The Exiles (19 page)

“Emily,” he said. “You found somewhere to stay?” He wasn’t the officer who had driven them into town. That duty had fallen to a young rookie who’d remained official and zipped-up during their ride.

“The Viking took us in. Nate—” she’d almost said
my boyfriend,
but she had a hunch that people here didn’t give birth to children out of wedlock, “Nate’s stayed there for business, so they trust that we’re not the kind of people who’d run out on a hotel bill. He’s there now, napping with our son.” She assumed that, by now, they’d had enough father-son time around town and made their way back to the hotel. Emily felt conspicuously alone. She felt conspicuously like a felon, too, now that she had a cop standing in front of her. She needed not to be conspicuous, as if it were so easy.

“The Viking?” the officer smiled. He seemed impressed. “You two looked shell-shocked when you came in on Friday. You three.”

“The third always looks that way. He’s ten months, just being in the world is a jolt to him.”

The rest of Officer Sebastian’s crowd—two women and one man who looked enough like the officer that Emily wondered if they were brothers—had now caught up, and the officer, Eric, made the introductions, explaining Emily’s stolen car situation, adding, “They’re new in town, bought a house up by you, Winnie.” He nodded to the older woman in the group, probably only forty-five but weathered, as if she’d been tanning with a reflector in her lap for the past three decades. Emily tried to embed these people’s names in her memory, making a point to repeat Winnie’s name silently in her head, cementing it in the gray matter.
These were the first real people she’d met in town. She could easily run into them again, especially since one seemed to be a neighbor.

“
Willkommen.
” Winnie grinned and extended a hand weighed down by a cocktail ring with a walnut-size emerald. Emily tallied the carats in her head (trying to recall what Jeanne’s old roommate, who worked in the gem department at Tiffany, had taught them about appraising). The stone could be worth close to half of what Nate and Emily had surrendered as a down payment on their house. It was probably worth a quarter of a Rufino. Emily shook the woman’s hand. She missed her stolen Tod’s.

“Thanks,” Emily said. “We’re looking forward to settling in.”

“Which house?”

Emily didn’t know her new address by heart and clumsily tried explaining where the place was situated, adding, “It’s got a new-growth maple out front? The old owners put it in to replace a birch that rotted out last year?”

“The Schermerhorns’,” Winnie said. “It’s in decent shape, at least. I’d redo the roof, but that’s just me.”

Emily smiled.

“You have kids?” the second woman asked. “The Schermerhorns left the jungle gym up in back, I noticed.”

“One son, ten months,” Emily said. “You?”

“Two boys, already in school. Track me down if you need sitters. I’m a valuable resource. Eric has my number.”

“And you?” Emily asked Winnie, filling the silence.

“Kids?” Winnie said. “Christ, no. But it’s nice of you to ask.”

Emily grinned and stepped slightly away, hoping that her clothes (two days into their luggageless weekend) didn’t reek. Over Eric’s shoulder, she watched a crowd begin to disembark
from a colossal cruise ship, a monstrously large vessel for this harbor. The passengers streamed single file straight from the boat to the Oktoberfest tent, merging with the men in tights. A cruise ship would make a great getaway vehicle, Emily thought. Women who played shuffleboard and ate at fruit buffets were above suspicion.

Officer Eric and his friends continued to talk as the sounds around them—the bellowing of the harbor-cruise hawkers; the bells from the cyclists who sped by on the road, navigating the small slip of pavement between the cars and the curb—encroached on their space.

“We’re headed into Oktoberfest if you want to join. I get a free pass,” Eric said.

The cruise’s passengers were still filing down the ship’s slanted ramp.

“I should get back to Nate. He’s not really an Oktoberfest kind of guy,” Emily said. She didn’t want to get dragged into the festival, but she also didn’t want to sound pretentious—like a New Yorker who thought she was above corny local traditions—or suspiciously rushed. Historically, Emily had a habit of making terrible first impressions. “Not that it doesn’t sound fun, Oktoberfest, you know? We’re all about being tourists, checking out attractions until Tuesday when we can move into our house. But Nate’s mother was Austrian, so Oktoberfest, you know, it’s too close to home.” This sounded like a lie, she was sure of it. She should keep her mouth shut.

