The House in the Pines(9)

The video had shattered that comfort, and Maya was right back to being seventeen, the only witness to a murder. The difference was that now she understood there was nothing she could do about it. She knew better than to go to the police—she’d tried that. She had tried telling Dan. What else could she do?

Sliding the cake pans into the oven, she got started on the frosting, toasting pecans and simmering milk. She folded in shredded coconut, tasted it, and, for once, didn’t enjoy another heaping spoonful. With the frosting done, she had nothing to concentrate on until the cake came out of the oven.

She went back to the freezer. She’d been so good lately, so moderate, and now here she was, not even noon, pouring her second shot of the day. But then, wasn’t this kind of an emergency? That video would have been a crisis under any circumstance. When she was strung out and sleep-deprived, it was intolerable.

And then there was dinner with Dan’s parents.

Maya burned her hand taking the pans out of the oven. She ran the burn under water and didn’t mind the sting. It brought her back into her body. She counted her breaths. Told herself it wasn’t worth it to dwell on the video, or on Frank. Especially not as she was going through withdrawal.

“God, it smells amazing in here,” Dan said as he stepped in from the cold. His eyes landed on her hands beneath the water. “Did you burn yourself?”

“Not too bad.”

He looked concerned but didn’t say anything as he knelt to untie his shoelaces. He must have been tired of asking if she was okay.

“How’s the studying going?” she asked.

“It’s going,” he said, but his tone was pained. He was a major procrastinator, cramming weeks of studying into his last three days before finals. He spent the day with his books while Maya tidied the bedroom and watered the plants. She and Dan were planning to get a dog, which meant they needed to get rid of their firestick plant and its toxic sap. She snapped a picture of the three-foot-tall succulent with its orange-and crimson-tipped stems, then sent it around to a few friends to see who wanted it.

She also sent a picture to her aunt Carolina, whose love of plants had inspired Maya’s own. Tía Carolina lived in Guatemala City and Maya had met her only once, but they had kept in touch over the years. She was Maya’s only connection these days to the country her father was from.

She tried to read afterward, but soon gave up and went for a walk to avoid pacing around the apartment. She paced instead through her neighborhood, past other buildings like the one she and Dan lived in, with metal fire escapes zagging up the walls, and brick town houses with concrete stoops. She took Commonwealth Avenue all the way to Boston University, where she had gone to college, passing convenience stores and a shawarma café she used to frequent, then continuing on to the icy Charles River. With every step alongside the river, joggers and cyclists speeding by, she tried not to think of Frank.

When she got home, it was almost time to go, and Dan was stressed. He’d agreed to this visit with his parents weeks ago, not anticipating how much studying he would leave until the last minute. Maya poured herself a teacup of gin and drank it in the shower. She’d banished Frank from her thoughts before and could do it again. She would not think of him, nor Aubrey, nor Cristina.

She rarely wore makeup, but tonight she wore concealer like a mask. She wore her nicest sweater, cream-colored cashmere, with brown corduroys and low-heeled boots. She covered her cake with the stand’s bell-shaped glass cover, threw some clothes and a toothbrush in her backpack, and stood waiting by the door while Dan looked for his keys.

“Found them,” he said, rushing in with mismatched socks.

Dan drove. Each of them was lost in their own worries as they left the city for the state’s forested interior. Amherst was two hours to the west. Maya’s hometown of Pittsfield was just an hour beyond that, but the two towns felt very different. Pittsfield had once been a bustling metropolis, but those days had ended before Maya was born. The city had never really recovered from losing GE in the ’70s and ’80s.

Amherst, on the other hand, bustled with young people from the five colleges in the area. Even with the students gone for winter, its downtown seemed livelier than downtown Pittsfield. There were no empty storefronts. Young families and professors walked in and out of coffee shops and farm-to-table restaurants. The independent movie theater advertised a movie Maya had never heard of.

The house Dan grew up in was large and contemporary-looking, with sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows shaded by hedges. There was more snow here than in Boston, draping the lawn with a thin white sheet. Dan’s father came to the door as they got out of the car.

Carl, a heavier and blonder version of Dan, was a fifth grade teacher and locally famous poet. Apparently, his students loved him, and Maya could see why. He shared Dan’s openness and warmth. His smile was enormous as he greeted his only child. He shook Maya’s hand, then led them through the high-ceilinged foyer to the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink? We’re having daiquiris, Greta’s favorite, but there’s also wine and sparkling water.”

“A daiquiri sounds great,” Dan said as he hid the cake at the back of the fridge.

“I’ll have one too,” said Maya. “Thanks.” She was doing her best to seem happy and relaxed as her withdrawal amplified the buried anxiety in her gut along with the usual anxiety of wanting to impress Dan’s parents. It wasn’t just that she loved their son, but that they appeared to have everything she dreamed of for herself. They were comfortable and successful in their fields. They were paid to think. They exuded contentment.