It’s only because I’m watching Skip so intently that I realize he is staring at Marissa with an equal intensity.
She tilts back her head, exposing her long, graceful neck, as she takes a long sip of water. She must feel Skip’s eyes on her because she turns to him.
“How are the new town houses coming along?” She glances at me. “Skip is a real estate developer.”
I nod, pretending it’s new information. This, too, fits with what Skip has told me.
“Really well,” Skip says.
“You still thinking about letting Natalie handle some of the sales?” Matthew asks.
Natalie again? I think.
Skip nods—a little curtly. I can’t read Marissa’s face because at the mention of Natalie’s name, she turns around again and opens the refrigerator door. Then she closes it without removing any items.
“Shall we move this party to the living room?” Matthew says easily.
Matthew lifts up the wine bottle and his glass in one hand and the bowl of mixed nuts in the other. We all trail Matthew into the room where I held my second session with the Bishops. Something is different about this space. At first I’m not sure what it is, then I realize the sectional couch is darker and smaller than the one that used to be here. As before, Matthew claims a chair facing the couch, and since I’m right behind him, I get to pick next. I choose the only other chair in the room, the same place I sat last time.
That leaves the gray sectional for Marissa and Skip. They sit a few feet apart, like strangers who enter the same elevator together and immediately put a healthy distance between them.
I make sure I’m the first one to speak. I need this question answered: “So, you were about to tell me how you guys all know each other.”
“Marissa and Skip were friends first.” Matthew leans back and perches his right ankle and foot atop his left thigh. “They actually grew up in the same town.” He names an area on the Eastern Shore.
“I’ve heard it’s lovely.” I’ve never been, but Paul had friends who owned a vacation home there and often traveled from D.C. for the weekend.
“My parents bought a summer place there when I was fifteen,” Matthew continues. “Skip was quite the entrepreneur even then. He had a little fishing boat and ran a charter business. My dad still talks about the snapper he caught with Skip before dawn on Saturday mornings while the rest of us were sleeping.”
“Hey, some of us had to work during the summers,” Skip chimes in. “Right, Marissa?”
She nods and smiles weakly.
“But we all had fun together at night,” Matthew says.
“That’s true. Those beach bonfires … man, I miss them.” Skip looks only at Marissa when he replies.
It sounds idyllic. I wonder, though, if like everything else in the Bishops’ life, the pretty memories are layered over something murky.
Skip’s dynamic with Matthew seems to hold hints of one-upmanship. Maybe that began when they were young.
“So when did you two become close friends?” I ask.
Something passes between Skip and Matthew—their eyes briefly meet, then flicker apart. Marissa’s empty glass of water clinks loudly against the stone coaster as she sets it down.
“When I was sixteen. Skip’s much older than me—he was seventeen.” Matthew winks, apparently ribbing his friend.
Then Matthew smiles at his wife. “The same summer I fell in love with Marissa.”
Before anyone can reminisce further, Marissa quickly stands up, smoothing the front of her pants. “Would anyone like some water? I’m going to get another glass.”
“Why don’t you fill up the pitcher?” Matthew suggests.
She nods and exits the room quickly.
“I’ll go help.” Skip shoots a look at Matthew as he rises. It almost feels like a rebuke, as if carrying in a pitcher of water and a few glasses is too much for Marissa.
“You’ve kept in touch since you were teenagers?” Now that the shock of seeing Skip has passed, my adrenaline has dipped back down to a normal level. I need to maximize every second I get alone with Matthew by pulling as much information out of him as I can.
“Yup.”
I glance at the bookshelf to my left, the one that holds the photo of Matthew and Marissa with their wedding party. I have a copy of it on my phone and make a mental note to study it later in case Skip was a groomsman.
“What about Skip’s wife?” I lob. “Are you and Marissa close with her, too?”
“Skip isn’t married. I guess he hasn’t found the perfect woman yet.”