So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 3

“Why—what’s happened?” I urged, edging my way through the dead, brittle brambles. A little alarm had started to go off in my head—clearly we were dealing with more than a broken heel here—and as I drew closer, I saw that Devon looked terrified. Her eyes, wet with tears, bounced around randomly, as if behind them she was thinking frantically, trying to hatch an escape plan.

“Devon, tell me,” I said, since she hadn’t answered. “What’s going on?”

I couldn’t help but wonder if her worried state related back somehow to the conversation I’d overheard between her and Cap last night.

“Can’t you hear what I’m saying? It’s not safe. Someone knows something.”

“Knows what?”

For the first time she made direct eye contact with me, and from her look it appeared something had just clicked in her mind. I sensed she now regretted having been so candid. She quickly wiped away her tears and surveyed me coldly.

“I just shouldn’t be here—in a barn,” she said. “In the woods. I need to be back in the city as soon as possible.” She made the proclamation almost defiantly, as if I had challenged her.

“But something’s frightened you. Tell me what it is.”

“I told you. I just don’t want to be here.”

I sighed. Apparently no amount of coaxing on my part was going to dig out the truth.

“Well, let me know if I can help in any way,” I said. She climbed out of the brambles and brushed past me, looking irritated, as if I’d asked for an autograph while she was eating a meal in a fancy restaurant. Though, of course, it didn’t seem like she ever ate a meal these days.

I received a much warmer response when I knocked again on Jessie’s door a few minutes later. Wrapped in a white, terrycloth bathrobe, she was blotting her wet hair with a towel.

“There you are,” she said, pulling me into her room. “I’ve been dying for you to get back.”

“Did you just wake up?”

“Sort of.”

“Meaning?”

“I stayed with Scott last night. In his room. It’s on the ground floor of the big barn. I snuck back here a little while ago.”

“Ahhh, so you weren’t just eye candy after all. How’d it go?”

“It was pretty damn dreamy. And he’s fun. Though the first thing I’ll do when we get married is make him sell this place and buy a beach house instead.”

It was almost time for my massage, and I told Jessie I’d catch up with her at lunch. I scurried downstairs and tapped lightly on the door next to the clipboard. A woman with an East European accent, who introduced herself as Nina, beckoned me inside.

Nina turned out to have awesome hands, strong enough to tear the head off a chicken. I’d just let myself go limp on the table when I heard what could have only been a shot from a gun. I let out a grunt of anxious surprise and jerked my head up. But Nina pressed lightly on my shoulder, indicating I should lie back down again.

“Don’t vorry,” she said, as another shot filled the air. “Eet’s joost the skeet shooting.”

I realized suddenly how jumpy I felt. It was due in part to our isolation but also to the encounter I’d just had with Devon. Her comment about not feeling safe had unsettled me. Of course, in the end Devon had tried to take it back and blame her tears on being stuck over a hundred miles from a Louis Vuitton store, but I was sure, from the look on her face, that she really had been frightened. Someone, she said, knew something. If Devon was having an affair with Cap, Whitney may have gotten wind of it. Had Whitney provided Devon with a reason to be afraid?

After my massage, I made my way over to the large barn. As I passed through the glass passageway, I saw that those swollen clouds I’d spotted earlier hadn’t been kidding. Snow was falling. It wasn’t coming down hard, but the flakes were the size of flapjacks.

I expected to find a few people already gathered in the great room, eager for lunch, but only Sandy was there, laying out a feast on the countertop of the island. There were all sorts of antipasti—cheeses, prosciutto and salami, white beans, olives, roasted peppers, onions and asparagus, and an arugula salad. Not wanting to be in her way, I found a spot on one of the couches on the other side of the room and opened the book I’d brought with me.

While I read, Sandy hummed quietly, clearly lost in her work. The woodsy scent from last night’s candles still hung in the air, mixing in a good way with the deliciously garlicky smell of the food. From the windows in the barn I could see the snow gently falling outside. Despite my earlier worry, I finally let myself relax.

It only lasted twenty minutes, though—until Tommy and Tory came up the stairs, the sound of their boots as sharp as firecrackers. They waved perfunctorily at me and then turned their attention to the food on the island.

“Don’t tell me we’ve missed breakfast,” Tory said.

“I can fix you something if you like,” Sandy said without even a morsel of enthusiasm.

“Christ, Tory, don’t make her drag the breakfast back out for you,” Tommy chided. “Just wad up some ham and cheese, stuff it in your mouth, and tell yourself you’re eating an omelet.”

“I don’t eat cheese, you know that. Or ham either.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He turned toward Sandy. “Maybe you could scramble up an egg white and smear it on a rice cake for her.”

