Under a Dark Sky Read online

  The photography was not a career. Not mine, anyway. When I sold the house—if I sold the house, but of course I probably had to sell the house—I would have to start over in some job, but I had no idea what that would look like. In addition to having suffered his death and the rest of what he put me through, what I had learned, thanks to his insistence, was that I was not the kind of person Bix thought I could be. Should be.

  Click. I came back from where I’d gone to find Hillary reaching for another cracker, giving me a curious look.

  “Life insurance comes in handy for giving you some time to think,” I said, finally, and this was the truth. We had all those policies he’d bought, after all. Bix was not normally the guy who planned for eventualities. His military training had made him reactive, all fall in, never leave a man behind. He was good in a snowstorm, in a flat-tire situation. But he was not naturally an organized, thinking-ahead guy. He was live-for-today, might-die-tomorrow Army, through and through. All those policies had resulted from his one-man feud with my lack of drive. This, I now understood, was his guilt talking. All the pushing and prodding into decisions, into progress and change. He’d been trying to find a way to make things up to me, though I hadn’t yet discovered the things for which he would pay and pay dearly. “I’m a photographer,” I said, finally.

  “Oh,” she said. “Portraits or . . . ?”

  “Weddings,” I said. It was a lie, but the lie had occurred to me before the truth.

  Hillary blinked away toward the lake. “That seems like it would be difficult . . . I mean since your husband died. I can’t imagine. I mean, if anything happened to Malloy, I don’t know what I would do.”

  “You would live,” I said.

  Her expression went hard. “Not very romantic for a wedding photographer. And that’s a cruel thing to say. Jeesh, how did your husband die?”

  “I only mean that I did. I lived. You would, too, if you had to. You’ve not been together all that long,” I said. “It would hurt. It would be a while before you wanted to go on. But then you would.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “How do you know how long we’ve been together?”

  “I don’t. I’m just guessing.”

  She folded her arms and glanced back at the guest house. “They weren’t talking about us before we got here?”

  “I didn’t say that. What? A month? Two months?”

  “Three,” she said, narrowly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Nope, it sure isn’t.” I popped a handful of cheese crackers into my mouth and turned back to the lake. My sad life was none of hers, but that hadn’t stopped her asking about it.

  I should have said news photographer, documentary film. No, something boring—corporate handshake photos for the e-newsletter of Such-and-Such, LLC, delivered to in-boxes and filed into e-trash cans twice a month. Or I could have gone the other way and said I was a crime scene photographer, something that would drain away all this useless chatter. Who cares who I am? I’d be gone as soon as I could.

  “There you are,” a male voice called. And here came Malloy down the lawn toward us, of course. At three precious months, they couldn’t be out of one another’s sight for long. “Everything OK?”

  “Just getting to know each other,” Hillary said, tucking herself under his arm and flashing me a look I couldn’t interpret. She’d learned enough.

  “You’re staying, then,” Malloy said to me. “That’s great.”

  “Just tonight,” I said.

  Over Malloy’s shoulder, Sam and Martha approached, arguing in low tones. And behind them, of course, Paris and Dev, also having a few close and hissing words. One night was all I could handle. The sun was already getting low over the lake, but it would take a while to reach sunset, this far north, this late in June. I settled back and passed the box of crackers down the line. The gang was all here. Again.

  Chapter Four

  So . . . you all went to State?” I said, to keep the silence from getting too enjoyable. Maybe if I pried for their stories, they’d leave mine alone.

  “Except Hillary,” Paris said.

  “Hills went to the University of Chicago,” Malloy said, squeezing her up against himself. “She’s kind of a brain.”

  Sam peered around Malloy with the box of crackers in his hand and crumbs in his beard. “Oh, maybe that’s it,” he said.

  Hillary looked his way. “What?”

  “I keep thinking you look familiar,” he said. “I’m from Chicago originally. My sister went to U of C and I used to visit campus a lot. Maybe you knew her. What year did you graduate?”

  Hillary tucked herself deeper into Malloy. “Small world,” she said. “What was your sister’s major?”

