Page 28 of The Unknown

I rush to open it, finding none other than Violet Wright standing on the doorstep. Like the rest of us, she’s now wearing her character’s clothes. A lavender dress with a high neck, mother-of-pearl buttons, and sleeves that puff out at the shoulders. The costume gives her a classic, regal look. If not for the two martini glasses and massive Yeti thermos she’s holding, one wouldn’t be wrong in thinking she was on her way to play Hedda Gabler.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she says, giving the thermos a tantalizing rattle. “But I think it’s time we got better acquainted, don’t you?”

“Um, hi. Yes, please come in.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Violet asks, as if I could possibly be annoyed at the idea of hanging out with a movie star. Taking my silence as an invitation, she sets the thermos and glasses on the bare wooden shelf along the wall. “I took the liberty of making us martinis.”

“I’m not sure Ronan would approve,” I say as Violet fills both glasses close to the rim.

She carefully passes one to me before taking a darting sip from her own. “It’s fine. They had gin in the twenties. It was probably pure rubbing alcohol, but whatever gets the job done, eh?”

Violet takes another sip, prompting me to do the same. Her martini is light on the vermouth andveryheavy on the gin, which hits me hard. It may not be rubbing alcohol, but it’s not too far off.

“Too strong?” Violet says. “I knew I should have used more ice. But it was so exhausting. My poor arm! I’ve never used an ice pick before.”

“The things we take for granted,” I say.

Violet raises her glass. “Cheers to that.”

She drifts through the open space with enviable grace, looking unbothered by the darkness, the dress, or the heat. There’s nary a drop of perspiration on her face, whereas I’m glistening with sweat. Feeling inferior, I take another gulp of the martini.

“These cottages are lovely,” Violet says before pausing next to the bed. “May I sit?”

“Of course. But be warned. It’s as comfortable as a stack of cardboard.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

Violet gingerly sits and pats the mattress beside her. I approach the bed, cautious, as if there’s a movie star police force that will arrest me if I get too close. Then I’m sitting. Right next to her. So close I can see how the locket around her neck is cracked open, as if Violet had been looking at it seconds before knocking on my door.

“Pretty necklace,” I say.

Violet fingers the locket. “A gift. From my daughter.”

She opens it shyly, offering me a glimpse of the photograph inside. Violet and a young woman, blond and beautiful, smiling for the camera. Even if Violet hadn’t said anything, the two are obviously related. They have the same sparkling eyes, thin nose, sharp chin. In the photo, Violet and the girl huddle on a beach, their hair tousled by the breeze, their smiles Cover Girl ready.

There’s a photograph, taken by my mother, of me and my father on my sixth birthday. There was no party. Not then and not ever when I lived in that house. It was the same for my parents, as if they had decided that since Molly could no longer celebrate her birthday, then no one could. The most we got was cake, which is in the picture my mother took when I turned six.

Me, sitting next to my father, blowing out candles.

My father must not have been aware his picture was being taken. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t care. Because in that moment, the expression on his face is nothing but pure sorrow and abject disappointment. I’ve looked at that photo a thousand times now, and each time, I can only focus on how obvious it is that my father thought the wrong daughter had died.

Now I stare with envy at the photo of Violet and her daughter. There’s no sadness there. No regret. Only joy and deep, abiding love between parent and child.

“She’s a lucky girl,” I say.

Violet snaps the locket shut, tips back her glass, and takes a long sip. “That’s enough about boring old me. Let’s talk about you. Where did you come from, Marin Keane?”

“Pennsylvania.”

She lets out one of her world-famous laughs, and for a moment, I feel like I’m in one of her movies. Some family dramedy in which Violet plays my free-spirited aunt.

“I meant your career,” she says. “What led you to this?”

“Other than one humiliating commercial and a few off-off-off-Broadway plays, nothing.”

“Incredible,” Violet says.

“Not according to Susie,” I say, even though it’s the gin clearly talking. I’m already buzzed after half a martini. “I overheard her talking to Heather. She assumes I got the part because I slept with Ronan.”