“It’s a good weekend to do the cottages, if you’d rather do that sort of thing,” Winnie said. Emily noticed how the term
cottages
rolled off her tongue, matter-of-fact and without irony. “I hear the Elms added extra tours for Columbus Day.”

“The Elms?” Emily said. She almost added,
Nate and I aren’t
mansion people,
but she held back. Nate wasn’t a mansion person. Emily, on the other hand, was embarrassingly eager to visit the town’s historic residences.

Sure, given the state of the world, she knew she should hate mansion tours (so much excess!), should hate even the idea of a mansion tour, but she loved walking through grand houses where she knew that not only would the owners approve of her snooping, but they’d also moved out a generation ago, leaving the homes to museums and nonprofits that had now roped off the valuables for safe viewing from a distance. (If only the Barbers had roped off their valuables!) She craved stepping into a home that had history, that had been honestly lived in. She craved stepping into someone else’s life, if only for an hour.

“The Elms is right on Bellevue,” Winnie said. “Up two blocks and a half-mile to the south. Can’t miss it.”

“I’ve probably got time to do a quick tour right now,” Emily said half to herself, half to Winnie, her new best friend and tour guide. Nate and Trevor would call if they needed her, wouldn’t they? She had her cell phone, and she didn’t want to sit inside all day, changing diapers, eating her way through the minibar, worrying about their life to come. Emily still had eighteen dollars burning a hole in her pocket. A tour couldn’t possibly cost more than that.

The group started walking in the direction of Oktoberfest, and Emily followed. As they approached the edge of the tent, she could hear the metallic hum of accordion music and an airy wheezing, like ailing bagpipes.

“Last chance for Oktoberfest,” the other woman, the one who wasn’t Winnie, said. Emily should have caught her name, this woman who wasn’t Winnie. She was sure Eric had introduced her by name, but now it was too late.

“Oh, no, thanks,” Emily said. “I’ll pass.” And then, because it seemed they were waiting for her to say something more, she added, “This way?” She pointed up the road that continued beyond the tent and uphill. The street was jammed with traffic. “Is that the way to the Elms?”

“Winnie and I can walk you,” Eric said. “Right? It’s so close it’s stupid for us to send you wandering. I still feel bad about your car. In Newport for less than an hour and you’re robbed. Must not give you faith in the local law enforcement.”

“We’ll walk you,” Winnie said to Emily. “We can drop you off and be back here in time for the Bavarian singers. As long as we don’t linger.” And then, to the other two, she said, “If you pick up our beer badges, we’ll meet you at the grandstand?”

The limestone Elms was hulking, square and symmetrical and staunch, its bulk splayed heavily on the land. Laminated signs (
PARKING THIS WAY
and
WELCOME TO A PRESERVATION SOCIETY SITE
) were impaled in the wet dirt beside the pathway to the front entrance.

“Thanks,” Emily said to Winnie and Eric. The walk had taken no time.

“Don’t thank us. It’s our duty to accompany a newcomer,” said Winnie, who’d been talking nonstop since the walk began. “Eric has an in at all the tourist destinations. He’s a VIP.”

“I don’t have an in,” Eric said. “You make it sound like I’m on the take.”

Inside the mansion’s foyer, a woman sat at a desk with a small cashbox and a stack of brochures.

“Hello, Sergeant,” she groaned to Eric. Emily turned to face the woman, whose skin sagged on her face, her cheeks weighted down by leaden makeup. “Nice to see you,
again.
”

“Back at you, Margaret,” Eric said. “A pleasure.”

“A sergeant?” Emily said. “I had no idea you were a sergeant.” Emily could never remember the hierarchy of rank. Was sergeant higher than lieutenant? The only thing she knew for sure was that the captain was in charge. At least Eric wasn’t the captain. Emily thrilled, her blood pulsing at her temples, to be standing so close to an actual police sergeant. She’d never been one of those people who believed it was smart to keep your enemies closer.

“I’ve been a practicing policeman for some time,” Eric blushed.

“Oh, give it up, everyone’s a sergeant,” Winnie said. When Eric started to argue, she amended her comment. “
Practically
everyone. Everyone who sticks around long enough.”

According to the placard next to the ticket seller, the guided tour cost fifteen dollars. Emily took out her money and approached the table.

“Lady, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need a ticket,” the ticket seller, Margaret, said. “It’s on the house.” And then, her tone flat and dour, a defeated sing-song, “Any friend of the law is a friend of the Elms. We’d like to treat you to a tour, on the house.”

