Just Fall (2 page)

A square of sky and sea and pearl-hued sands can be seen through the window. But she closes her eyes. The sea is spectacular, brilliant turquoise, and she knows the fish and flora below its surface are also marvelously colored. She’s not snorkeled or swum; she doesn’t know this from personal experience, but rather from the Internet crash course on the island she gave herself before she arrived.

She could at least look at all that beauty if she opened her eyes. But that would mean looking past the dead man with the knife in his belly, his thickening puddle of blood.

She has to wait now. Be still and calm and purposeful. Every cell in her body is screaming at her to run. But she will wait.

Long blond hair was twisted into an elegant chignon. Ellie sat stoic and still, a well-mannered girl who usually doesn’t fuss this much, simultaneously a little disdainful and more than a little thrilled by her transformation into a princess for a day. Her hairdresser, Franco, worked his magic. And babbled. “They’re totally lovely people. Been clients of mine for years. After the wedding, you and Rob must come out with me on their boat. A yacht really. Super chic.”

Ellie made some noncommittal sound. She contemplated herself in the dressing table mirror. Her face was flawlessly made-up. Her creamy shoulders were bare, emerging from the beaded lace bodice of a pouf of a wedding dress. She was gorgeous, if a little chilly. What they used to call a Hitchcock blonde.

Mrs. Robert Beauman,
she thought but didn’t say aloud. A smile crossed her face, and suddenly she was warm, and therefore even more beautiful. Franco noticed, stopped his rambling. “There you are, sweetheart! I was a little worried. No one should be so somber on her wedding day.”

The door burst open and Ellie’s bridesmaids, Tara and Collette, spilled into the room fizzing with energy, a bottle of champagne and glasses in hand. “We got it! Ellie! You look gorgeous!” said Tara.

Ellie looked at her friends, elegant visions in lavender silk charmeuse. “You too,” she told them. “You both look wonderful.”

“I took a peek,” said Collette. “The place is filling up fast. This wedding is a hot ticket.”

“Are you nervous?” asked Tara.

“Why would she be nervous?” Franco interjected. “They’re perfect for each other.”

“I’m not nervous,” said Ellie. “But isn’t ‘perfect for each other’ just one of those awful clichés? I’m sure we’ll have to wade through our share of shit just like any other couple on the planet.”

“Please!” Collette laughed, a bubble of merriment. “Hang on to a little romance at least for the duration of your wedding day, will you?”

“Collette is right,” said Tara. “Lay down the cynicism. Just until the reception is over, okay? Now have some champagne.”

“All right, all right.” Ellie laughed. “A toast to my groom, Prince Charming, Superman, and the Dark Knight, combined. Let’s all believe in fairy tales.”

“You ever notice how Prince Charming has no backstory?” Tara asked as she poured four glasses.

“And Superman and Batman have tragic pasts. No wonder everyone has daddy issues,” observed Collette.

Ellie laughed again. “And you’re accusing me of not being romantic?”

They clinked and sipped and chatted, and Ellie set down her glass to let Franco put the finishing touches on her hair.

Slippery little doubts leapt like fish in the pit of her stomach.

Shouldn’t she be glowing with romantic idealism? Or were the nervous tugs of doubt that she felt the norm? The enormity of the commitment of marriage, even in these days of easy divorce; the sense of finality. And they hadn’t known each other that long after all, she and Rob, and given her history…

But then her dad was knocking on the door and saying it was time. Ellie took a good long last look at herself in the mirror and let Tara and Collette fluff out her skirts. Her mother plucked an invisible thread from Ellie’s shoulder and dabbed at her eyes. It was showtime. Ellie pushed her anxieties aside and smiled her radiant smile.

Later, Ellie remembered her near trip as her spike heel caught in her dress going down the aisle, how her dad steadied her and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze; Rob’s warm, loving eyes as he slipped the ring on her finger, the two of them turning to see the laughing, happy faces of her friends and family after the judge pronounced them husband and wife; the triumphant walk back up the aisle arm in arm with her man.

She had expected to feel as if the night flew by; everyone had warned her: It was the way of weddings.

She was wholly unprepared for the single sentence that tipped her into surrealism, clouding as it did all subsequent events and making every moment of her prior life irrelevant.

They were alone. The two of them. Bride and groom, brand-new husband and wife. The wedding planner had given them fifteen minutes, had promised them they would welcome the chance after the ceremony, before the duties of hosting their wedding pulled them in well-meaning opposite directions. It was a moment that should have been all kisses and sweet nuzzles, clasped hands and murmured endearments. A private little celebration of the two of them, the nucleus of this whole lavish event.

Rob’s admission was sudden, downright bizarre, and, if true, terrifying. Insane words coming matter-of-factly from his familiar, dear lips. The way he gripped her forearms so she had to look into his eyes. The intensity of his voice. The clench of his jaw.

And then before she could process, or determine if this was some kind of sick joke (but why would he joke about something like this?
Why?
), it was time to enter the party. Their guests were waiting; they heard the drumroll that was their cue.

Tara and Collette swung open the doors. Rob took Ellie’s hand, kissed her lightly on the lips. He raised their linked hands in triumph and led Ellie into their reception.

And so they had made their grand entrance: “For the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Beauman!”

“What were you talking about?” Ellie asked Rob urgently, sotto voce, as everyone cheered. “I don’t understand. That can’t be—”

Rob put his fingers to his lips and shushed her. Kissed his fingers and tapped her lightly on the forehead. “Later,” he said. He smiled, she smiled back, uncertain, and they were swept in and away.