“Never mind,” said Tory. “I’ll just have juice.”

“Suit yourself. As for me,” Tommy said, turning now toward Sandy, “I’d like a little of everything. Just pile it all up on a plate, my lady—okay?”

Clearly he hadn’t picked up on the serve-yourself-buffet concept. Even from where I sat, I could see how tight Sandy’s jaw was set as she lifted one of the creamy white plates and began scooping food onto it for him. I wondered if she always found Scott’s houseguests to be irritating, or was it just this particular batch.

More clomping on the stairs, and then Devon appeared. She’d shed her pea coat somewhere along the way and was carrying a half-empty bottle of water. She ignored me and strode toward the island.

“Hi,” she said to Tommy and Tory. “What’s up?” Miraculously, she no longer appeared the least bit wigged out. And though she’d only said a few words, I detected impishness in her tone.

“So what are we supposed to do today?” Tory asked.

“You can hike,” Devon said. “Or you can shoot. Or you can just stay in your room and fuck if you want.” She’d said it playfully, with a naughty glint in her eye. Tory lowered her gaze, clearly uncomfortable, and Tommy just stared at Devon, obviously trying to assess what she was up to.

“Lunch is served, Miss Barr,” Sandy announced from behind the island. She seemed to derive pleasure from challenging Devon about the food.

“I want more green tea,” Devon said.

“Here it is,” Sandy declared, reaching behind her for the basket of tea bags. Peering above my book, I saw that the edges of Sandy’s mouth were turned up in a tiny smile.

“I want the loose kind, not the tea bags,” Devon said.

“I’m sorry, we only have the bags,” Sandy said, almost unable to contain how delighted she felt to be delivering the news.

“But—” Devon said. You could tell by the expression on her face that she’d just figured out what ploy Jane had played on her earlier.

“Never mind,” she said, clearly pissed. She took a swig of water and set the water bottle down on a side table. “Where’s Cap and Whitney?” she demanded of no one in particular.

“They’re out shooting with Mr. Cohen,” Sandy told her. “They probably won’t be up for a bit.”

Devon turned on her heels, strode toward the stairs, and headed down. A minute later, I tossed my book aside and sprang up from the couch, deciding to catch up with her.

She was still in the foyer when I reached the bottom of the stairs, her back to me. Her hand was stuffed in her brown hobo-style handbag, which was parked on a wooden bench. She spun around in surprise at the sound of my footsteps.

“Why are you creeping up behind me?” she demanded.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I told you I was. Isn’t that enough?” She stormed across the foyer and flung open the door to the passageway.

I trudged back upstairs and waited for Jessie. After she arrived we piled our plates high with food and carried them over to the table just as Tory and Tommy departed. Jessie was in a giddy mood over Scott, and kept glancing up in anticipation of seeing him again. He finally arrived, along with Cap, Whitney, and Christian. They joined us at the table and I couldn’t help but note how lovey dovey Cap and Whitney appeared. Richard and Jane each stopped by for food at different points but took it away with them, Richard saying he was finishing up an article in his room, and Jane announcing sullenly that she was going to eat while she watched a movie in the media room downstairs. I wondered if she’d been chewed out about the tea.

Once lunch wound down, Scott said that he’d be leading a short hike himself before the snow got too deep. The others all volunteered to go, but since I’d had my hike earlier, I passed. Instead, I curled up on the couch once more with my book. I checked my BlackBerry again and found a text from Beau. He’d decided to return on Sunday, after all, and suggested we talk later. What did that mean? I wondered. Maybe he really had wanted to please me by coming back a day early, but since I wasn’t going to be home, he’d decided there was no point.

At around five I finally headed back through the passageway to the small barn. I was stunned to see how much snow had fallen. It was the heavy, wet kind that sparkled in a million places and turned the woods into a wonderland. At this rate of accumulation, it was hard to imagine we were going to end up with only six inches.

Despite the sluggish feeling the afternoon had produced in me, I told myself that the evening was bound to be more entertaining. We’d all be together at that big dining table, and there’d be less of a fragmented feeling. At about seven fifteen, showered and dressed in tight black jeans and a sleeveless silver sweater, I knocked on Jessie’s door. She was flashing major cleavage and had her brown hair half up in a totally fetching style.

“Let’s go the outside route,” she told me. “The area right outside is shoveled, and I want to see how pretty it is out tonight.”

“We haven’t got our coats on,” I said.

“We’ll run,” she said, laughing.

No sooner were we out the door than Jessie promptly slipped on her butt. We both burst out laughing as she dusted off the smattering of snow from the seat of her pants.

