All Dressed Up: A Novel

SATURDAY, 1:30 A.M.

The mansion changed at night, all the rigid lines and hard surfaces of the daytime melting into something softer, more secret, a little strange. Spotlights hidden around its base shot dreamy fountains of soft yellow light over the heavy grey stones, catching the tiny flecks of mica and quartz sprinkled through their rough-hewn sides, the whole surface shimmering as you moved past it, as though it were trapped behind a veil of rain. Tiny lanterns had been buried around the border of the drive and along the paths that crisscrossed the grounds, fairy trails through tamed forests. Even the shadows of the trees seemed to come alive, the night breezes blowing them out to impossible lengths, the bony echoes of the branches stretching into corners they were never meant to reach.

A small wooden door at the very edge of the building opened soundlessly, spilling a puddle of light onto the flagstone path that huddled up against the building’s broad shoulders. A woman emerged, features smudged by night, and moved quickly across the lawns, turning back every few seconds to check behind her. The night air was crisp, a faint hint of far-off smoke weaving through the heavy, dusty scent of crumbling leaves. She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering slightly, and started walking faster, making for a small stone building tucked against the edge of the forest that surrounded the tiny, ordered island of the mansion and its grounds.

When she reached the door she stopped, sucked in a whole-body breath, and ran both hands through her hair, lips moving silently. After a few moments she straightened, shaking both hands out at her sides, and opened the door.

Inside, the air was close, the heat of the day still trapped between the heavy stone walls. A broad, rustic hearth dominated the main room, heavy candlesticks anchoring either side of the mantel, and in front of it the chairs and couches huddled together beneath capacious white shrouds, ghosts of themselves. To the left, you could make out the dim outlines of butcher-block counters, a monstrous gas stove, even the shiny surface of a fridge that seemed to have been ported in from the future.

She squinted against the darkness.

Hello? Her voice seemed to disappear up the gaping maw of the hearth. She bit her lower lip, taking a tentative step forward. Are you here?

From the shadows beyond, a voice emerged, low and rough.

I wasn’t sure you’d come. The girl went still as the speaker stepped out from the shadows. But I’m glad you did. It’s time you and I had a talk.

Does this mean…

Oh, yeah. She knows.

ONE

FRIDAY, 4:15 P.M.

The scene out the passenger side window was like something off a New England postcard: trees rolling away in every direction, a patchwork quilt picked out in a cornucopia of fall shades, drawn up around the necks of the distant hillsides against the chill in the air. I cracked the window slightly, hoping for a hint of that fall scent, part woodsmoke and part decay. Which makes it sound morbid and terrible, but I’d wear it as perfume if someone could figure out how to bottle it. That, and whatever they use in those fir-tree candles you find at the seriously overpriced boutiques around Christmas—not the cheap Yankee Candle crap, the expensive soy ones by companies named after herbs. I want to live inside those candles.

Remember the time we went camping around here?

I glanced across the console at Blake. He pulled his eyes away from the road just long enough to flash his wry half-smile at me, the one that brought out the dimple in his left cheek. The imbalance always made him look mischievous, as if he was plotting something he knew the powers that be would disapprove of. I used to get all melty describing his dimple to girlfriends, the feature that turned his boyishly handsome face interesting.

I thought back to that first camping trip, years ago now, just after we’d started dating. Blake had just started at Playpen, and the entire staff was on ramen-subsistence wages, one step below ramen-profitable, according to Blake. He was still in that decrepit walk-up in Bushwick, we both still had roommates, and the need to fuck each other’s brains out was still at that semiferal level that only lasts a few months, maybe a year if you’re lucky. It had seemed like such a good idea—a campfire, stars twinkling overhead, miles and miles of empty woods just waiting for us to defile them…

I raised an eyebrow, mouth twisting into a small smile.

What was it the doctor said?

"I believe his exact words were ‘Never seen poison ivy there before.’ Blake turned to me again, blue eyes sparkling. But it was more his tone. Actually calling me a degenerate scumbag would have been redundant."

Well, you disappointed him, obviously. A laugh burst out of me. "Remember the look on his face when I asked him to check me out? I don’t care how ancient the guy was, you’d think a doctor would be able to hear the word vagina without having an aneurysm."

To be fair, when he went to medical school, the preferred term was ‘portal of shame.’ I’m just lucky he prescribed calamine lotion instead of penance.

Clearly he didn’t know you well enough.

