Her Perfect Life Read online

  A new song started up over the speakers. A familiar, heavy beat that the whole party recognized wove through the crowd of people outside and in. A collective roar went up into the night as they all hollered their joy into the air and began chanting the verses every single one of them knew by heart.

  With one long swallow, Clare finished her drink and allowed herself to get pulled by Kaylee into the fray of a group dance forming at the bottom of the porch steps. With a wide stance, her spine swayed and her hips rocked—Clare’s body loosened more with every verse. Arms were in the air. People jumped, while others screamed the lyrics; in front of her, Kaylee had the biggest open-mouth smile, her perfect white teeth framed by her deep coral lips that flashed various shades of blue under the colored strobe lights. Clare felt Kaylee grab the empty cup from her hand and watched as she shook it in front of Clare’s face; she was going to go get them some more drinks.

  That first drink was so strong that Clare was already fuzzy headed and just over the line of drunk, but she didn’t care. She grinned and nodded at Kaylee, who gave her a silly face and a thumbs-up before turning toward the wide porch steps.

  Clare loved Kaylee—just like a sister. Maybe even more than her actual sister. After Adam, she was the closest person to a best friend Clare had. It was easy, so easy, to see how their lives would eventually play out. Clare and Adam, Kaylee and someone she married. Weddings and homes. Christmases and Easters. Kids of their own. Always a big family, always together.

  When Clare and Adam did get married, Kaylee would be Clare’s maid of honor. She would be the godmother of all their kids.

  Behind her, someone placed their hands at Clare’s waist, their body rocking and matching the rhythm and sway of her own. Someone dancing next to her—was it Denise?—handed her the remains of a small joint. She pinched the hot pill between the nails of her thumb and index finger, placed it to her lips, and inhaled as the paper and pot burned the tips of her fingers. She handed it back. Alive, free, feeling the pulse of this very moment, Clare tilted her head back against the person’s shoulder and let go as the music moved through her. With her arms crossed over her head, she smiled with an intoxicated sensuality, an acute sense of collective freedom that she couldn’t ever recall experiencing before, made doubly poignant by the realization that nearly every other person here felt the same. They were done. The daily obligation of school, attendance, attention, assignments, homework—it was all over. They were adults now, and their lives were finally their own. If she wanted, Clare could go anywhere, do anything, experience it all. The world was literally hers to do with as she wished. She had never even considered, until this very moment, that she was completely and totally obligation free. Yes, she was expected to turn up Monday morning to her little desk at Carter’s Moving and Storage—but what if she didn’t? What would it matter—really?

  Clare’s every cell released in a collective sigh of relief. She was not only a little drunk, she realized, she was flying. The song ended and shifted into the next high-energy beat right as Kaylee returned with their refreshed and filled plastic cups. She handed Clare her drink and made a disgusted face at the person grinding on Clare from behind. With a flick of her hand, she shooed away whatever hanger-on Clare had been dancing with. When the guy ignored Kaylee and instead slipped his hand around Clare’s stomach, she turned around and faced what turned out to be a baby blonde sophomore. Clare placed her palm on one of his smooth cheeks.

  “Time to go, now,” she said in his ear before turning back to Kaylee. Both girls toasted, took huge gulps from their cups, and again found the bump and sway of the beat in the collective mob of bodies filling the lawn.

  Clare couldn’t even taste the alcohol in her drink, but by the time she noticed her cup was again empty, it was difficult for her to focus her eyes. She had been dancing so long a sheen of sweat had formed between her skin and clothes.

  Kaylee took her cup again. “Gonna get some,” she slurred into Clare’s ear.

  Clare nodded, her lids heavy, her smile lopsided and slack. “’K!” she shouted back over the music. She watched, trying to force her eyes to focus as Kaylee gripped the porch railing but tripped on the stairs anyway. “You’re drunk, you bitch!” she shouted out to her friend, who didn’t hear a word she said because of the blaring music and noise of voices. Clare laughed and returned to her dance.

  They had been dancing for a pretty long time—and she hadn’t seen Adam since they arrived. Not that she would expect to ever see him dancing. It was totally not something he would ever be caught dead doing. She should look for him, she thought. He was probably inside somewhere, playing darts or pool, maybe even sharing a bowl with someone out in the backyard. Adam usually gravitated toward the smaller, quieter groups during parties.

  “’S’cuse me,” Clare said as she pressed past several globs of dancing bodies toward the stairs Kaylee had just tripped up. “Sorry, just trying to…’s’cuse me.”

  She grabbed the white-painted porch banister as soon as she reached it and used it to guide her uncooperative legs upward. The image of the stairs and the people sitting on them blurred before her. God, she was totally wasted. If she passed through the kitchen, she should get a drink of water.

  Inside the house, it was just as loud as outside but also hot from the collective press of bodies and lack of fresh air. To her left, she could see Kaylee now leaning on the dining room table with one arm and smiling at Ryan Edwards over his nearly empty punch bowl. She tried her best to scan the room for Adam, but her eyes refused to align and cooperate.

  She sighed deep and asked the nearest person to her left, “Have you seen Adam Collins?”