  “Biology,” he said. “What about you?”

  “Business.”

  “She’s tops at her office, aren’t you, babe?” Malloy said. Hillary reached for the crackers and put a handful into her mouth.

  Sam mugged an impressed expression, then glanced around the circle of his friends. Martha, studying Malloy and Hillary, set her wineglass on the arm of her chair and turned her attention to Paris and Dev, who had pulled away a few feet, still in nearly silent combat. “Come on, you two,” Martha said. “Let’s not have a couple’s spat this early in the week. It can’t be that hard to be happy on this gorgeous day in this beautiful place.”

  “Like you would know anything about being in a couple,” Paris muttered.

  “Ouch,” Sam said. “She would if anyone was good enough.”

  Martha glared his way and folded her arms. “Thanks, friends. So, Pare, what’s up with that lifelong commitment you’re supposed to be making?”

  “We actually do have plenty of time to fight this week,” Malloy said. “No need to do it all today.”

  “We’re thinking next summer for the wedding,” Dev said. Paris turned her chin toward the water. “Probably in Ohio, can’t get around that. First thing, we need to narrow down the guest list from ridiculous to slightly less ridiculous.”

  “Indian weddings are, like, a week long,” Paris said.

  “It takes longer than hopping over a broom, I’ll grant you,” Dev said. At Paris’s stormy look, he amended. “Which I’m totally willing to do. My parents are going to be so confused about that broom.”

  “If I have to paint henna doily designs on my skin that no one will be able to even see,” Paris huffed, holding out her dark forearms, “then your parents can learn a little African-American history. I will send them a book.”

  “You know you’re the only woman I would wear a bridesmaid dress for, Pare,” Martha said. “If you need me.”

  “Oh,” Paris said, blinking. “Oh, that’s so sweet of you. But my cousins, you know I have eight girl first cousins—”

  “And that’s part of the problem,” Dev said. “We’re not even starting from common sense. If you have eight girl first cousins, let them take up a pew or two and sit the hell—”

  “And the colors would be brutal for you,” Paris said, tumbling in again. “I was thinking yellow because of the cousins, you know—”

  “Apparently colors are important in these decisions,” Dev said to Malloy.

  “—and I have to include them—my God, my grandmother would die all over again if I didn’t. But I don’t know if you’d—”

  “I would look terrible for you,” Martha said.

  “Let’s set a date first, and then maybe things will fall into place,” Paris said. “You’ll all be the first to know.” The promise drifted off. It seemed like a remnant of a long-ago conversation.

  “How long have you been engaged?” I said.

  “A few years,” Dev said, a little tight in the jaw. He didn’t specify or look to Paris to winnow it down further. No further math would be tolerated, no more talk of colors and henna patterns or brooms. I wasn’t on the guest list. “We’re getting set in our careers, and it seemed—we didn’t want to rush into anything.”

  Martha laughed. Malloy
fidgeted with his watch.

  “Hey, you two,” Sam said. “Cheesers.” He held his phone aloft toward Hillary and Malloy. They pulled together, raising their glasses toward him. “I’ll send it to you,” he said, thumbing at the screen. “If I can get a single bit of service. Ever.”

  “So, Eden, tell us about yourself,” Malloy said.

  “Ah,” I said. More of this? “There’s not much to tell. I’ve lived all over the place, just got settled in Chicago about five years ago.”

  “She’s a photographer,” Hillary said.

  “A hobbyist,” I said. I might have been blushing.

  “You have to follow your passion,” Malloy said.

  “And hopefully it pays the bills,” Dev said.

  “What do you do?” I said to Malloy.

  “I’m a farmer,” he said.

  “Well—” Paris started.

  “Really,” I said, taken aback. “Weed?”

  “Dairy,” he said, laughing.

  “I thought you were going to try something else on your own,” Paris said.