Blake’s smile faltered for just a second, eyes narrowing, and just like that, there it was again, rearing up between us with a malevolent grin, Remember me? Of course I did, I couldn’t forget about it for more than a few seconds, the mass of everything we weren’t saying was so damned hulking I was surprised we’d been able to squeeze into the Prius alongside it.

I turned back to the window, jaw tightening in a way so familiar that lately it was starting to give me headaches.

Don’t worry, I asked when I booked the room, genital rashes are not included with our package.

I could almost hear the hopeful look in his eyes. With a monumental effort of will, I prised my jaw open wide enough to slip out a noncommittal That’s good.

A few minutes later, we pulled off the highway. A McDonald’s and a smattering of gas stations had sprouted around the exit ramp, but within a few blocks they gave way to folksy-looking shops with hand-painted signs advertising car repair prowess, hot coffee, or in one case, antiques and live bait. The obvious combo.

I bet their milkshakes are good, I said, pointing across the intersection. Towns like this always have the best ice cream.

We don’t really have time to stop, Blake said, mouth screwing off to the side. We’re running late.

Fury shot through me like a flame.

Fine. I huffed out a breath through my nose.

I mean…if you really want one…

"Did I say I wanted one? My voice was getting noticeably tight. I could actually feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs. That couldn’t be healthy. Anyway, we would have been on time if you’d grabbed the lunch I made us out of the fridge. Like I asked."

I already said I was sorry for that.

"It’s fine. I don’t need a milkshake anyway." Then I tilted my whole body toward the window, as though a wall of ribs and spine would somehow protect me from the curdled atmosphere in the car.

Okay… I could hear the defeat in his tone. An apology shot up like a gag reflex, but I swallowed it, relishing the acid burn at the back of my throat. I was not going to give in that easily. I always gave in. This whole weekend was me giving in, really.

And then, of course, came the guilt. Which was asinine—I wasn’t the one that invited that foul, oxygen-hogging monstrosity of what happened along—but when has marriage ever been built around logic? Lately ours seemed to be built mostly on shared Netflix tastes, perched delicately atop an ever-shifting sea of eggshells.

Do you want to listen to a podcast? My voice was barely a mumble.

Sure. That’d be good.

Jesus Christ, how were we ever going to make it through this weekend if we couldn’t handle a four-and-a-half-hour car ride?

I pressed my forehead against the window as the soothing, vaguely nasal NPR cadences filled the dead space in the car, letting the colors outside blur together, go abstract.

It will be okay. You will be okay. You can’t expect everything to bounce back to normal immediately. You need to try harder, give him more space if you want this to work.

The little therapist on my shoulder sounded so reasonable I almost let myself believe her.

Almost there now.

Mmm. I felt too wrung out to trust myself with more words at the moment.

But as we made our way farther and farther from what passed for civilization this far upstate, I could feel myself lightening, my shoulders unslumping slightly. Every so often a thin gravel road would snake off through the trees, the tiniest bit of clapboard visible at the end of it. The mailboxes started getting more and more folk-arty, their sides studded with moose and loon and canoe silhouettes. One was even held up by a miniature grizzly, his cheery face carved—poorly—out of an old tree stump. Anywhere else, they’d be tacky, but out here, they were…

Well, still tacky, but also kind of charming. A not-small part of me would be thrilled to sink into a life of woodsy tastelessness, swathing my body and home in chunky cable knits so thick nothing bad could penetrate them.

Ahead of us, a giant carved wooden sign proclaimed MILLINGHAM HOUSE. Blake nosed the car down the winding drive, the boughs of century-old oaks and maples holding hands above our heads. After about a half mile, he turned around a final bend and the house appeared.

Holy hell, I murmured.

Apparently the other half lives very, very expansively, Blake said, grinning at me. I let myself return the grin, let my shoulders loosen further. You’re here to enjoy yourself, Rebecca, stop trying to ruin it for at least a minute.

He pulled up to a booth just outside the gates and chatted with the attendant as I gazed at the mansion.

It was a behemoth in grey stone, U-shaped, its stubby arms reaching out to us on either side of a blocky central wing. The drive—driveways are for plebes—ran straight toward the center of the main building, curling around a small island of garden, complete with tiered fountain, just in front of the entrance. Ivy scaled the walls, tendriling around the leaded glass windows, leaves poking between the slots of the wrought iron balconies that jutted out from a handful of the second-story rooms.

Really, it was more castle than mansion.