“Thank you, Margaret,” Eric said. “Again.”

“I’m happy to pay,” Emily turned to face Eric. She had the crumpled eighteen dollars in her outstretched hand. “It’s really nice of you to come along, to walk me up here, but I can afford my own ticket.” It was nearly all she could afford, but she had the money. “I’d prefer to pay, to tell you the truth. I’d like to pay.” She held the money out farther away from her body, as if waiting for someone to snatch it. “I’d like to support the mansion,” she said. She wanted to be rid of her surreptitious cash. The minute it left her possession, she wouldn’t be holding it
back from Nate anymore. She’d no longer be hiding anything from him. Well, anything except a Rufino.

“You could use a treat, after what happened to you Friday. Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric said firmly. “Take the free ticket. Take it.”

“Take it,” Winnie said, and then, just before walking out the door with Eric, “let the sergeant abuse his power. He won’t accept no for an answer.”

Emily dug her toe into the dirt on the Elms’ front lawn. She hated her secret money and she hated the fact that she’d let the diaper bag out of her sight, but it would work out okay. The bag was with Nate, it was fine, the Rufino was safely stashed, she was sure of it.

“Please! Remain on the pedestrian walkway!” Kiara, the tour guide, yelped. Emily had drifted onto the grass. There were nine other people in the group, not counting Emily and Kiara, and they stood clustered in front of the mansion, shoulder to shoulder as if drawn together by tour-induced magnetism. So far they’d learned little about the Elms but quite a bit about Kiara: she was in her junior year at Salve Regina, led tours two days a week, and had a passion for the long-gone grand styles of Newport living. “Stay close,” she cautioned, apparently unaware the small crew was already glued together. “I don’t want to have to yell!” She screamed.

As for the mansion, Emily had expected Newport’s estates to be set aside in their own sprawling district amongst rolling hills. But the Elms and the other nearby cottages sat on compact, intricately manicured grounds nestled right up against
the neighboring suburban houses. Behind the Elms, on Spring Street, a row of side-by-side federalist shacks abutted the mansion’s lawn.

“This is how the servants would have come and gone,” Kiara said, leading the tour to a covered doorway at the side of the house. She gathered her faded prairie skirt in a tight fist as she descended the shallow flight of stone stairs toward the door. “The foliage canopy hid the servants’ activities from the family and their guests on the floors above.” Emily followed Kiara down the steps.

“We’re touring colleges this week,” the woman next to Emily said, motioning to her daughter. She spoke half in the direction of Emily, half to Kiara, who either cared or was good at feigning it.

Kiara nodded and smiled as she held open the door, motioning the rest of the crowd into the basement. “I love Salve Regina,” Kiara said. “The endowment’s huge, seriously, no one can figure out why tuition is so high, it’s like, there’s no middle class at Salve. But it’s worth it. Seriously, I get to go to school
here.
” She let the door to the servants’ quarters close behind the tour and stepped back in front of the crowd. “Well not exactly
here.
But in Newport.”

“We’re in Rhode Island to tour Brown. Not Salve Regina,” the mother said, with an impatient edge. Her daughter seemed patently disinterested in the college conversation, and in this tour, and probably in Brown, as well. She was looking down at her own waist, knotting and reknotting the drawstring of her cargo pants. Emily again felt a yearning for her own college years. She had
been someone
in college, she’d had a future. And now? If she was convicted of larceny? The thought terrified her. Even if she eventually got out of jail, she’d never get
a job again. She’d be whispered about every time anyone from their old crowd bought a work of art, or stole supplies from their office, or snuck out of a party dubiously early. Her entire past would be nullified. The success she’d been as an undergrad? No one would care. Her potential would evaporate like a shallow puddle on hot tar. Trevor might be taken away from her as well. Trevor! She needed to remain calm. She could beat this. She could beat it for Trevor.

“This is the servants’ domain,” Kiara said. She walked backward as she talked, stopping briefly by the hot and cold kitchens to open the door to a small lift. “This is the dumbwaiter they used to haul the laundry up and down the flights. It’s the only elevator in the house!”

“Check it out,” one of the tour’s two twentysomething women nudged the other and nodded toward a stone corner of the cold kitchen. “A pastry station.”