I strip off my clothes and then open the drawer to the nightstand. The pill vial is there. I take it out, hold it in my fist. A long sleep is what I need. Oblivion. I struggle with the lid, but finally it comes free, and they spill into my palm, small and white. I count them. There are seven. It doesn’t seem like enough. I want to sleep for a long, long time.
I swallow two pills with the last of my wine, then fall back against the spread. A clock is ticking somewhere, distant and oddly muffled. I pull the box close. It’s just us again. My box of memories and me. I close my eyes, welcoming the darkness, where everything is quiet and the memories can’t find me.
I have always grieved the ends of things.
THIRTY-FIVE
RORY
September 18, 1985—Boston
Rory pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The knot in her belly tightened as she stared at the bright-red door. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shown up on Soline’s doorstep unannounced, but the circumstances had changed. Four days had passed since their disastrous lunch, and she hadn’t heard a word from Soline, in spite of at least a dozen phone calls. Not that she blamed her. But she needed to apologize—not only for her mother’s behavior but for sitting there and letting it happen—and if that meant pounding on the door until she answered, so be it.
The curtains were still drawn, the front steps strewn with a trio of newspapers still in their clear plastic bags. She rang the bell several times, then tried the knocker. “Soline, it’s Rory.”
A woman walking a pair of overweight beagles slowed as she passed by, eyeing her suspiciously. When she finally moved past, Rory fished an envelope and pen from her purse and scribbled a quick note. Please call me. I need to talk to you. —R She knocked one last time, then wedged the note between the door and the jamb, crossing her fingers that it would stay there until Soline discovered it.
But on the drive back to the gallery, her thoughts took a dark turn. What if Soline wasn’t just holing up in her house, nursing hurt feelings? What if she were ill or hurt?
She tried Soline’s number once more, letting it ring eight times before hanging up and immediately dialing Daniel Ballantine’s office. As usual, his receptionist put her right through.
“Rory, good to hear from you. I trust the gallery’s coming along.”
“It is. Thank you. But I do need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Could you give Soline a call and make sure she’s okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
Rory bit her lip, wondering how much to say. “It’s kind of a long story. We were having lunch the other day, and the conversation turned . . . unpleasant. The next thing I knew, she was walking away from the table. Now she isn’t answering her phone, and when I went over and knocked on her door just now, she didn’t answer. I’m worried.”
He blew out a breath. “How long ago?”
“Four days,” Rory said quietly. “I’m worried that something might have happened to her. The curtains were still closed, and there were newspapers piled up on the steps.”
“Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word. “She does that sometimes.”
His casual tone surprised Rory. “Does what?”
“Pulls a disappearing act. Goes into hiding. Something sets her off and she just withdraws.”
“You think she’s just mad?”
“Mad probably isn’t the right word. Certain things set her off, things she’d rather not deal with. Hiding is how she deals with it. I’ve seen her go more than a week.”
“So what do you do, just wait her out?”
“Usually. She doesn’t do it for attention. She genuinely wants to be left alone.”
“But what if it’s not that? What if she’s sick or hurt?”
“Based on what you just told me, I’m betting she’s neither. She’ll resurface when she’s ready.”
“Could you try calling her? Or maybe go by? Maybe she’ll answer the door if she knows it’s you.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Please.”
“All right.”
“And if she does, could you ask her to call me? I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll pass it along if I get the chance, but don’t expect me to change her mind if it’s already made up. She’s a stubborn old bird when she wants to be. I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
The next afternoon, Rory returned home from the gallery to find her answering machine blinking. The sight always made her pulse skitter, a mix of hope and dread that had become all too familiar in recent months. But none of the messages were about Hux. There were two from her mother, who she hadn’t spoken to since the fiasco at Seasons, and one from Daniel asking her to call him back.