Their wedding party had begun.

Ellie shook hands, kissed cheeks, brought arch effusiveness to a greeting when she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember the name of that coworker of Rob’s she had met at least half a dozen times. She accepted good wishes and compliments. The photographer’s camera flashed. Food was served.

Ellie spun through her wedding party, propelled by love, happiness, obligation, ritual, friendship, champagne, and kisses. She pushed aside the confusing and repugnant nature of what Rob had just told her. It couldn’t be true.

They had planned this wedding together, she and Rob, they didn’t fight once, they never fought at all really, she knew him, he was her best friend, she loved him, he loved her.

They danced their first dance together. Kissed when it was over. She was pulled away by her cousin Andrea and drank more champagne. Did one shot of tequila for old times’ sake.

But then, later, talking to her tedious aunt Sonia (or rather listening to Sonia talk, which left Ellie completely free to roam her own thoughts), the phrase “He’s too good to be true” popped into her head. Everyone said so. It’s what people said all the time about Rob. What if they were right? But she loved him. She was being ridiculous. He was kidding. What a nervous bride she turned out to be! Ellie made her excuses to Aunt Sonia as she saw her friend Marcy Clark out of the corner of her eye.

“Excuse me, I have to thank—”

Sonia waved her off and Ellie caught up to her friend. “It means so much that you came.”

They hugged, sharp contrast between Ellie’s snow-white fairy princess dress and Marcy’s tailored black sheath, young widow chic. Ellie’s veil fell forward and shielded both their fresh faces. Cocooned.

“I hope you’ll understand if I just slip out when I feel I need to leave, okay?” said Marcy.

“Of course, sweetheart.” Ellie’s eyes had filled with tears then. “I know Ethan is here with us in spirit.”

Marcy’s eyes had filled too. But she brushed away Ellie’s tears, smiling, and then her own. “He is. Now be happy, darling. It’s your wedding day.”

Then the wedding planner was there and it was time to cut the cake. Ritual enacted for endless photographs. Rob and Ellie fed each other tidy morsels. A quick sugary kiss. The cake was whisked away for service.

Her mother got in a jab. Of course she did; Ellie wasn’t surprised, even though she was hurt. Thank God, soon she and Rob would be alone. Ellie needed a breath of air, craved her husband’s reassurance. She went looking for him in the hotel’s back garden. And found her world indeed destroyed.

The blonde, and, yes, the blonde is Ellie, is just where we left her, huddled into the large, cushy chair, folded into herself. The light has a different slant, a deeper blue cast; the ocean sounds rougher. Ellie sighs deeply. Stretches and stands. She takes a long, steady look around the hotel room. Finally her eyes settle on the dead man in the bed. He’s not her husband, Rob; that much is evident.

Ellie pads softly into the bathroom. She opens a flower-patterned toiletry kit. Digging past the sunscreen, lip balm, and toothpaste, she pulls a powder compact into her palm. She clicks open the compact. Clicks it again. Another layer opens. A second compartment holds a powder puff. From underneath it, Ellie extracts a razor blade.

Ellie crosses back to the man on the bed. Peers over to examine the pool of coagulating blood near his belly. She’s waited long enough. She squares her shoulders. Steels herself. Then deftly slices off the dead man’s bottom lip. There’s remarkably little blood, which is what she’s planned, why she waited.

Ellie places the severed lip neatly into a handful of folded tissues and then winds it into a swath of plastic wrap retrieved from her brightly striped raffia beach bag. She plucks a padded mailer from the beach bag. Tucks the lip inside. Stuffs the package back into the bag. She’s trembling. She feels faint.

She sways, drops the beach bag, reaches a hand to the wall to steady herself. Stands there for a moment, taking deep, steadying breaths. She looks down at the beach bag. It’s done. There’s no turning back. She looks at her hand flat against the wall. Pulls it away as if it scalded her.

She grabs the towel from the armchair and scrubs at the spot on the wall where her hand had been. Then she wipes down the entire room again. It’s as much wanting to be thorough as it is being afraid to take the next step.

She picks up her beach bag and checks that all is secure inside, popping in her toiletry kit, tucking the padded mailer deeper, toward the bottom. She stuffs the towel on top. Pulls her white cover-up back over her golden hair. She uses the hem of the cover-up for a last polish of the doorknob. She exits the room, taking a quick look down each side of the hallway to be sure it is all clear. She loops the “
Ne Pas Déranger
” sign over the door handle. Wipes that too. She walks down the hallway toward the elevator bank. She doesn’t look back.

The lobby of the Hotel Grande Sucre is vast and light and airy, with a clear line of sight from the massive open doors facing the hotel driveway to a view of sand, sea, and distant cliffs. It’s designed to be breathtaking and it is. The vaulted skylight at the center of the lobby filters sparkling light onto its central feature, a rocky pond replete with a waterfall and a selection of lazy tortoises.

At the front desk, a line of weary travelers checks in. The concierge is busy assisting a family organizing a snorkeling trip, showing on a map the precise location of the beach with the best coral reefs and most colorful fish. The bellmen are concerned, as bellmen should be, with luggage. Overexcited children shriek and race about, delirious with sun and sea and a sense of incipient adventure.

Ellie crosses through confidently, a beautiful woman with a purpose, emerging with a blink into the afternoon sunlight. No one pays her much attention. She spots a convertible with the motor running, the keys still in, and is in the driver’s seat and pulling away before the valet has even registered her presence. Only when she is cruising along the coast road does she relax.