Page 29 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

Behind the desk sat a large-framed woman with short reddish waves. Jean, according to her name tag. She made no effort to disguise the fact that the novel she was reading was far more interesting than any disheveled tourists arriving on this drizzling day. Vivi gave their names and asked for two room keys.

“You are in room five on the second floor,” Jean said. “We call it the Rosebud Suite. It is the most magnificent in the inn.”

In response to Vivi’s raised brows, Calla whispered, “I splurged. We deserve it.”

Where, Vivi wondered, was all this largesse coming from? Maybe the divorce settlement was more generous than predicted. Or maybe Calla was flying by on credit, eschewing the practical for immediate pleasures. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Vivi’s own savings account, formerly so flush, continued to dwindle with each new charge she wracked. She was on unpaid administrative leave, still paying rent on the apartment in Lakeview. There would be a time in the near future when she’d have to return to reality. If she couldn’t talk her way back into a job at the Forster, she’d have to find a new one. But the thought was too sad to contemplate just then. She was in France. She was with her sister. For once, worry could wait.

Jean continued. “Breakfast is from eight in the morning until ten. There is a pamphlet on Arles in your room.”

“Are we free to walk the grounds?” Calla asked.

“Of course. The gardens are at your disposal. I wouldn’t now, though. There is a cocktail hour on the terrace at sundown. If the rain clears.”

“And the cottage?” Jean gave them a puzzled look. Vivi showed her the picture from the Wandering Wilsons’ blog. “The servants’ cottage on the property. Could we see it?”

Jean wrinkled her nose. “That is not for guests. Technically, it’s not onour property any longer. The land was parceled out in recent years. That cottage now belongs to a man next door.”

Calla asked, “Do you think we could talk to him?”

“Ah, impossible. He will not welcome it.” She did not elaborate.

“I’m hoping to see the cottage, because...” Vivi’s arm stilled her.Patience, she counseled.

“Would you like a towel?”

“No, we’ll go up now,” Calla said.

Vivi, unaccustomed to luxury, averse to it in many ways, had never seen anything as fine as the suite that Calla had booked. Two smaller rooms converged into a spacious sitting area that overlooked a long and narrow pool at the back of the hotel. Thick barnwood beams angled over sloped ceilings. Rows of candles sat on the brass-edged sidebar.

True to its name, the suite boasted a wall-length mural of a rose garden with red and pink blooms spilling from spiky-leafed bushes. In the bathroom, there were bars of soap shaped like roses. Even the robes held the faint scent of tuberose, as if they’d been hung on a flowering trellis to dry. Calla popped the cork on a chilled bottle of champagne sitting in a carafe on the sidebar.

Vivi sank into one of the chairs, not caring that the wet from her clothes was seeping into the upholstery. “I feel like I’ve been traveling for years.”

Calla poured two glasses. Raised hers up for a toast. “To ancestors and offerings! To new starts!”

“And old ghosts.”

Vivi sipped her champagne, but Calla downed hers in a quick gasp, sighing in pleasure as the bubbles broke down her throat. She grabbed for the bottle again.

“Are you sure you should?” Vivi asked, reaching for Calla’s flute.

Calla held it away from her. “Lighten up, Bee, we’re in paradise!”

“Just one, okay?”

“I’m not a child.”

But you are an addict, Vivi thought to herself. As if hearing herthoughts, Calla scowled, setting down the flute so forcibly that Vivi was surprised it didn’t break. She flounced to the bathroom, muttering about overbearing sisters all the way. But Vivi caught the flash of hurt on her sister’s face, a broken sort of vulnerability that never failed to make Vivi feel guilty.

While they traveled, Vivi had watched her sister for signs of distress. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly, only some deviance from the norm. But Calla seemed like her usual self. She flirted with the airline attendants. She bought piles of fashion magazines that she didn’t even look at. As the plane took off, she bounced in her seat, excited as a kitten with the zoomies, while Vivi gripped her seat handles, murmuring plane crash statistics to herself. Counting the rows to find the nearest emergency exit.

What would they do if there was a water landing? Calla couldn’t swim. But there would be floating devices, Vivi could carry them both for a time.

She’d forgotten how it felt to be on constant alert like this, forced to anticipate all the ways a person could fall from grace. It was like living two lives: one for yourself, the other as a helpless witness, heart in your throat. Even with Phoebe, Vivi had never felt such responsibility. She didn’t need to; Samuel had always stood at the parenting helm.

For a time, during Calla’s marriage, Vivi had breathed more easily, knowing that Wayland was at her sister’s side. Yet even then, there’d been signs of dissipation. Calla and Wayland’s passion was a fragile sort, easily stoked but combustible. Transitory. The parties in the Pilsen loft: thick clouds of smoke ringing beautiful people, music that jumped like a racing heartbeat. Lines of coke on coffee tables, tabs slipped under waiting tongues. The inexorable clinking of glass, a sound that reminded her ofTu?ntossing a bottle into the overfull recycling bin each morning before his shift. Calla, shouting at Wayland. Wayland, storming out into the snow, slamming the door behind him. But they always came back together, again and again, until the one day they didn’t.