We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(36)
They play folk-rock-type stuff I mostly don’t know, the kind of songs I think Tatum played with his high school band. “Ain’t No Ash Will Burn,” “Seven Bridges Road,” “Man of Constant Sorrow.” Brock joins his voice with theirs on a few songs.
I lie back on the long grass and listen, letting the music fill my head. I watch Tatum’s hands move across the strings. He seems completely immersed in these simple songs. He has none of the rock swagger of the guitar boys I know in California. He’s not performing. He’s just playing and listening, unselfconscious.
It’s the way he does most everything, I realize. From swimming in the sea to making smoothies to playing guitar to drawing on my leg—whatever Tatum is doing, he gives it his entire attention.
It’s completely dark out when he plays the opening the chords to a song I love. It’s by a band that has only two albums so far. They’re called Wooden Cage, and I know all their music. Their first big hit was this song from the second album. It’s been everywhere this spring. The lead singer’s voice is ragged and has huge range.
Meer looks at Tatum quizzically. “What is it?”
“?‘Wasted’ by Wooden Cage.”
“I don’t know this one.”
“It’s a good song. Play it,” says Brock.
Tatum sings the first line, low. “We all stayed out too late / We fell apart and made mistakes.”
Then he stops. Looks at me.
Selfconsciousness comes into his face. Just the thing I was thinking never does. He flushes slightly and his upper lip twitches. “Never mind.”
“Go on,” I say, sitting up.
But he still hesitates.
If I sing it, maybe Tatum will change back into the boy who isn’t performing, isn’t second-guessing himself. “We all stayed out too late,” I sing. “We fell apart and made mistakes.”
He picks up the guitar mid-verse.
They said we didn’t matter So we mattered to each other
When we get to the chorus, Brock sings with us, and Meer finds his way with a simple ukulele part.
Our youth is wasted
We will not waste it
Remember my name
’Cause we made history
Na na na na, na na na
Our voices meld and lift to the epic black sky.
Tatum is smiling, his face lit up by the fast-melting candles. My heartbeat is slow and steady. I am filled with love for this place I wanted to leave this morning.
35
I am alone in the living room the next morning when someone knocks on the door.
This has never happened. We don’t have visitors.
There is no support staff. No repair workers come. All deliveries go to a post office box.
The knock comes again. June is somewhere upstairs, as usual. Tatum is at work, and Meer and Brock have gone to town for groceries.
When I answer the door, Holland Terhune stands there. Holland from the airport. She’s wearing baggy jeans, a tank top, and a baseball cap. “I was hoping this was the right place. Some guy coulda come out with a shotgun and ordered me off his property, right? But instead it’s you. Yay.”
She’s such a flirt.
“You didn’t answer texts,” she continues, “so I came over to see if you want to hang out. It’s not just me and Winnie. All my girls are here now. I had a lot of family stuff going on last week. It ate me alive and I couldn’t even function. But it’s done and now my life is basically just one big rager.”
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“You told us where you were staying.”
I don’t remember that, but I was a wreck when I met her. “Sorry I didn’t answer,” I say. “We’re mostly unplugged.”
“Whatever. You’re a poor communicator. It’s not the worst thing. Are you going to invite me in to see the castle? I feel like that’s what people do. The home of the great Kingsley Cello. I’m insanely curious.”
Realization washes over me. She didn’t come here to make friends.
Holland knows who my father is. She came here in search of him, and he is the reason there are so many texts from her on my phone. “You want to know about my father,” I say, accusingly.
“I’m sorry. Yeah.”
“I remember now. At the airport, you said I looked like someone you knew. And you talked about something you’d just shown Winnie on your phone. Right?”
“We’d been looking at one of his paintings. Online.” Holland ducks her head apologetically. “You look just like Persephone. The Kingsley Cello Persephone.”
“So you figured I was related to him? That doesn’t even make sense. He’s painted tons of models. He didn’t have children with all of them.”
“People on this island know he lives here. And they talk. Half of them would actually have driven me here for a couple hundred dollars.” She grins as if it’s cute that she bribed people to find out if I really was the person she thought I was, and got them to tell her where my father’s property is.
“You would have shown up here whether you’d met me at the airport or not,” I say. “Right? You would have found a way to get access to Kingsley, whatever happened, because people go on these pilgrimages to him.”