The barn looked spectacular as we pushed the door open. There were dozens of votive lights flickering on surfaces. Sandy and two young female helpers were bustling about quietly in the kitchen area, and Scott, Whitney, Cap, Richard, Christian, and Jane were already gathered on the couches around a huge platter of cheeses, talking animatedly. Everyone appeared to have dressed for dinner, particularly Whitney, who was decked out in a low-cut deep blue dress with sapphires to match on each ear. Snuggled in her deep cleavage was a tiny diamond-encrusted cross dangling from a chain. It seemed positively sacrilegious for it to be ensconced there.

Even Jane was gussied up—in a black spandex dress with her hair pulled back in a curly ponytail. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that her fishnet stockings had a run as wide as a two-lane highway.

“I was just about to send out a sleigh for you two,” Scott proclaimed.

“I insisted we come the outdoor route, and I fell flat on my ass,” Jessie said.

“Well, come right over here and rest it,” Scott said, scooting over to make room for us on the couch.

“You’re not really injured, are you?” Whitney asked, oozing concern.

“No, just my pride,” Jessie said, smiling.

“How about a glass of wine to take away the sting of humiliation?” Richard asked. His dark blue eyes seemed almost bright tonight and his skin even ruddier, suggesting he’d gotten an early start on the evening.

Jessie and I gave our drink orders and then settled into the group. The mood was relaxed, with Scott playing maestro.

Dinner wasn’t served until close to nine because Devon, Tommy, and Tory were so late to arrive—and when they did, both Tommy and Tory looked stoned. Sandy had set out place cards at the table, and I discovered that I had Richard on one side—with Whitney to his left—and Cap on the other, with Tory to his right. Tory immediately grabbed Cap’s attention, so I swiveled my head toward Whitney and Richard, who’d guzzled down two G and T’s just since we’d been at cocktails.

“Were you born in Texas?” I asked Whitney, since Richard was studying the contents of his soup bowl with a blurry-eyed expression.

“Yes, Fort Worth. Born and raised. My mother passed ten years ago, but my daddy’s still there—though he’s not in the best of health.”

“What made you decide to write a cookbook—do you have a food background?”

“I do, yes—but not in the restaurant business. I was in TV news in Dallas, and I specialized in health, nutrition, and food.”

“How did you end up in New York?”

“I came up for a foodie event, and I met Cap while I was here through mutual friends. We spent an amazing week together—and I moved to Manhattan a month later.”

“Do you miss Texas? I assume the answer is yes, since you’re writing a book about the food there.”

“I do—and the good news is that Cap and I are planning to buy a ranch near San Antonio so we can at least vacation there. He’s going to like it as much as I do. People just connect better with each other in that part of the world. It’s all about good, strong values.”

Richard had begun to devour the squash soup with boozy concentration, but at the sound of the word values, he stopped, his spoon poised mid-air. He turned toward Whitney and eyed her, feigning perplexity.

“Don’t you think values are highly overrated, though?” he asked. “I mean, where have they really gotten us?”

“Where have they gotten us?” Whitney exclaimed. “You just have to look around to see that what good there is in the world comes from the actions of people with values—fighting famine and poverty, eradicating disease. Protecting children.”

“In the name of the Lord, you mean?” he asked.

“Sometimes. And with the Lord’s guidance, too.”

“I’ll pose a question Christopher Hitchens asked. If Jesus could heal a blind person he happened to meet, then why not heal blindness?”

She smiled smugly.

“I don’t pretend to know how God works,” she said. “None of us can. We just have to vow to do the right thing.”

“Ah, I see,” he said. “But don’t you find that the ones who jabber on the most about doing the right thing so often don’t?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, her back rigid.

“The Christian right. Just take a look at all these right-wing preachers and politicians. They’re always pontificating about values, and yet half of them lie down with whores and the other half with young boys.”

Whitney caught her breath in surprise, as if he’d just called her a hooker, but then she let it out slowly, clearly willing herself not to get steamed.

“How did you get your start, Richard?” I asked, hoping to chase him off the topic. Though he was clearly in the mood to be provocative, the temptation to talk about himself overrode it. Through a main course of roast chicken, new potatoes, and haricots vert, we heard about the Fleet Street years, the magazine years, and then coming to America. With each anecdote, his tongue loosened even more, until his words were slurred. Whitney listened and even asked a perfunctory question or two, but she could barely disguise her disgust for the man. He seemed to sense that and actually relish it.