  “My dad is turning the family farm over to me,” he said. Purposefully, it seemed to me, not looking in Paris’s direction. Hillary beamed up at him. “I’m committing myself, and maybe that makes me the lunatic in the asylum, but it’s a done deal. So I’m a dairy farmer. Paris is in tech. Martha’s in law, as soon as she gets past that big bad bar exam.” She gave him a wink and a click on a finger-gun. “Dev’s a doctor. Soon, anyway, right? And Sam’s in wine.”

  “Every chance I get,” Sam said, raising his glass and taking a deep drink. And then he seemed to remember he was leaving the business and sighed at the glass in his hand.

  Everyone held a wineglass except me and the guy with the allergy. That seemed like a good excuse to leave them. “I left my glass inside,” I said and started to stand.

  “Let me,” Paris said. “I’ll grab the bottle.” She handed her glass to Dev and was off to the house before I could think of a good reason to refuse the favor. Dev watched after her as she hurried to the house and disappeared.

  “Oh, thank God for you,” Sam called after Paris. He sipped at his glass and smacked his lips at Martha. “Do you like this cabernet?”

  Just then her elbow knocked into her glass of wine. It landed in the grass, splashing toward her skirt. “I liked it better when it wasn’t on my dress,” Martha said.

  Sam retrieved the goblet, miraculously not shattered. “Get you more, dollface?”

  “I don’t deserve more,” Martha said, pouting. Then she smiled, dimples deep in each cheek. “Later. I’m going to run in and soak this before it stains.” She hurried off, too, leaving her shoes behind.

  “How’s the doctoring going?” Malloy said.

  “Huh? Oh, fine.” Dev seemed distracted.

  “How soon before you get a leather couch?”

  “It’s just a residency rotation,” Dev said. “I might end up in family practice.”

  He sounded thrilled.

  “How are your parents?” Malloy asked.

  “They are team plastic surgery, as always,” Dev said, shoving his hand into the cracker box and coming out with a fistful. “They don’t think I can save any lives. They wouldn’t want me to try, anyway.” Malloy and Sam exchanged glances while Dev’s head was turned toward the house.

  “So when do we see these stars I hear so much about?” Sam said.

  “I think they just show up,” Malloy said. “In the sky.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, glanced at it, then at Hillary and around to the others, me, and up to the house. A strange expression passed over his face. He put the phone back in his pocket, glancing Dev’s way. We fell into silence. I, for one, enjoyed the sound of the waves. I had always liked to listen to the sound of water, of wind rising through trees. Maybe that’s why Bix had wanted to bring me here.

  After about ten minutes, the back door’s banging rescued us from what had become an awkward silence.

  Malloy whistled. Martha, dressed in a long, low-cut sundress that showed off her impressive cleavage, was coming across the yard. I couldn’t help thinking that the back door was supposed to be my private entrance and exit, but said nothing. She twirled once before taking back her seat. “What did I miss?” she said, batting her eyes.

  “The stars,” Dev said.

  “Those old things,” Martha said.

  “There’s a viewing area up the shore,” Hillary said. “Malloy and I took a peek on the way in from the road. It’s just a clearing where the trees don’t get in the way, but I can’t wait.”

  “Hillary’s been studying up on this place,” Malloy said. “The constellations and everything. She’s got a real knack for it. Maybe she’ll go pro.”

  Hillary smiled hopefully but no one said anything for a long moment. Dev cleared his throat. Martha glared at Malloy. “Pro . . . what now?”

  “Just joking, Marty,” Malloy said.

  Martha twinkled at him, the dimples deepening, and leaned back. “It’s good to be all together. Photoship is no substitute.”

  “Photoship is an excellent substitute,” Sam said. “And for confirming that everyone’s life is better than yours.”

  In the photo class I’d taken, all the other students used Photoship to share their photos online and take in feedback from each other and their friends. I’d signed up for a profile since it was free, but I’d only put a few images up before my enthusiasm dwindled into self-consciousness. Anyone could see scenes from your life? For what purpose? A few of my classmates had gotten photography jobs from their posts—weddings and headshot portraits, mostly—but I had no hopes. My photography wasn’t the kind of work that got wedding gigs. Posting there was pissing into the ocean, anyway. It had only made me feel alone and unconnected, and I had that pretty well figured out on my own.