  The girl was Becca Mack, and if Clare had realized that before opening her mouth, she never would have asked the question. Becca was one of Heather’s crew, one of her admiring hangers on, forever competing for position within Heather’s closest circle. Clare was pretty sure she had been one of the girls leaving the auditorium with Heather the night of the Cleaver High talent show.

  Becca’s eyes widened into two large white ovals as her lips disappeared between her teeth. She stared at Clare, having clearly heard the question, but didn’t say anything as she shook her head and took a sip from her own cup. When she turned away from Clare, she immediately whispered into the ear of the guy sitting on the couch in front of her.

  Whatever.

  Adam obviously wasn’t anywhere in the living or dining room. Clare walked, as carefully as she could, through the crowd and deeper into the Robertses’ house. Out back, there were even more people hanging out around and splashing in the illuminated in-ground pool. The watery turquoise light shimmered, and steam lifted off the surface, obscuring the exact identities of the few people who floated, played chicken on shoulders, or were making out against the tiled walls. Clare wandered from group to group, scanning the backyard for Adam, but he didn’t seem to be here either.

  “Hey, Clare!”

  She turned. Carl stood behind her, smoking pot from a blown-glass pipe and drinking with a few juniors who had crashed the party. “Hey,” she said. When Carl offered her the pipe and his lighter, she took it and lit the already charred bud while she inhaled deeply. She held on to it for several seconds before tilting her head back and releasing the rich-smelling smoke into the air above her. “Thanks,” she said, handing the pipe and lighter back to him. “Hey, have you seen Adam anywhere?”

  Carl nodded and passed the pipe to a short blond girl in a bikini top and cutoff jeans to his right. “Yeah, maybe ten minutes ago? Or maybe it was longer? Shit, I don’t know. What time is it anyway?” He laughed. “He was coming out of one of the bathrooms.”

  “Oh, thanks. Do you happen to know where?”

  Carl shook his head. “This fucking place is huge—a goddamned mansion compared to my house. Maybe somewhere in that wing?” He laughed again and pointed toward the far end of the house. It was dark, far away from all the l
ights and noise emanating from the living and dining rooms.

  “Thanks,” Clare said again and headed for a small patio area that had a sliding glass door that led back into the house.

  Inside, Clare slid the heavy glass closed behind her and entered what was most likely Heather’s parents’ master bedroom. The large, king-sized bed was expertly made up with an expensive-looking comforter set and matching pillows piled against the sturdy oak headboard. A matching armoire and dresser flanked opposite walls and supported porcelain figurines and silver-framed photos of Heather and her little sister.

  Feeling like an intruder in this personal and private space, Clare rushed for the wood door on the opposite side of the room, careful to close the bedroom door behind her. The hallway on this side of the house was dark and quiet compared to the thump and grind in full swing on the opposite side. There were several doors down here, probably the other bedrooms and bathrooms, but it didn’t sound like anyone else was here. If Adam had been here to use the bathroom, he had probably already rejoined the party.

  Clare took a right, ready to head back into the noise and chaos—but stopped. She heard someone’s voice, low and trying to be quiet, behind one of the doors farther down the hall. Clare turned back around; it was probably just someone getting together in one of the dark bedrooms, but for some reason, her heart beat a little faster and her arms felt weak. She took a step into the darkness, the sound of the whispers becoming clearer.

  “Are you sure?” someone asked.

  “Yes,” another voice answered.

  Clare stood right outside the door, her hands on the frame, bracing herself. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but in the moment, some morbid pull she couldn’t explain held her there. Just someone else’s gossip, she rationalized. Except her body, already picking up alerts of the imminent crash, sent a flood of panic to warn her.

  The sounds of the two people on the other side of the door, kissing, their bodies shifting in the dark, the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled. Clare wished one of them would at least give away a name. That way she’d have some substantial dirt for Kaylee. When she heard the rhythmic, repetitive sound of what could only be the sex the two people were now having, and then the hard crash of a headboard hitting the wall behind it, Clare decided enough was enough—time to go.

  “Adam,” the girl said.

  Clare froze. Her chest felt like a vise squeezing her lungs, holding her breath tight. She shook her head once, as if to clear it of some horrific impossibility forming at the brink of her consciousness.

  She turned back to the door, her hand on the brass knob turning, turning, turning, until she pushed the door, slow, uncertain, wishing she could just walk away. Standing in the doorway, she could see them now, in the dark, their bodies moving together beneath the blankets on the bed. Her right hand slipped up the wall, found the switch, and pushed.

  In an instant, the room was washed in the bright, incandescent glow from the ceiling light above. Clare saw the last thrust beneath the blanket before the couple scrambled to move apart, stay covered, and figure out what the hell was going on.

  Adam turned over and stared directly into Clare’s eyes.

  Beside him, Heather Roberts’s face peered over the arm he’d placed protectively to shield her from discovery.

  Her heart beat, once, twice, three times. Clare swallowed, her throat dry and tight.

  “Clare,” Adam said. “I’m sorry…” He sat up, his naked legs falling over the side of the bed so he could get up.

