E l y s e airwater is like... Camelot. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. It’s shrouded in mystery, for one. While a Google search serves up a million images of its beautiful waterfront on the Sound and a few aerial shots of the grounds, no journalists have ever been allowed onto the property. And, aside from photographs from the Voss family’s annual holiday card that have been shared online—always in front of an oversized fir eplace in a wood-paneled room—no images of the interior seem to exist. (Can I just say that floppy-haired, teenage Sinclair in some of those leaked holiday card photos is devastating? High school Elyse would not have survived him.) The morning after Sinclair’s shock invitation, I drive myself crazy searching up all the information I can find. An Architectural Digest article from a few years back describes Fairwater as that quintessential middle finger from the establishment to the rest of us unwashed masses. It is difficult to overstate both the financial value and social, cultural, and architectural significance that a property such as Fairwater holds, although, as with most intentionally k ept secrets, its mystique only adds to its lore. It’s too tempting to reference the Dutch term, vaarwater, which alludes to a waterway with overtones of safe passage. One can’t help but wonder if the Voss family had a keen sense of irony when naming their compound— because, while the cedar walls of Fairwater have certainly provided a haven for those lucky enough to be born with Voss blood, the clan has done an excellent job of ke eping absolutely everybody else out. The article goes on to describe the architectural origins of the estate and what is known of the exterior layout: one grandly gorgeous house, apparently a perfect example of shingle style, encircled by four smaller versions. Sinclair mentioned that one of these is his. He also told me that it was the most peaceful place he knew, his own sacred es cape. And he wants to take me there with him. I can’t believe it. Sure, it’s not like he’s asked me to st ep out with him at Madison Square Garden. It’s no grand declaration that we’re together. But this feels more special, more significant, than any public appearance. He wants to uproot this, us, from the safety of Alchemy and his home and take me to the place where he feels most at peace and most secure. He wants me to be his guest at the home his family guards from the world so jealously. The romance of it has me spiraling into a fantasy as I sit on our lumpy couch with my phone. In my mind’s eye, our weekend together is a fairytale of chunky knits and eating apples and playing board games and making slow love in front of a roaring fire. I want this time away with Sinclair more badly than I can ever remember allowing myself to want anything in my entire life. More than I wanted that Voss ad campaign, even. Because that was a means to an end, and this would be two days and nights of perfect happiness... even if it’s a means to absolutely nothing. I say that, but I’d be lying if his invitation hasn’t sown some tiny, dangerous seeds of hope in my heart. I can tell myself he only wants me in secret, but his whisking me away to his family’s mysterious waterfront estate takes our arrangement to a whole other level, surely? Hiding out there together would take the secrecy from
kind of tawdry to full-on swoony. And —I’m gonna let myself think it quickly and then tamp it down—it feels like a st epping stone to something, to a possibility for the future that’s not Sinclair growing tired of me and moving his Alchemy hand stamps back from red to black. It’s as though the view of our future is pitch-black, and this is the first teeny chink of light I’ve seen. And when you get a chink of light, you have to follow it, right? You have to at least take a st ep forward into the darkness, even if it’s terrifying? Even if you have no business thinking there’s anything out there at all? There’s nothing for it but to talk to my dad. So, when I’ve unpacked the grocery delivery and made sure that Sylvie is busy with work stuff, I sneak out of the house with Jambon and walk the eight blocks to Dad’s auto r epair shop, a couple to-go cups of his favorite coffee wedged into a cup holder from the coffee shop nearby. His company occupies an open-fronted building around the width of four garages, painted pale blue with dapper navy-blue signage saying Ward Auto R epairs. Dad always claims that you can’t trust someone to treat your car with respect if their shop looks like a shit hole. He gets the façade and the signage completely r epainted every couple of years for that reason, but I guess he has a point, because business is steady. One of his guys, Danny, is out front, tinkering with an open hood when I show up. Shit. He straightens up and winks as soon as he clocks me. “Hey, Elyse. Long time no see.” I smile politely and drop the leash so Jambon can go say hi. “Hey, Danny.” “How’s it goin’?” He bends to give Jambon’s ears a good rub. “Good, thank you.” I hesitate, not wanting to seem rude but wanting to make awkward conversation with Danny even less. “Is my dad around?” “Really? That all you gotta say to me?” His voice is friendly, but there’s an edge of hurt that I don’t miss. Danny asked me out so many times that I finally gave in last year and let him take me out for a drink. He’s cute, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a smattering of freckles, but the conversation was pretty dull, and it felt like a long evening. He walked me home after and then... hovered. I kissed him on the cheek, thanked him, and pretty much bolted inside. I’ve tried to avoid him as much as possible ever since, and I’m probably being rude, but I can’t think of anything to say to him. So yeah, that really is all I have to say. I make an apologetic face. “I’m sorry. I’m a little short on time—gotta get back to Sylvie.” Yeah, that’s low, using my poor, injured sister to avoid sweet guys with hopeful expressions. He sighs, his shoulders drooping in defeat, and jerks his head toward the shop. “Sure. He’s in the back.” “Thanks,” I say, and hurry around him into the bowels of the shop. “Jambon, come.” It’s odd, seeing Danny. I knew there was nothing between us even before I agreed to a date with him, but still, it’s like the universe is throwing him in my face for a reason. This is your lane, it seems to be saying. Nice, blue-collar Jersey boys. You think a secret weekend of hot fireside sex will win you the heart of the most eligible guy on the East Coast? I don’t think so, girl.
