“Tell me, Dashiell—”

  “Just Dash.” I rushed to add, “Unless you prefer Dashiell, that is.”

  She was silent for a beat. “Tell me about your writing, Dashiell.”

  “Well,” I said. And that was as far as I got. That sense of tightness in my chest worsened. Vivienne’s beautiful study got a little blurry around the edges. “I’m very passionate—”

  “Your ideas, Dashiell.” She waved a hand. “Your plans. Yes, I understand that your position here will be as my administrative assistant. But we both know it’s a bit more than that. You’re a talented writer.” She gestured to the desk, even though it was bare aside from the laptop and typewriter. “Your resume is impressive. You’ve attended top writing workshops. You’ve done some teaching yourself.”

  “Just as an adjunct.”

  “And you have publications.”

  “Two short stories.”

  “But good, Dashiell.” She leaned forward. Her glasses swung on their chain. Her gaze seemed to spear me to my chair. “They’re good stories. They’re smart. Even better, they’re true. I don’t need to ask you about your references. I don’t need to know that you can type and use a word processor and answer phone calls. I want to know who you are, and I think you know, Dashiell, that the way to know a writer, truly know them, is to know their stories. People lie all the time. But every story is an act of disclosure, no matter how hard we try otherwise.” She waited, as though I might say something, and then sat back again. “So, let’s hear them.”

  “Well,” I said. I almost mentioned Will Gower. Vivienne genuinely seemed to want to know, and I’d lived with Will Gower for so long, in all his various incarnations. But Phil, Mom and Dad’s agent, had said no more Will Gower. He’d said I needed something high concept. Something with a hook. “I guess one of them is—have you seen 21 Jump Street?” The silence grew until I said, “Like that. Only gayer.”

  Vivienne blinked. “That sounds…timely.”

  The words loosened something in my chest, and I sat forward, talking more easily now. “Oh, and do you know Veronica Mars? That’s another idea. But make it, like, super gay.”

  “I see.”

  Excitement made me speak faster. “Or Riverdale. And I know what you’re going to say, but yes, we can go gayer.”

  “Uh huh.” For a moment, her face was blank. And then she gave a rueful grin. “Are you going to be terribly disappointed if I tell you I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

  Then she started to laugh, and for some reason, I burst out laughing too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can explain—”

  “You’ll explain later,” she said, waving the words away. “I want to hear all about these ideas. I’m very impressed with what you’ve done, Dashiell. Very impressed. And I want to see more of it. You’re very talented, and you’re going to go on to do great things.” She gave me a droll little smile. “And if I can offer a spot of advice here and there, well, I’d be happy to help however I can.”

  “Oh my God, that would be incredible. I—I’ve been struggling lately. With writing. Struggling to finish things. Struggling, um, to write anything, actually.”

  It was impossible to read her expression, but her voice was kind when she finally said, “I know a little something about that myself, believe it or not. We’ll see if we can’t shake something loose.”

  “That would be amazing.”

  “It would be friendly, Dashiell. This is a small town; being friendly is our way of life.”

  “I don’t want you to think I expect you to, I don’t know, do anything. You’re busy, I understand that. And this is a job. I’m not asking for special treatment or favors or anything.”

  “I understand,” she said gently. “And I’m telling you that I want to help you. I’m looking forward to it, actually. Believe it or not, life does get a little stale every once in a while. I believe you’re going to be a breath of fresh air.” Her pause had an unexpected quality to it—something I thought might be another kindness. “Your mother was distressed when she called me. I understand you made the decision to move rather suddenly.”

  “It might have seemed sudden to other people,” I said. I fought to keep my voice easy and relaxed. “But I’d needed a change for a long time.”

  “I understand you’ve had some…difficulties lately.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I’m fine. My parents are being dramatic.”

  Vivienne said nothing, but the raw intelligence of those blue of her eyes told me she didn’t buy it. I waited for the thing I couldn’t handle: questions about Hugo. Questions about why. The questions my parents had been asking for weeks.

