“I bought three copies of Lilith Rising,” Lara replies. “At first, I couldn’t finish it because it was all … it was too close. But it’s wonderful, Mari. Truly.”
Mari feels her throat go tight, her eyes stinging. “Thank you.”
There’s another pause, and Mari rushes in to fill it. “I’m in New York right now for some promotional things and meetings with my publisher.” She laughs, drawing a line in the condensation on the glass. “They’re being very polite, but I’m sure they’re all really thinking, ‘Is this bloody woman ever going to turn in her second book?’”
She will, one day, she’s sure, but it’s hard to imagine anything following the success of Lilith Rising. Readers are bound to be disappointed, but it’s more than that holding her back. It’s that ever since that awful, stormy night when she finished Lilith Rising, whatever voice was inside of her seems to have gone silent.
“You’ll get there,” Lara replies. “The follow-up to Aestas was the hardest album I’ve ever written, but it was finished, eventually.”
Mari has listened to it, Golden Light, Silver Moon, and she’d liked it, but it didn’t have the magic of Aestas, something she suspects Lara already knows.
“Maybe,” Mari offers, hesitant. “Since I’m in the States, and you’re in the States—”
“No.”
It’s soft, but also completely unyielding, and Mari stands there in that phone booth, watching as across the street, a laughing couple walks hand in hand, their collars turned up against the cold.
“Mari, what happened that night … I’ve never forgiven myself for it. I never will. But the thing is … I think you have. I think you think it was all worth it.”
Anger spikes her blood, her fingers curling around the receiver. “Aren’t we both in a better place now? Would we have any of what we have if you’d had the baby, if Pierce had kept dragging us around, if—”
“We could’ve just left, Mari,” Lara says, her voice tired, like they’ve been having this argument for hours instead of minutes. “That night, I believed the same thing. That it was the only way. But I realized a few years ago that we weren’t trapped. That’s just what you told yourself to make it seem like you didn’t have a choice. But you did, Mari. I did. We can’t take it back, but I can’t sit across a table from you, or on a sofa with you, and pretend like what we did wasn’t terrible, just to make you feel better. And that’s what you want from me.”
Mari doesn’t reply, and outside, it begins to snow again, the flakes thicker now, falling faster.
“I’ll miss you forever, Mari,” Lara says. “But I’m not giving you absolution. We don’t deserve it.”
There’s a click, and then Lara is gone, leaving Mari alone in the cold phone booth, snowflakes sticking to the glass.
She stands there for a long while with the receiver still clutched in one hand before, finally, she places it gently in the cradle.
The door of the phone booth screeches as she pushes it open, and a blast of cold air hits her as she steps out onto the snowy street and begins to walk to the corner.
Alone.
You are cordially invited to a reception at the
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
to celebrate the authors of
The Villa,
Chess Chandler and Emily McCrae.
An instant #1 New York Times best seller, The Villa has sold over two million copies, and been translated into more than two dozen languages. An adaptation is currently in the works at HBO, led by Emmy-winning director Elisabeth Hart.
Called “an immediate classic that marries true crime, literary mystery, and memoir” （Los Angeles Times）， and a “searing but deeply personal look at art, sisterhood, and the crucible of loss” （NPR）， The Villa has remained on the New York Times list for more than sixty weeks, forty-three of those at the #1 spot.
The authors will be giving a short talk detailing the creation of the book, followed by cocktails and small plates.
ATTIRE: BUSINESS CASUAL
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s raining as I make my way into the café where Chess and I are supposed to meet for lunch. I had a phone interview that ran long, and by the time it was over I realized I was supposed to be at the restaurant ten minutes earlier.
But I’m here now, and Chess is already seated, a bottle of white wine sweating in a bucket of ice, a basket of bread untouched on the table.
“Sorry!” I call, making my way to her. People turn and look as I go by, and I don’t know if that’s because they actually recognize me, or if it’s just my newly reddened hair. My stylist swore it worked on me, and from the look on Chess’s face, I can tell she was right.
“Em!” she says, standing up and plastering on a smile to replace the grimace I just caught.
“Chess,” I say warmly, wrapping my arms around her. She smells the same, that Jo Malone perfume she likes so much, but she’s traded in all her beige and white for black today, a sleeveless turtleneck sweater setting off her tanned, toned arms.
“Love the hair,” she tells me as soon as I sit down, and I tuck it behind my ears, shrugging.
“I wanted something new before all the TV promo stuff starts.”
Her smile goes a little rigid, but she nods. “That’s smart.”
The Villa will be out next month on HBO, a ten-part miniseries with an award-winning cast, all shot on location in Orvieto. Chess and I got to visit the set last fall. A picture of us posing with canvas chairs, our names emblazoned on the backs, is currently my most liked photo on Instagram—634,932 likes, to be exact—and my Twitter replies are full of exclamation points any time I so much as hint at the show.
But I know it’s not the show Chess wants to talk about today.
The Villa has been out for over two years and is still dominating the New York Times list. We don’t even have plans for a paperback yet since the hardcover is doing so well, but already, there’s that question.
What’s next?
No one has asked about another Petal Bloom book, of course. Petal and Dex will forever be frozen in amber at the end of A Deadly Dig, and I’m happy to leave them there.
The follow-up to The Villa, though … that’s another story. Not a day goes by that I’m not inundated with questions about it. On social media, on my website, in interviews, on phone calls with my new agent, Jonathan.
And now it’s the question I see in Chess’s eyes, a knowledge confirmed when she fluffs out her napkin and says, “So I was thinking it’s time to start planning the next one. That way, we can have a big splashy announcement about the new book just as the show is really heating up. Buzz upon buzz, you know?”
She grins, putting her elbows on the table, her fingers folded as she waits for my answer, and I take a little satisfaction in making her wait. I unfold my own napkin, I take a sip of water. I contemplate the light fixtures for a moment, and then I finally say, “Are you sure we should even try?”
Her hands drop to the table. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, fidgeting with my napkin. “It’s just … yes, The Villa was a big hit, and honestly, I’m so grateful for it, but maybe it should just be a one-off. What are we going to do, cowrite for the rest of our lives? I mean, it’s not like mysteries are really your thing, you know?”