By Monday morning Kaya had moved into Angelina’s cabin. She’d arranged her wardrobe in the master bedroom’s closet and filled a spacious, mirrored medicine cabinet with personal items.
Alec Olsen, the literature professor Kaya was leaving, had already rearranged the Asheville condo, half of which he would slowly buy from Kaya without interest. The two women and Alec remained friendly, adjusting to the rearrangement without rancor. No one accused the other. In fact, Alec arrived at the Consortium same as always before breakfast to discuss poetry and rhythm and symbolism with Earle.
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Not so between Carla and Hailey, who cooked most Consortium meals together. Arguing over Brian, they turned vicious. Carla had not realized how much she loved Brian until Hailey had “stolen” him from her. Her fling with Marc Swift was just that. If she had balked at Swift’s public exploits with Irene, it meant nothing. Carla had loved Brian for years. Everybody saw that. So why was Hailey stealing Carla’s man?
“After one weekend with Brian, you think you belong to him, Hailey?” Well, Carla had belonged to Brian for two full years. Don’t talk to her about a fucking weekend—a weekend meant nothing.
Hailey raged right back in Carla’s face. Hadn’t Carla run off with Marc without so much as saying good-bye to Brian? And when Marc had dragged in Irene? “Carla, the way I heard it you ran straight to Trevor, begging him to heal your hurt pride. Brian never entered your mind.”
That did it. Hailey was blaming Carla for all this trashy stuff and spooning pancake batter into two spitting hot pans. It was just too much—Carla shoved Hailey, her best waitress and the Consortium’s second cook, into the stove. Hailey turned around and slapped Carla. And Carla slammed Hailey’s head into the cabinet. Angelina, hearing them, ran into the kitchen and yanked them apart. Then Trevor appeared, Lauren Clay beside him. “Just a minute,” he told Lauren, and led Carla upstairs, saying, “Don’t worry.”
Angelina checked Hailey’s face. “You might bruise,” she said. “Do you want to ice it?” She handed Hailey an ice pack and told her to find Brian and relax. “Kaya and I will fix breakfast today.” The carpenters, students, and teachers were lined up on the porch, gossiping, speculating, but picking up their plates nonetheless. Kaya was setting out bowls of cut fruit.
An engine revved as if in overdrive. Polly had procured a jeep, her sister’s it turned out, and unused to a shift stick bucked across the lawn so that the four-wheel drive vehicle smashed into Angelina’s cabin. The jeep stopped dead against the wooden fortress. Unharmed, Polly leaped out, her hands poised like talons as she screamed, “Rat, rat, rat!” She grabbed Kaya’s arm and pulled her hair. Kaya pushed Polly away and they stumbled, falling to the floor. With hungry people waiting, Angelina said, “Take it outside.”
But Polly’s fury had already flipped into shaking and sobbing. So that Kaya, Polly’s dread rival, carried the pale, fragile, and stark crazy Polly outside. Deposited on a bench, Polly threatened to kill herself. Kaya called a doctor.
After Angelina set six bottles of syrup on the picnic tables, she tried to hold Polly and explain. But Polly scratched Angelina’s face with both hands.
Inside, putting Neosporin on the deep scratches, Angelina wondered if Trevor had ever soothed Polly. Of course, it had been some time since Polly was this angry. But it stood to reason that even Trevor could cast only the flimsiest peace Polly’s way. For one thing, Trevor’s sexual persona, which was potent enough to engage Angelina’s die-hard lesbian identity, would not move the naïve, asexual Polly. Then, too, when Polly sank this low, nothing could capture her attention. She screamed inside an impenetrable box.
Waiting near the parking lot, Kaya told Angelina, “All along, I’ve thought Dr. Babson might be best for her.”
A car approached as Polly broadcast that she ripped her arms open. Angelina looked and they were bleeding but not profusely. Thank the Lord, help was at hand.
Except it wasn’t—yet. Polly banged her head on the ground and rolled in the dirt, making that “Caw” sound. And the help was Chief Everett Clay, who stormed from his car, without noticing Polly. Instead he was shouting: “What have you done with Lauren?”
Angelina almost laughed, but caught the scent of indignation just in time. “We haven’t ‘done’ anything with her, Everett. She’s inside, helping with breakfast. I’ll go get her.”
Wait. First he wanted a word with Angelina. And Kaya. And then words—make that more than words—with that demon Trevor.
“That’s fine,” Angelina said. She held his hand and led him away from the breakfast scene, away from Polly’s raving toward the open field. “Lauren rearranged her schedule, Ev, that’s all. She did it without consulting Kaya or me but then we weren’t available at the time.” Was he? Had he discussed it with her?
Everett yanked his hand free from Angelina’s. “None of your wiles, baby.”
Lauren had told Everett she was switching to the Arts Consortium. And he had told her, no, she wasn’t. For the first time in her life, his daughter had defied him, thanks, Everett was convinced, to Trevor’s influence.
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