  “I promise, Mrs. Carver: I’m fine. The chance to work with you is an incredible opportunity. I’m excited to be here, and I promise, I’m not—” I almost said, I’m not running away from anything, but that would have been a lie. “—going to let you down.”

  In the distance, the surf crashed restlessly.

  Then Vivienne nodded. “So, you’ll take the job?”

  A beat passed as I processed the words. “Yes, definitely, absolutely.”

  “Wonderful. We’ll have some paperwork for you to sign later, of course. Non-disclosure agreements, tax forms, that kind of thing. Writing is a craft and an art, I don’t need to tell you that, but it’s also a business—most people are terribly disappointed when they learn that, but I’m sure it’s something you learned growing up with your parents.”

  “I don’t know if they’ve ever learned it,” I said. The surge of relief at her offer—a job, a place to live, stability—was so great that the words slipped out before I could stop them. My face heated as I added, “They let their agent handle everything. And their accountant, I suppose.”

  “Then I see we have some work to do,” Vivienne said as she came around the desk and took my arm. “If there’s one thing I can teach you, it’s business. Now, let me give you a quick tour, and we’ll get you settled. I bet you want to rest after your early start this morning.”

  “How did you—” I cut myself off and grinned. This was, after all, Vivienne Carver. “Okay, how did you know?”

  “A hint of stubble; you don’t have a heavy beard, but it’s there. And you missed a button on your shirt.”

  I fumbled at my placket.

  “And you did seem a bit flustered as you came up the drive, dear.”

  Groaning, I shook my head. A bit flustered was putting it mildly.

  Vivienne patted my arm and laughed gently. “It’s all right. We’ll get you squared away in no time.”

  She hadn’t been joking when she’d called it a quick tour. Hemlock House—Vivienne’s cliffside manor (there really wasn’t any other word for it)—was massive, and it was old, too. Fireplaces in every room, damask wallpaper in deep hues of red and green and blue, wainscotting, polished wood floors covered by thick rugs. And God, so many crystal chandeliers. Heavy drapes framed the windows, and as we walked, I caught glimpses of the sea cliffs and, below them, the slate-green waters of the Pacific. The briny smell of the ocean was familiar and not at the same time. I’d grown up in a seaside town, but in a very different part of the world.

  “Hemlock House was built by Nathaniel Blackwood,” Vivienne said as we walked, her arm in mine. “He made a fortune in the late nineteenth century, fur and timber and agriculture, and—this will be your room, dear—” She opened a door, and I caught a glimpse of an enormous canopy bed, a secretary desk, an oil painting of a horse, and what looked like a very expensive clock. Then we moved on. “—and he retired here with his much, much younger bride.”

  “Some things never change,” I said.

  Vivienne laughed. “No, they don’t. And I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that Nathaniel Blackwood was, to put it mildly, an eccentric.”

  “The Howard Hughes of beaver pelts.”

  “Something like that. He spent years working on the plans for Hemlock House. Years, dear. And he was unbelievably exacting in the construction. Spent an absolute fortune building it, making sure everything was exactly as he’d dreamed, and then died shortly after it was finished. He fell from the balcony and died on the cliffs. His bride, as you might imagine, went on to live a long, happy life with a parade of lovers.”

  “He fell,” I said. “Right.”

  Vivienne gave me that droll little smile again, but it faded as she said, “She died the same way, strangely enough. A fall from the balcony.”

  “So, no going out on the balconies. Check.”

  “She was pushed by a younger man. He claimed he didn’t do it, of course, but everyone knew—there’d been fights about money, fights about other women. The bride never had any children, and the estate was a legal morass for decades. Finally, the house was sold to a private investor who went to great lengths to preserve the historic aspects. Most of the furniture is original, although there have been updates for modern conveniences.” In a guilty whisper, she added, “I couldn’t live without cable.”

  “I couldn’t live without coffee.”

