Coming! she started to yell, then caught herself, remembering how Royall told her to say it. “On my way!”
As she sprinted back to the door, she reached under her skirt and pulled down her blouse to straighten it, a trick she’d seen that bitch Leslie Cushman do in the girls’ bathroom.
With a twist, she opened the door and smiled.
“Ms. Konnikova?”
“Nola, how are you, dearie?” asked a heavyset woman with brown hair in a tidy ponytail. Lydia Konnikova, the troop mom from Nola’s old Girl Scout troop who used to run carpool and drive everyone from school, which really was the only reason Royall signed her up for Scouts in the first place. Nola hadn’t seen her in at least a year.
“Is it too late? It’s too late,” Ms. Konnikova said, Nola remembering that she always answered her own questions. “I know it’s been a while, but when you moved away, no one knew how to find you—Joyce Gluck said she heard you were living on a houseboat, which is actually a dream of mine . . .”
“Ms. Konnikova—”
“All I’m saying is, I’m not usually such a snoop, but last week, I saw you and your stepdad pulling out of the gas station by Robbie’s Grill, and, well, I know technically you’re now zoned for the troop in this county, but, well, we miss you, so . . . Tah-dah!” she announced, holding up a dry-cleaning bag with a lime-green Scout uniform inside.
“It’s great, isn’t it? So great!” Ms. Konnikova added, stepping inside even though Nola didn’t invite her. “We want you back. Say yes. Oh, and if it doesn’t fit, I can hem.”
“Ms. Konnikova, I’m not supposed to let anyone—”
“Huh . . .” Ms. Konnikova said, her wide hips shifting as she scanned the dingy living room, with its cracked black leather sofa and outdated glass coffee table that held a neat stack of Sports Illustrateds. There were no pictures on the walls, no curtains on the windows—but all Ms. Konnikova was staring at was the sparkling silver Christmas tree that stood in the corner like a stripper pole.
Years later, Nola would have the right word to describe the look on her former Scout mom’s face. She thought it was confusion, or disappointment. But it was pity.
“What’re you doing?” a sharp male voice called from outside.
Nola turned, her stomach folding in on itself.
“You hear me?” Royall demanded. As he burst through the doorway, Nola searched for the familiar rage in his eyes. But for once, there wasn’t any.
“Nola, you okay?” Royall asked, sounding concerned.
Nola cocked her head. It was a tone she rarely heard.
“Looks like a party,” another voice called out behind Royall, a balding man with a cul-de-sac of silver hair. Royall’s client, Elias Avery Jr. That’s why Royall was on good behavior.
In barely two minutes, the entire interaction was finished.
Ms. Konnikova thanked everyone for letting her interrupt—please, Nola, think about it, we’d love to have you back—then headed home. Royall and Elias were on their way to the den, excited for the fake-labeled drink that Royall would be serving from the bar. And Nola? She was right where they left her, standing by the silver Christmas tree, still clutching the hanger with the brand-new Girl Scout uniform. No question, there’d be a price to pay tomorrow for letting a stranger in the house. She saw it as Royall turned the corner, glancing over his shoulder with his devil smile, that look she knew so well. We’re not done, girl.
Right now, though, the far more brutal wound was the other look—that one she wouldn’t be able to shake for weeks—the sadness and sorrow on Ms. Konnikova’s face when she got a look at Nola’s life.
49