How’d you find this place? I asked him.

Oh, umm…one of the guys at work recommended it. Said he’d been here before.

Was that a theme weekend too?

"Maybe? I didn’t ask. I think most of the year it’s just a normal hotel. Or, you know…this hotel."

The Roaring Twenties getaway had been Blake’s idea—credit where it’s due—and clearly for my benefit. Blake might occasionally read nonfiction bricks about World Leaders or Important Historical Moments from around that time, but dressing up for a three-day Gatsby theme party definitely wasn’t his idea of fun, it was a peace offering. One of many that I was trying desperately to accept.

Gazing up at the peaked slate roof, where tiny gargoyles watched over especially critical sections of gutter, I couldn’t help but hand it to him. You couldn’t have found a more fitting spot to wrap a few ropes of fake pearls around your neck and sip booze out of coupes. He wouldn’t tell me the name of the hotel before we left—I’d been especially annoyed with our therapist for backing his play that week—but now that we were here, I had to admit it was better as a surprise.

So this place was just…someone’s house once?

"Someone’s summer house. Jeremiah Royland O’Malley’s, to be specific. Blake turned the car off the main drive down a narrow tributary that shot off to the west—well, left, at least—wing and around to the back of the building. I raised an eyebrow at him, signaling for him to continue. He grinned, warming to the subject. He was one of the robber barons around the turn of the century, made a fortune on steel mills, then patented a special alloy that multiplied that fortune a few times over. Apparently his wife’s maiden name was Millingham. Romantic, no?"

I glanced up at the gargoyles.

Sure.

We pulled in to a drab asphalt parking lot jutting out from the back of the house, a more modern addition to the storied manse. Acres and acres of gardens spread out all the way to the tree line, carefully trimmed hedges dividing them into neat geometric patches. In the distance, a couple in silhouette were picking their way around a largish pond dappled with water lilies, glimmering golden in the late afternoon light. I shook my head a bit to clear the glitter.

We’d barely managed to stretch our legs and pop the hatchback when a young man in a full tux with tails hurried over from a side door, smiling anxiously as he moved up next to Blake to reach for the luggage. He was wearing spotless white gloves. God, old-fashioned laundry must have been an absolute nightmare.

Please, sir, allow me.

Oh, it’s no—

"Scuttles! I take it you’re not allowing the gentleman to carry his own luggage like some kind of common porter."

A middle-aged man, his grey hair swept straight back from his high forehead in a slick of pomade, strode through the same door, nose tipped up imperiously as he stared down the now cowering…Scuttles, apparently. The vest of the older man’s tux puckered at the buttons, the fabric straining to contain his formidable belly, but somehow it added to his air of gravitas.

No, sir. ’Course not. I was just telling the gentleman…

"Telling him? Don’t tell me you were speaking to your betters. He sniffed exaggeratedly. Sir, Madam, please forgive Mr. Scuttles’s insolence. He’s new to the household and hasn’t yet learned his place. Good valets are so hard to find these days, he added, raising his eyebrows in commiserative exasperation. I’m Mr. Wynnham, Ms. Crooner’s butler. I assure you, there won’t be any such breaches again."

Blake glanced at me, mouth twisting in a wry grin as the young man nodded furiously, face purpling.

Think nothing of it, Blake said, enunciating the words exaggeratedly. I tried not to laugh. Blake had told me it was a theme weekend so I’d know what to pack, but it hadn’t really occurred to me what that would mean in real time. Specifically: forty-eight hours of interactive dinner theater. I felt a surge of warmth for my husband. Whatever might have motivated it, he really had picked an apology that was right up my alley…and several blocks over from his. That had to count for something. Maybe I could let it be enough.

So kind of you, sir. Though I’d expect no less from friends of Ms. Crooner. And who shall I tell her has arrived?

The Wilsons. Blake and Rebecca.

The Wilsons…hmm, the man frowned, considering. The only guests she’s still expecting are a Miss Taunte and a Mister Daily, but perhaps I’m mistaken…

Oh, right…I umm… Blake held up a finger—pause, please—as he swiped through his email. Yes, right, that’s us. Sorry, I explained to Miss…what was the name she gave me? He stared at the screen, tapping a few times. When I booked this, she told me…

No need to worry yourself, sir, I believe we understand each other. The butler’s lips curled the slightest bit at the corners, a golf clap of a smile. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I can show you to your suite for the weekend. Ms. Crooner has you in the lavender room, yes? Blake blinked, then, taking the cue, skimmed his email again and nodded. Excellent. Scuttles can manage your luggage.

