It had been a long time since Lauren had dreamed about Rory. In the beginning, it was every night. She’d wake up with a start in darkness and realize with crushing fresh awareness that he was gone. Now, thanks to that damn filmmaker, it had happened last night.
She’d been running in her dream. Running, the way she’d been when she first saw Rory. Now, in the near dawn, jogging in the salty air of reality, she couldn’t remember the dream itself. But she could remember, like it was yesterday, how she’d felt that day.
It had been her sophomore year of high school, early-fall track-team practice on Arnold Field. She was losing interest in the sport. Her true passion at that point was writing—specifically, journalism. Lower Merion’s student newspaper, the Merionite, was an elective you could take starting in tenth grade. It was a unique class, overseen by an English teacher but run day to day by seniors who had been writing for the newspaper for the past two years and were now the editors. She wanted to be one of those editors one day so badly!
She ran her warm-up mile around the track, trying not to worry about whether she’d chosen the right article to send in with her application to the Merionite. She’d submitted a piece that had been published in the middle-school paper about the problem of the school running late into June because of snow days. She’d also included an essay about how her interest in journalism had started after reading Katharine Graham’s Pulitzer Prize–winning memoir Personal History.
During her second lap, she noticed the boys’ ice hockey team running drills nearby. One player stood out. He was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair.
Each turn around the track, just past the bleachers, she looked for him, scanning the group. In the final stretch, the hockey team’s drill brought him to the edge of the track. He bent down to lace his sneaker just as she was rounding the bend. She looked at him, and he happened to glance up at that moment, and it was instant eye-lock. Beneath dark brows, his eyes were so brown they were nearly black and they shone with an intensity that made her lose what little breath she had.
It might never have been more than that—a shared glance, Lauren thinking about him for a few days after. Hoping to see him in the halls, feeling like the Molly Ringwald character in a John Hughes movie.
And then she got accepted to the Merionite.
Beth surveyed the attic, overwhelmed by five decades’ worth of junk. She’d failed to sort through it after her mother died eight years earlier, and now her avoidance had boomeranged back. The idea of clearing out the space completely by the end of the summer seemed impossible.
“What is all this stuff?” Ethan asked, sitting on a box.
“Careful, hon. I don’t know what’s in there. Could be fragile. Here, come stand next to Gran and help me organize. Let’s get all of these boxes into three sections: stuff to throw away, stuff to give away, and stuff to keep.”
He jumped off the box and scurried next to her. Truly, he was adorable. It amazed her how boy energy was so different from girl energy. After raising two daughters, she loved having a grandson.
“How do you know what to throw out?” he asked.
“That’s a good question, and that’s where you come in. I’m going to open all of the boxes—don’t touch this, it’s very sharp,” she said, holding up the straight-edged razor, “and we’re going to check what’s inside. Then I’ll figure it out.”
“You’re going to open all of them?” His big eyes widened.
She nodded. Fortunately, most were labeled. But it was times like these that she wished she had a sibling to share the load. Her girls were so lucky that they had each other, and they failed to appreciate that. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why or how their relationship had gone off the rails. Her husband criticized her for letting Stephanie get away with so much, but on this issue she did not give her older daughter a free pass; the problems between the girls seemed to begin with Stephanie.
Beth sighed, bending to read the faded ink on the side of a box. She was surprised to find her own handwriting. She herself had contributed to this mess? Beth/baking/job, she read.
So that’s where they were! After turning the Philly house upside down, after literally crying because she’d thought her old baking supplies had gotten lost or thrown away. She sliced through the tape, pulling aside the wings of the box.
“Wait, Grandma, let me help,” Ethan said, reaching for the tail of the severed tape. “What is this stuff?”
He pulled out a cake-decorating turntable.
“I used to bake a lot for my job. We did big, fancy parties. That’s for icing a cake.”
Ethan peered into the box—the pyramid-tiered cake stands, icing gun, and cutting wheel—with obvious delight.
“You made cakes with this stuff?”
She nodded and dug deeper into the box, then squealed with joy when her fingers felt the corners of a book.
“Oh, Ethan—I’ll be able to show you. This is an album I kept of all the beautiful affairs I worked on. Weddings and graduations and baby showers. Wait until you see some of these desserts.”