At one point in the middle of all this I caught Jessie’s eye, and she flashed me a mischievous look. It was obvious from Scott’s body language that he had the hots for Jessie, who was seated next to him, but he did a decent job of including Jane, on the other side, in the conversation. Speaking of hots, you could almost see the smoke rising from below the table where Devon and Tommy were sitting side by side. She was smirking sexily at everything he said, and he was lapping it up. So did this mean she wasn’t involved with Cap? Or was she flirting balls to the wall to make Cap jealous?

As Richard droned on, I tried to study Devon out of the corner of my eye. Though she often had a fork in her food, it became clear after a minute that she was just using it to rearrange things on her plate. I also realized after a moment that though Tory was pretending to listen to Cap, her eyes kept shooting over toward the pair of dirty flirters.

“I’ve got an idea,” Scott announced suddenly, just as Sandy and one of the young helpers, a redheaded girl in her twenties, were clearing the plates. “Sandy’s made us a fantastic apple pie, and I think we should indulge in it while listening to some awesome music by someone who’s on the brink of becoming a major recording star.”

“How could we argue with that?” Cap said.

Scott rose from his chair, took his iPhone from the pocket of his jacket, and docked it in a nearby iPod speaker. A few seconds later the room was filled with the haunting sound of a woman singing a song with the refrain, “You’ll break my heart a second time.” It was part ballad, part pop song, with a splash of country. I knew it was Devon Barr singing, but it was hard to reconcile the voice with the creature at the table. Everyone just sat there spellbound. When I glanced down a minute later and saw a wedge of apple pie, I realized I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t noticed anyone slide it in front of me.

“That’s absolutely sensational,” Cap said when the track was over.

“Isn’t it?” Scott said. “Devon Barr is going to be huge.”

An awkward silence followed. I was about to ask the release date when Tommy tilted his chair back, a signal, it seemed, that he was about to make a pronouncement.

“Well, well,” he declared. “You were holding out on me, Devon. I had no fucking clue you could sing like that.”

She looked at him slyly.

“I—I thought you didn’t like ballads,” she said. Her words had sounded just a little slurred, which surprised me. I hadn’t seen her drink anything but water before dinner, and her wineglass was nearly full.

“I believe I’ve just changed my mind. Of course, I do need to know who you wrote the song about.”

Devon stared at him intensely. “You’ll have to guess—like everyone else,” she said teasingly. “But what a nice surprise you like it.”

People shifted in their seats collectively, and I half expected someone at the table to shout, “Get a room!” I wondered what Tory was thinking. Turns out I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Nice surprise?” Tory shouted, her voice shrill with sarcasm. She was just a few feet to my right, and her outburst startled me so much, I nearly jumped. “It’s no fucking surprise at all. It’s why you invited us, isn’t it?”

The whole table just sat there in stunned silence. Devon didn’t answer but stared at Tory, the famous mouth pursed and her eyes squinted, as if she had no idea what Tory could possibly mean.

“You wanted Scott to play your stupid ballad in front of me and Tommy,” Tory said, “so I’d have to sit here watching him get a woody as he listened to it.”

Ahhh, I’d wondered if things might come to a boil this weekend.

“I’m sure Tommy’s just being complimentary,” Scott said. “There’s nothing to get excited about.”

“It’s none of your fat business,” Tory snapped. “You want to fuck her, too, I bet.”

“Oh, please, Tory, that’s enough,” Tommy shouted from across the table. “Stop being so freaking obsessed and eat your pie.”

“Why don’t you stick it in your piehole,” she said. She picked up the cobalt blue goblet in front of her and tossed the remains of her sparkling water at Tommy from across the table—though most of it ended up splashing on Whitney. As Richard watched the water trickle down Whitney’s cleavage, Tory stormed off, digging the heels of her boots hard into the bare wood floor.

Sandy moved toward the table decisively, a large rag in hand, and simultaneously Scott passed Whitney his own napkin for her to dab the water off. Then he turned back to the rest of the table, where we all sat speechless.

“Well,” he said, looking like a guy who’d seen far worse and wasn’t going to be thrown off his game by a minor hissy fit, “who would like to join me for a few hands of poker?”

“I’m in,” Richard said, his voice liquidy. Several other people volunteered as well.

“Not me,” Devon said, pushing back her chair. “I’m—I’m going to bed.” I realized suddenly that she was tipsy, and as she stood up at the table, she wobbled a bit. At her body weight, I guessed, even a couple of sips of wine could leave one blotto. “Jane, lez go.”

“I’m not ready, actually,” Jane announced bluntly. She looked self-satisfied, as if she’d been waiting all night for a moment to assert her independence.

“I don’t care. You gotta come.”

“Sorry, this is one mess you’ll have to take care of yourself,” Jane said.