Should I leave my keys with him, or… Blake glanced over his shoulder at the slim, dark-haired young man gamely pulling our luggage from the trunk.

"Your keys…ahhh, you mean to this fine automobile? Quite modern, by the way, sir. I’m sure Putter will want to speak to you about its manufacture. Ms. Crooner’s chauffeur, of course. Such a unique fellow. He pursed his lips demonstratively. But no, no need for that. Your automobile will be safe here for the weekend."

As if on cue, Scuttles—bit on the nose, theme weekend—closed the hatch. Blake clicked the automatic locks…then again…then again. I rolled my eyes at the familiar tic.

Did she know how many times he had to click the car locks? The way he’d repark five times to get half an inch closer to the curb?

I swallowed the wave of bile. You need to stop dwelling. This weekend is about moving forward. Try. Harder.

Then the butler cleared his throat and pulled the door wide, sweeping a hand toward the opening with a slight bow.

When I glanced at Blake, he was already looking my way, barely repressed glee widening his eyes.

I turned toward the door, peering in at the darkened interior. Polished wood and brass fittings glinted in the late afternoon light, dust motes traveling down a beam to rest in the thick pile of a blood-red oriental rug. I could almost feel the glamour of the place reaching out for us, beckoning with an elegant curled finger, Right this way, let me make it all better.

God, I so needed something to make it all better.

I sucked in a deep breath and stepped through.

TWO

We’ll be serving cocktails in the lounge at five, Wynnham said, actually clicking his heels like some kind of Mary Poppins extra. Ms. Crooner prefers that her guests dress for dinner.

And with that, he turned and marched down the hall, belly thrust out in front of him like fleshy, tuxedoed armor.

Blake barely had the door closed before we both burst out laughing.

Okay, when you said theme weekend I had no idea—

"Trust me, if I had known, we’d have been doing the spa package in the Berkshires."

"Did you see the way the valet— Are we really supposed to call him Scuttles?"

I mean, he didn’t give another name.

But did you see how he cowered when Wynnham pointed out where the luggage should go? I giggled even more, remembering. Do you think it was a set piece?

"I’m absolutely certain it was a set piece." Blake rolled his eyes, plopping down onto the bed and propping a shoe over his knee, carefully untying and loosening the strings before easing it off.

I tugged my own shoes off with a foot pressed against each heel and collapsed onto my back on the other bed, heaving in a deep breath. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe it was exactly what we needed.

Overhead, ornate gold molding crept over the edges of the wall and curled toward the center of the ceiling, an empty frame for a blank expanse of plaster. I sat up on my elbows, taking in the room a bit more thoroughly.

Jesus, they weren’t kidding about the lavender.

The entire room was papered in an elaborate two-toned brocade, thick enough that it almost looked like fabric. A gigantic peaches-and-cream marble fireplace dominated one wall, a pair of large brown-and-white china dogs facing each other across its mantel. Actually, they faced us, their yellow eyes staring outward with a glazed—literally and figuratively—lifelessness. Creepy things probably cost more than our rent; they had that "big winner of Antiques Roadshow" look. A mahogany writing desk dominated one corner, simultaneously ornate and spare, studded with dozens of drawers far too small to serve any practical purpose. It was the kind of thing you could imagine Dickens bending over, the effect marred only slightly by the blocky plastic phone and fan of hotel information and local attraction pamphlets on the artfully worn leather blotter. Two Victorian-looking chairs, their chintz fabric buttoned and nipped into ornate dark wood frames, created a little seating area near the leaded glass windows, the view through the aging geometric panes pleasantly distorted, a Van Goghian version of the gardens we’d seen flowing out around the house. A tiny marble-topped pedestal table hovered between their arms, fighting for its share of wavering, distorted light.

What time is it? Blake said. He had fully melted into the duvet, a thick down affair in brilliant white, like a signpost proclaiming "Don’t worry, some things have changed since 1882." I pulled out my phone.

Dammit! It’s already four-forty. Stomach pulsing with anxiety—yes, I, and all the therapists I’ve ever been to, know it’s out of proportion to almost every single occasioning factor—I bounced off the bed. Do you need the shower? I feel like I should shower.

Didn’t you shower this morning?

But then we sat in the car all day. Do I smell like fast food? I lifted an arm and sniffed tentatively. I’m gonna shower. Do you need it?