  “I loved the photos Paris posted from your visit to Indiana,” Martha said.

  Hillary looked at Dev. “Oh, you should have come by and seen us.”

  Dev turned heavily lidded eyes on her. “We visited Malloy,” he said. “Not sure you were even in the picture then. We should have thought to have you over the same weekend, Martha.”

  Martha waved off the comment. “Well, I had just been there. My grand tour. I saw Malloy in Indiana and then I came to see you right after. Just didn’t post any pictures of it, I guess.” Dev turned back to the house. “You know what they say about that, right? When you’re taking photos, you’re not truly in the moment. You’re wasting your life.”

  The rest of them looked at me.

  “So how far up the shore is this clearing?” I said.

  “Less than a mile,” Hillary said. She shaded her eyes and pointed. “Where that stretch of land curves out?” No one else seemed at all interested in challenging her position as expert. She had a role among them at last. Tour guide.

  Malloy, who had been staring into his glass, raised his head. “We should go check it out,” he said.

  “Now?” Martha said.

  “Let’s wait for Paris,” Dev said. He glanced toward the house, then started for it. “I’ll go get her.”

  Malloy smiled at the ground. “Yes, let’s wait for Paris,” he said, almost to himself. “Martha, what’s new since I saw you?”

  “Oh, you know. Just kicking ass and taking names.”

  “Wouldn’t have believed any other story,” he said. “Now, Sam—”

  “What’s everyone think of this cabernet sauvignon I brought?” Sam said, raising his glass to the light. “Are you getting the cherry note?”

  The wine, to hear them talk, was a six-course meal. I found myself wanting that glass I’d left behind.

  “Here they are,” Malloy said, as Paris and Dev appeared around the corner of the house, marching side-by-side. Paris held the promised wine bottle, but not my glass. “What’s the word? Are we off to the viewing area?”

  “I thought it was nighttime when we’re supposed to care about the view,” Paris said, passing off
the bottle for refills. She drank from her glass, looking at me over the rim.

  What was the point of rushing off in a lather to do me the favor and then not following through?

  I stood up and without discussion started toward the viewing area. I wasn’t great at decisions, but this one didn’t need six extra votes. Anyway, I wouldn’t be seeing any of it in darkness. This was my only chance to see what this place was about. And these people. This might be my only chance to get away.

  Chapter Five

  The beach was thin, the greenery growing up almost to the water. I walked carefully along the shore, watching for the kind of rock that might twist an ankle.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, Malloy and Hillary, holding hands, followed me. Beyond them, Paris with her heels hooked in her fingers, Dev, and the rest.

  I didn’t wait for them. With the sun positioned as it was, I had to start thinking about the dark. This walk had to be brisk, the visit to the clearing fast. A clearing? Who cared? Why not turn and go to my room and let them have the clearing to themselves? Wildflowers and a grassy patch for lawn chairs and stargazing—it would be nothing much to see in full sun. But I had been in the car for hours and would be again tomorrow. My legs needed the stretch of a walk, and so I pressed on, pausing only to take off my own sandals and squeeze the wet sand between my toes.

  A gentle wave rolled in, the lake lapping at my ankles.

  All right, Michigan tourism commercial. I see you.

  The sound of the water sent my thoughts back to Chicago’s shoreline, where long stretches of beach attracted tourists and natives alike. I never liked the water as much as Bix. We both sunburned easily and were miserable and grumpy with it, hot and uncomfortable in our own skin. But he was always ready to pack up the car again next time. Memory loss, almost, how easily he forgot consequences. That was one of the things I loved about him, though, his inability to cling or rail. He didn’t hold grudges, not against the sun and not against whatever I might say in the heat of an argument. He was ready to forgive me any little fault. I was the one who remembered it all. The sting of sunburn that would make the next two weeks unbearable, the mistakes of marriage and friendship, the fight itself, every harsh word he’d ever said, the terrible nights, each and every one. I had always served as scorekeeper.