Danny Sullivan and Sinclair Voss have nothing in common apart from their gender, as far as I can tell. They belong to different worlds. And I tell the nasty voice that I’m not getting too big for my britches. This isn’t about trading up or aiming too high. Danny’s a great guy—he’ll make some girl very happy. It’s not Sinclair’s money I’m attracted to, or his status. On the contrary, they’re both enormous obstacles to being able to be with him properly. It’s just him. And I have to at least try to pursue this thing, no matter how crazy bad the odds are. An image of his face last night, when he invited me to Fairwater and I lifted my head off his chest in absolute shock, is imprinted onto my mind. The sincerity in his beautiful blue eyes. He almost looked vulnerable. The memory makes my breath catch, and it stiffens my resolve. “Hey, Uncle R.!” I say as I spy a handsome Black man around my dad’s age wiping down a wrench with a cloth. This time, I’m genuinely happy to see a coworker of my father’s. Reggie may not really be my uncle, but he and his wife Gloria, a. k. a. Auntie Glo, are as close to family as it gets. Reggie has worked with my dad since before I was born, and they are two of the most beautiful souls I know. If anyone would have made wonderful parents, it’s these two. Tragically, nature had other ideas, and they gave up trying long ago. Auntie Glo always says that Sylvie and I are her little white babies, and, God knows we both fell apart on her a million times after Mom died. Not a week has gone by since Sylvie’s accident without her bringing something over to the house for us to eat. She always says that Mom saved her in her darkest days after the bunch of awful miscarriages she endured. She tells us that feeding us is the best way she knows how to show her friend that her family is in good hands. “She’s up there lookin’ after my babies,” she told me on one particularly hard day. “You know? So it’s only right I’m down here lookin’ after hers.” So when Uncle R. holds his arms out wide, filthy cloth in one hand and shining wrench in the other, I don’t hesitate. I set the coffees down on a workbench and go right in for a hug as Jambon wanders off in search of Dad. He wraps his arms tightly around me, and I let myself lean against his familiar, portly body. His blue coveralls smell of oil, and his gray mustache tickles my ear. “How’s my best girl?” he asks before releasing me. He and Auntie Glo always make me feel about twelve years old, but in a supernice, comforting way. In a world that’s had its fair share of bombshells, these two have the stability of ancient oak trees. “I’m great,” I tell Uncle R., mostly meaning it, but I shoot him a big smile to sell it all the same. My dad’s voice booms out from under a car som eplace. “Is that my Elyse?” Jambon barks in excitement and hurtles off in the direction of his voice. “Hey, Dad!” I shout. The sound of scrabbling and wheels tells me he’s scooting out from whichever vehicle he’s fixing. “Yeah?” Uncle R. asks in the meantime. “Look at that smile! How come we ain’t seen you on a billboard in Times Square yet, huh?”
That makes me laugh. “Because I’m too short, Uncle R. Short girls can’t be supermodels.” “Bullshit! Don’t you go believin’ that! You get more beautiful every damn day. That coffee for me?” “Y ep.” I turn and grab the cup with a big R. scrawled across it. “Here you go.” “You are an angel. Was Pam on today?” “She sure was. And she put in extra creamer,” I say as he rips off the lid in delight. Pam, the owner of the coffee shop, is a big fan of Reggie. Let’s say Auntie Glo is not a big fan of Pam, nor of Pam’s attempts to kill her husband with saturated fat. “Oh man, oh man. Do not tell your aunt.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. I don’t have a death wish. “Hey, Dad.” I hand my father his cup of black filter coffee, just the way he likes it—which is lucky, because Pam doesn’t put creamer in his coffee. Apparently, he “doesn’t have enough meat on his bones” to tempt her (Pam’s words). “Hey, kiddo.” Dad gives me a one-armed hug and a smacker on my cheek. “To what do we owe this awesome surprise?” I glance from him to Uncle R., who’s standing there, looking happily expectant, though the happy part is probably creamer-induced. It does not look like the chance of a private conversation with my dad is in the cards. I sigh inwardly and summon up a mental image of Sinclair and me snuggling in his country pad for courage, because this is awkward. I don’t like putting Dad in this position, and I don’t like giving my family members any reason to think that they’re not my absolute priority at all times. But I owe it to myself to try. Here goes. “So the guy I’m seeing,” I begin carefully, glancing behind me to make sure Danny is still out front and not listening in, “has invited me away for a couple nights next month.” I clear my throat. “He, uh, has a place on Long Island.” Dad full-on grins at me. Uncle R. whistles. “Long Island? Wowzers! Who is this kid? He good enough for you?” “That’s a good question,” Dad tells him, though he’s still grinning. “We don’t know shit about him.” If only he knew that the guy wanting to whisk me away is one of the most photographed men in the country. But honestly? He may not be wrong. When it comes down to it, even I don’t really know shit about Sinclair Voss. “I can promise you he’s good enough for me,” I deadpan. Honestly? The far more pertinent question is whether I’m good enough for him. “Anyway,” I push on, “I know it’s a big ask, but... I’d really like to go away with him, you know? And I figured I’d just put it out there and... see. You know, if there was anything we could do to, like, make it work.” Dad presses his lips together like he’s thinking. “But it’s a weekend? I’ll be home from work, sweetheart. We can manage.”