All yours. He was flat on his back again before I even reached the bathroom, the heavy wooden door with brass knobs belying the glistening subway-tiled interior. A mirrored vanity tray hinted at the mansion’s history, but everything else in the room—suite almost, it was at least the size of my first college dorm—was aggressively modern: a glass-walled shower, jacuzzi tub, various personal appliances in cloth bags (why does putting a hair dryer in a bag somehow make it classier?), and an array of spa-quality toiletries that I immediately scooped up and dropped into my bag. Honestly, there’s something affected about not taking hotel toiletries.

I bent toward the mirror, squinting as I fluffed my thick dark curls, bobbed just too long ago for me to still be riding the post-salon good-hair-days wave. It had been so long since I’d tried to pull myself together for anything, or seen anyone but my own ghostly reflection in the corner of the television screen, the uncredited extra in whatever cozy mystery show was numbing my brain for the night. Still, I looked mostly decent, plus a little bit of frizz on the sides felt period appropriate. A quick rinse later, and I was ready to slip into the knee-length gown I’d bought for the weekend. On the joint bank account, because I dare you to say anything, Blake.

I belted my hair with the little band of velvet and rhinestones I’d bought to match, touched up my makeup, then took a step back to admire the effect, twisting back and forth so the gold and silver beads winked in the light, reveling in the silken swish of fringe around my knees. A tiny flutter of excitement awakened in the middle of my chest. Playing someone else, burying myself in an impossibly luxe, throwback, simpler version of life, if only for the weekend, would be fun.

I tapped my phone again: 4:58. Perfect.

All right, hon, I just need to dig out my heels and then we can…

He was asleep.

Blake.

Nothing.

Blake. I moved over to the bed, shaking one shoulder hard. "We have to go."

Oh…right. Just give me a minute.

What about ‘It’s four-forty’ wasn’t clear? I could actually feel my nostrils flaring.

I’ll be quick. He blinked hard, licking his lips as he unzipped his bag, extracting the black tux he’d worn at our wedding. Dang, is this too wrinkly?

"Why would you stuff it in your suitcase when we drove here?"

"Calm down, Becks." He crossed to a dresser, tugging open drawers, then moved to the wardrobe across from the bathroom, craning his neck to see to the back of the top shelf. He pulled out a steamer, hung the suit over the open wardrobe door, wandered into the bathroom to fill the water receptacle…

For the love of—was he trying to move as slowly as possible?

Blake blinked owlishly as he emerged, poring over the purple-papered walls in search of an outlet.

"It’s right here," I huffed, bending to plug the stupid thing in, gritting my teeth at the sound of a bead popping free from my hip and bouncing against the baseboard. This was supposed to be my weekend and already he’s taking it over, the way he always does, which is probably my fault, since I usually just sigh and wait for Blake to take however long he needs, that’s what a marriage is, compromise, and of course customer projections and multipronged marketing campaigns and massive investor presentations he can handle but somehow the concept of time is beyond his capabilities, but patience, Rebecca, because it’s always only me who’s supposed to mold myself into some better, more perfected, beatifically smiling zen-goddess-on-a-bottle-of-oat-milk form…

Deep breaths. Don’t ruin things, Becca. This doesn’t have to be a fight. The goal isn’t to control your feelings, it’s to control your reactions to them. Another thing many, many therapists had told me to no useful end. Who gives a fuck how you express yourself when the alternative is feeling like someone slipped a vise around your chest when you weren’t looking and just kept twisting the handle tighter and tighter and tighter?

Slowly he began dragging the steamer over the suit, moving over it inch by inch. Exhaling sharply, I plucked the suit off the wardrobe.

"You’ll damage the wood."

Okay…thanks. Blake raised his eyebrows sky-high but didn’t say anything else.

Finally he finished his meticulous steaming routine (Wynnham would be so proud) and replaced the steamer in the closet, tugging his shirt free from his pants and pulling the whole thing over his head in that way all men seem to learn as part of puberty.

It was 5:12 by the time he finally had the tux on.

How do I look?

Late.

Great. Can we go now?

He laughed. God, isn’t it hilarious how Becks likes to be on time to things?

I’m just waiting on you.

Make sure you grab the room key, I said, brushing past him toward the door, trying to exhale heavily enough to release some of the pressure building inside my skull. By the time we’d turned the corner back into the gallery that joined the three wings of