. “That’s how you wanna play it? I’m checking your room next, every inch. Then your brother’s. Then all your little hiding places. I know it’s one of you. I’ve already humiliated myself in front of the Carters because of you. Because I didn’t want to believe one of my own kids was a thief.”