“I know, but... it would be overnight. Two nights. And it would be a lot. For you, and for Sylvie and Fleur.” I don’t want to say it out loud in front of Uncle R., but the truth is, I have to help Sylvie with intimate things. It’s especially difficult for her to get out of bed unaided because her bad hip seizes up so much in the night that mornings are painful. And if she’s having a flare-up, it can be hard for her to lower down and get up off the toilet. Plus, I really don’t like her showering when I’m not at home. She has a high plastic chair she uses, but again, getting out of the shower when she’s wet and slippery is super hard, and I always worry that she’ll fall. The bottom line is that I want to protect everyone. I want to shield Sylvie and Dad from the humiliation that would be him having to st ep in and help in any bathroom situation, and I want to shield Fleur from the distress she’d feel if her mom had a fall and I wasn’t there to help. Any kind of slip could set her back weeks, if not months, in her rehab. “It’s better to have a woman there,” I finish, shrugging lamely. Uncle R. is squinting at me. “When is this, Lees?” “We were thinking the first weekend in November,” I say, feeling deflated. I don’t know why I brought this to Dad. It’s not fair to make him feel bad over something he has no control over. He has enough to worry about already. “But honestly, don’t worry about it. Maybe I could take a day trip up there on the Saturday and get back late.” That could work, surely? I’d go up there just for lunch. I’d do anything to have just a few hours with Sinclair in his own private hideaway. Uncle R. takes a leisurely sip of his coffee. “Gloria and I got no plans that weekend. I bet she’d love to help.” “Oh no,” I say, flustered. “I didn’t mean that.” “Why not?” he asks with a shrug, as if it isn’t a big deal that he’s offering up his wife as some kind of unpaid nurse for our family. “It’s too much to ask,” I say, instantly uncomfortable. Not only is it far too big of a favor to ask of Auntie Glo, but I can’t conceive of acc epting this kind of favor from anyone. I should be the one holding us together, not putting literally everyone else out. But Dad’s looking at his buddy with interest. “Could work. You honestly think Glo would be willing?” I feel I need to explain the stakes a little more clearly. “It would be a lot to ask,” I tell Uncle R. “She’d have to stay over, and she might have to help Sylvie with the shower, you know? That kind of thing.” He snorts. “You think Glo hasn’t seen your little white asses before? Man, she probably changed as many of you kids’ shitty diapers as your mom did, God rest her soul. Takes a lot more than a shower to scare my wife off.” I mean, he’s not wrong. Auntie Glo did babysit Sylvie and me a heck of a lot. Still, Sylvie is no longer a baby. Asking Glo to help her shower is a big ask all around. I shake my head. “I dunno. Thank you, though. I appreciate the thought.”
But he leans forward, coffee in hand, and wags his free finger at me. “You listen to me, kid, and you listen good. You guys are family. You’ve been through shit no one should go through. And you have worked your skinny little ass off to look after your sister and your niece.” “And your father,” Dad chimes in, looking somber. “Quite right. Now, you’re tellin’ me you got a new fella who wants to give you a break from all this and take you away to some fancy-ass place o’ his, and you don’t think your auntie and I wouldn’t move heaven and earth to make that happen for you?” He straightens up, and I stare at this kind, wonderful man who has been such a rock for my family. The fierceness in his voice has my eyes welling with tears. “Well, you think wrong, baby girl,” he says with a forceful nod. “Let me make that call. You’ll see. Your aunt will be squealin’ with excitement at getting her hands on those two girls for a weekend, you see if she ain’t.” It takes one extremely noisy phone call and about ninety seconds to confirm that I will, in fact, be joining Sinclair at Fairwater. “A sle epover?” Auntie Glo screeches so loudly that Uncle R. has to hold his cell away from his ear. “With my Sylvie? And my little Fleurie? Sign me the hell up.” I guess sometimes, just sometimes, the universe is capable of serving up one heck of a treat.