Devon scowled halfheartedly and moved toward the stairs, swaying slightly with each step.

“Devon, let me help you,” Cap called after her. He started to jump from the table.

“No,” she called out over her shoulder. “Don’t need you.”

Whitney rested her hand on Cap’s arm. “Honey, let her be. She clearly wants some time alone.”

After a couple of awkward moments, people began to rise from the table and take positions around the room. For the next hour or so everyone played cards or pool—except Whitney, who sat tightly next to Cap and seemed to be lost in thought. Despite Scott’s attempts to keep things jovial, the party never regained the festive mood from earlier. At about eleven Tommy threw down his cards and said he was calling it quits for the night. I couldn’t help but wonder what might get tossed at him when he opened his bedroom door. Soon afterward, I said good night, not wanting to be the last to leave, and discreetly winked at Jessie.

Heading back through the passageway, I saw that the snow was coming down hard now—and that there was close to a foot on the ground already. I didn’t like the look of it. Getting out to the main road tomorrow wasn’t going to be easy even with the long driveway plowed.

As I dressed for bed, I couldn’t help but think of Beau. If I hadn’t let my annoyance get the better of me, I would have been snuggled up in bed with him in Manhattan right now, instead of being nearly snowbound in a barn with a bunch of totally wacky houseguests who liked to get sloshed or stoned, expose their boobs, and hurl drinks across the table.

Had I totally overreacted about the Sedona trip? I wondered. I knew part of the reason it bugged me so much was that it raised the ghost of the trip Beau had taken to Turkey last summer, not long after I first set eyes on him. I didn’t like anything at all about that trip.

Beau and I had first met in the Buzz office building, on one of the corporate floors. I’d gone up there to talk to someone, and Beau was meeting with the head dude, Tom Dicker, to discuss a documentary film project. When I spotted him across the reception room, it was like being hit by a lightning bolt, and not long after we were having this crazy fling.

He’d been very clear from the start. He was looking for fun, not a relationship—in part because he wasn’t ready and in part because he was heading off to Turkey soon to make a documentary there. I was fine with the fling part for a while, but as I found myself falling hard, I told Beau I needed to break it off. To my surprise he said that he was pretty smitten and asked if I’d give him a chance to mull it over when he was in Turkey. He promised to stay in touch.

But then all I got was one lousy postcard. I gave up after a while, feeling more than sorry about the loss, and became involved with a young actor named Chris Wickersham. I never expected to see Beau again. But after he returned in September, he let me know that he’d fallen for me and wanted to make a full commitment. He sounded genuine, and things had overall been good with us since. Except that I couldn’t unload my doubts. Like I’d told Jessie, I had the sense he’d talked himself into a commitment because he didn’t want to give me up.

I grabbed my BlackBerry from my purse and checked to see if I’d missed a call or text from Beau. I hadn’t. I called his cell, knowing it was still early in Sedona. All I got was voice mail. I left a message telling him I was going to bed but would talk to him tomorrow after his flight landed. I wished him a good trip. There, I thought. I can be a big girl.

I fell asleep pretty easily, exhausted from the group psycho-dynamics of the evening. And then all of a sudden I was awake again and wasn’t sure why. I squinted at my watch: 2:47. The wind was howling fiercely outside my bedroom window, and I guessed that the noise must have woken me. But as I lay quietly listening I heard a sound that wasn’t the wind. Someone, somewhere was wailing.

Maybe it’s just Tommy and Tory having makeup sex, I told myself, but a second later I heard it again—a cross between a wail and a moan, and it was louder now and desperate sounding. I took a deep breath, threw off the covers, and projected myself out of bed. Cautiously I opened the bedroom door a crack. I couldn’t see anything but I heard someone—a woman, I thought—moan again off to the left. I opened the door wider and peered along the corridor.

A complete stranger, a female, was standing in front of the room across and down a bit from Jessie’s. The door to the room was open, and the woman was leaning against the door frame, looking pale and disoriented. She was dressed incongruously in a parka, a flannel nightgown, and a pair of snow boots. Just as I was about to ask where in the world she’d come from, I realized it was one of the two girls who’d assisted Sandy at dinner. Her long curly red hair, which had been pinned into a tight bun earlier, now flew in long strands from her head like wind socks. It occurred to me that she’d probably been marooned here because of the snow and had been given the room to stay in.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, taking a few steps closer to her. “Are you sick?”

“She won’t wake up,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who won’t wake up?” It felt as if I was in some crazy dream sequence, and for a split second I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

“Devon Barr,” she said plaintively. “I keep trying to wake her, but she just lies there in bed. Her eyes are open but she won’t say anything.”