  A grand central staircase led down to the main floor, and when I say grand, I mean grand. Think, Disney castle grand: a sweeping spiral of polished marble, with a crystal chandelier hanging in the open well at the center. I’d come this way when I’d arrived, of course, but I’d been so nervous about the interview—if that conversation, in hindsight, could even be called an interview—that the details had registered only peripherally. Now I took it all in: the oil paintings in gilded frames (more horses), the black-and-white checkerboard tile (more marble), the unmistakable spaciousness of it all, as though the house had been built for giants. And, now, I noticed the person lying on the floor, splayed out like a body at a crime scene.

  “Uh—”

  “That’s Fox,” Vivienne said. “Fox, this is Dashiell.”

  “Just Dash,” I said apologetically.

  Vivienne studied Fox for a moment and said, “They’re doing something with the wallpaper. I have to admit I don’t really understand it. How’s it going Fox?”

  Fox was stocky, their dark hair buzzed and sprinkled with silver; I put them somewhere in their forties. In their ankle boots and paisley vest, they looked like they were striking a balance between hipster and steampunk. Without raising their head, they said, “Terrible. It’s a disaster, and everything’s the worst, and I’m dead.”

  “They’re very dramatic,” Vivienne confided.

  “I’m not being dramatic. This design was a huge mistake. I’ll never be able to replicate it. I’m a fraud and a sham. My life is over.”

  “They’re an artist,” Vivienne said, and then, a bit more loudly, “And an artiste.”

  Fox moaned.

  “Something with sea-glass,” Vivienne said as we continued down the stairs. For a lady in her sixties, she was spry—I’d read an interview she’d done in Ellery Queen, and she’d talked about running and bicycling and, I kid you not, her beloved mini trampoline. “Fox is very successful.”

  “Not anymore,” Fox said from the floor. “I’m a huckster. I’m done.”

  “Dashiell is going to be joining us at Hemlock House, Fox. Do you have any words of wisdom for him as he settles in at Hastings Rock?”

  “Never love or cherish or hope for anything,” Fox said in a broken voice. “Life is a trap.”

  “And they’re ever so much fun at parties,” Vivienne murmured as she led me across the hall. We passed through a pair of pocket doors into the living room. It had the biggest fireplace I’d seen yet, with a pristine marble surround, a tarnished overmantel mirror, and a decorative tile-work hearth. Shiny brass fireplace tools and a matching screen. Maybe it sounds like I’m spending too much time on this fireplace, but it was enormous. You could have driven a hearse through it.

  Like the rest of the house, this room had those lovely details and decorative elements that marked it as a product of another time (and another socioeconomic class). Cornicing, ceiling roses, more of those dramatic crystal chandeliers. Tufted sofas in brocade and velvet flanked by wingback chairs of cracked leather. Mahogany tables cluttered with brass and glass curios (a telescope, a miniature globe, a bowl). Tall windows, their curtains held open with tasseled tiebacks to let in more of the day’s cloudy light. And, of course, bookcases. These weren’t Vivienne’s books. These looked like they’d come with the house, with beautiful bindings that had weathered the perpetual seaside damp surprisingly well. Interspersed with the books were botanical prints and porcelain figurines and glass cloches that held taxidermy birds.

  “I know, dear,” Vivienne said. “Barbaric. I couldn’t sleep for a week the first time I saw them staring down at me. The dining room is through here.”

  Another set of doors carried us through the dining room (a ginormous table, paneled walls, and yes, a fireplace). Vivienne pointed to a door across from us and said, “That’s the sun parlor.” Then she headed for a second, smaller door that looked like it was designed to be unobtrusive. “And the kitchen is through here.”

  As she opened the door, a woman’s voice rang out behind us: “Mrs. Carver!”

  I turned to look, of course. Just like Vivienne. But before I did, I caught a glimpse of a butler’s pantry immediately behind the door and, through the open doorway on the far side, the kitchen: patterned tile, cabinets with slate countertops, big sash windows, an island covered with butcher block. It looked updated in a way the rest of the house didn’t, with the Thermador fridge and the Viking stove and the LED lights. But that was probably for the best—most people wouldn’t enjoy actually working in a Victorian kitchen, with a table and a wood stove and a “kitchen dresser” (yes, I put it in quotes on purpose) instead of, well, modern conveniences.