  She backed out of the doorway as Adam scanned the floor for his pants. They were crumpled at the end of the bed, out of his immediate sight. For half a second, she almost moved to pick them up and hand them to him.

  “What the hell am I doing?” she whispered, backing farther away.

  “Clare,” Adam said. “Wait…just—just wait a second.”

  “No,” she said, suddenly finding her voice and the ability to move. “No.” She turned back toward the party and walked away. She made quick, long strides that turned into a jog until she reached the crowded living room, where she shoved her way past and between the other people.

  “Hey! Watch it!” someone yelled after her.

  She ignored them, raced out the door, down the front steps, through the still-crowded group of people dancing to the music that now blared from the enormous speakers, breaking into a sprint as soon as she was free of the tangled web of people. Her sandals slipped on the gravel road, but she kept the pace up as best she could.

  Halfway back to the truck, she heard Adam’s voice. “Clare!” he shouted. “Stop!”

  But she didn’t listen to him; she didn’t stop. She ran as fast as she could for the truck—and Adam, athletic and much, much faster than her, ran after her.

  Chapter 27

  Eileen

  Clare’s funeral was elegant, well attended, and Eileen thought it a fitting way to honor the regal and talented woman her sister had become throughout her life. Regina and Katherine, as promised, had taken great care to ensure that both she and Simon could spend their time remembering and saying goodbye to Clare instead of being consumed by a multitude of minutia—like making sure there would be enough parking available for the two hundred attendees.

  Eileen sat next to Simon in the front row, her mother in a wheelchair beside her. She worried about the potential reaction should a lightning bolt of understanding strike through the dense neural web of plaque most likely protecting her mother from comprehending what was happening here. Eileen was playing it smart this time, and when the Regency offered to send along both a nurse and a mental health counselor to help out, she reined in her She’s my mother and I can do this myself pride and said, “Yes, please. That would be a wonderful help.” Both the nurse and the counselor sat right behind Eileen, just like family, waiting for any sign that they might need to unlock the wheels on Ella’s chair and exit right back up the aisle.

  It allowed Eileen the mental space to relax, just a little, and focus on exactly what was happening. Most people, actually everyone except Simon and her mother, were here to witness the burial of one of the most successful and well-loved authors in the world

  Eileen stared at her older sister’s profile, surrounded by the white silk coffin liner she had picked out herself. Her big sister, Clare Eleanor Kaczanowski, was dead. The girl she had grown up with, fought with, played with, run from in fear, and toward for protection.

  Her mother shifted slightly in her wheelchair, and Eileen checked on her from the corner of her eye, nervous about disturbing the quiet, blank expression Ella currently wore. She had seen firsthand just how distraught her mother could become when she was confused. But Ella only stared straight ahead at the sleek mahogany casket and the six poster-sized glossy photos of Clare throughout her life, as if she were attending the funeral of a stranger.

  One of the photos was Clare’s senior class picture—the picture Eileen had taken of her reaching up to touch Prometheus’s flame outside the Natrona County Library.

  After hearing Donna’s theory about Clare’s work, Eileen had spent the rest of the day and into the night up in her guest room reading A Perfect Life from cover to cover. When she’d finished that last sentence just before midnight, it was impossible not to believe that Donna was right. To Eileen, who had grown up with Clare, it read like a thinly veiled memoir. Only in this version of Clare’s life, Adam survived their car accident. He married Clare right out of high school, eventually became disillusioned with her, cheated on her, and was about to leave her—until she killed him, and then herself.

  It was dark and sad, full of complexity and depth, and very, very different from any other book of Clare’s Eileen had ever read. It was not at all surprising that many of her most devoted fans disliked it. If Donna’s assumption was correct, and Clare had been using her fiction to create one fantasy life after another for her and Adam, this one s
tripped all the romance and illusion off the page and left readers with a clear sightline of two flawed characters navigating a failing marriage under a florescent glare of reality.

  Many of her readers called it depressing.

  Donna had labeled it a worthy and triumphant accomplishment.

  Eileen thought both were equally true.

  Ella squirmed again in her seat, and Eileen turned toward her, wondering if maybe her slouch was growing uncomfortable in her wheeled perch. She was surprised to find her mother sitting erect, staring straight ahead at the mourners lined up and passing by Clare’s casket. Ella narrowed her eyes.

  A single pearl of sweat ran down Eileen’s back. She felt it coming, like a shift in the atmosphere around Ella, her confusion coalescing into a narrowed, focused misunderstanding of what her eyes were seeing. She had her feet planted on the grass and stood up from her chair with a strength and speed Eileen would never have bet on.

  “Mom,” she hissed, reaching her arm behind her to signal the nurse for help.

  “There’s been a mistake!” Ella shouted, with an officious authority she’d not actually possessed in decades. As if she’d been called upon to clear an unruly mob, Ella’s right hand moved to her arthritic hip, where it rested on her now-invisible sidearm. “Folks!” she called out.

  “What the hell is happening?” Simon asked, leaning into Eileen’s left side.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises in a calm and orderly fashion.” Ella held up her sagging left arm, calling for the attention of everyone at the funeral. “There has been a terrible misunderstanding. I was there myself.”