  All of that passed through my mind in an instant, though, because what caught my attention was the boy and the woman.

  The boy was a teenager, with long, dark hair that had clearly been lightened by the sun and a deep tan. He was small, swallowed up in board shorts and a baggy tee that showed a crab riding a surfboard, but he had a wiry build that said he was stronger than he looked. His features suggested he might have Native American ancestry. He was staring at me with a look that straddled the line between startled and panicked.

  The woman was older; she might have been close to Vivienne’s age, maybe a few years younger. She had dark eyes and generous laugh lines, and her mane of thick hair had a shock of white in it that made me think of a witch. Her hand was on the boy’s shoulder, and I couldn’t tell if the pose was possessive or defensive. Her expression had a grim, locked-down quality like a woman ready for a fight. She met my gaze for a long moment, and I was distantly aware of Vivienne saying something to whoever had called her name. And then, without a word, the woman gave the boy a push, and he darted through a door.

  “—is Dashiell,” Vivienne was saying. “He’ll be working with me at Hemlock House.” I turned around in time for her to say, “Dashiell, this is Millie.”

  I had a single instant to take in the woman in front of me: early twenties, blond, a wide mouth and a scattering of freckles. She looked like five feet of flyaways and what Hugo had once called manic pixie energy.

  “Oh my God,” she squealed as she hugged me. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

  I tried to disentangle myself. “Um, yes, hi.” The hug was ongoing, and she was surprisingly tenacious. “I’m Dash. Nice to, uh, meet you.”

  After one final squeeze, she released me and stepped back. “You are going to love Hemlock House. Isn’t it amazing? You’re going to love it!” And then, just for good measure, she bounced on her toes and clapped her hands. “It’s amazing!”

  “So amazing,” I said because I honestly had no idea what to say.

  “I do all sorts of things for Vivienne,” Millie said. “I bring her coffee. Oh! I work at Chipper. And I bring her sandwiches sometimes, only she doesn’t always like how they make the sandwiches, so then she writes down a HUGE LIST—” I’m using capital letters because at that point, Millie got very loud and also used her hands to show me how big the list was. “—of how she wants them to make it, and then I take them the list, and then they make the sandwich exactly how she wants it, and it is so good, like better than any sandwich I’ve ever had. Oh! And the sandwich place is called The Mermaid’s Gill, only it was supposed to be Grill, but they didn’t make the sign right, and then Fred didn’t have to pay for it.” She stopped for breath and added, “Or not all of it, I don’t think. Oh! And—”

  “Millie, I’m giving Dashiell a tour—”

  “Just Dash,” I put in.

  Vivienne powered on. “—so you’ll have to excuse us.”

  “Of course!” Millie hugged me again and darted toward the kitchen, shouting back, “It was so nice to meet you!”

  I wondered, as the silence settled back down, if this was how people felt after they got picked up by a tornado.

  “She’s very…” Vivienne began doubtfully.

  Then Millie’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Oh my God, Indira, have you met Dash yet? He’s so cute. So, so, so, cute! Oh my God, he’s dreamy! I think I’m in love!”

  “…enthusiastic,” Vivienne finished.

  “Oh!” That was Millie again. Apparently, solid-wood doors and inches of lath and plaster weren’t up to the task of quieting her. “Unless he’s gay! Oh my God, that would be even BETTER!”

  (The capitalization doesn’t fully convey the experience.)

  “Uh,” I said.

  Vivienne made a tutting noise and pushed open the kitchen door. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Hastings Rock is very accepting.”

  “That’s not what I was worried about—” I tried, but Vivienne had already pressed on without me, so I followed her into the kitchen.

  “This is Indira,” Vivienne said, gesturing to the woman with the witch-streak of white hair. “Indira, this is Dashiell.”

  “Actually, it’s—”