“There you are!” Stephanie called from the attic doorway. She looked too dressed up for a day at the beach in her tight white jeans and turquoise tunic.
Stephanie stepped over a box and stalked over to them. “What are you doing with him in this dusty attic? It’s gorgeous outside.”
Beth felt like snapping, Well, someone has to pay attention to your son. Instead, she replied calmly, “Ethan’s helping me with a little project. Right, Ethan?”
He grinned. God, she could eat him up.
“Okay, well, Dad sent me to get you. He’s ready to go.”
Beth had almost forgotten they had to drive back to Philly for the afternoon. Unpleasant legal loose ends, papers needed signing. Everywhere she turned, disarray.
“Your father really could do this without me.”
“No, you should go,” Stephanie said urgently. Beth had a flashback to Stephanie as a teenager rushing them out the door so she could have the house free for a forbidden party. Fortunately, there was hardly any more trouble Stephanie could get into.
“Relax, I’m going,” Beth said. “Hon, take him to the beach. It is beautiful out. Do something nice today.”
“Don’t worry about us, Mom,” said Stephanie. “I’ve got it covered.”
Matt pulled into the sleepy cul-de-sac just before noon, the sound of the ocean greeting him through the open car windows. He’d been surprised when Stephanie suggested they shoot at her house but didn’t hesitate to say yes.
His DP and sound guy parked directly behind him.
“Not too shabby,” said Paul Garrett, his soundman, a native of Cherry Hill, New Jersey, who’d been recommended to Matt by a tech on The Disappearing Sea.
It was a beautiful house, as nice as any of the homes Matt had visited in East Hampton over the years. He’d always had an idea that the Jersey Shore was on a lower rung of the summer-home ladder than the New York beach towns. Maybe it was less desirable geographically, but there was an undeniable charm to Absecon Island.
“Let’s do it,” Matt said, leading the way up the front walk. He pointed to a faded sign: THE GREEN GABLE. “Get a shot of that,” he said to his camera guy, a local named Derek.
Stephanie greeted them at the front door. Matt noted her bright blue shirt, thinking it would read well on camera.
“Hey, you guys. Come on in. I thought maybe we could talk in the kitchen?”
Matt and his small crew followed her into a spacious, sun-filled room that wouldn’t work for filming—too much natural light.
“Would you mind showing us around so we can choose the optimal spot?” Matt said. “We have to factor in a lot of things for shooting.”
They moved on to the living room. The space had a casual elegance with a few eclectic design touches. He admired a stack of vintage suitcases.
Matt looked to Derek, who held out his phone. He had an app that let him test the light and also calculate when it would shift.
“If we close that shade and move the couch, maybe set the bookshelf behind her? This could work,” said Derek.
“Do you mind if they move a few things around?” Matt asked, fully aware that “move a few things around” was a huge understatement. The next time Stephanie saw the space, half the furniture would be pushed to one side, the room would be filled with wires running everywhere, and whatever wasn’t pushed out of the frame would be arranged in a completely different way.
He followed her back to the kitchen, resisting the urge to make conversation; one of the early lessons he’d learned in subject interviews was to talk as little as possible before the camera and audio were on. On his first film he’d gotten the best quote from a subject before the camera was running and then couldn’t get the guy to repeat it.
Stephanie began talking about the house, how it had been her grandparents’ and they’d spent summers there growing up.
“Before we get started, I need you to sign a release.” He sat across from her on a chair upholstered in pale linen and passed her the single sheet of paper.
Stephanie looked at him suspiciously. “Shouldn’t I have a lawyer look at this or something?”
“You can. But it’s very straightforward. It grants me the irrevocable right to use whatever we film in whatever way I see fit to make and market the film you’ve agreed to be interviewed for.”
“I have no idea what you just said.” She smiled flirtatiously.
“This is the deal: You don’t have to answer any questions you don’t want to, and you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. But once you’ve spoken on camera, the material becomes, essentially, property of the film company.”
She looked at him, not quite with a raised eyebrow but with an expression that was certainly in the spirit of a raised eyebrow. Then, leaning forward, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and signed the paper. Then she glanced up at him as if she had accepted a dare.
“This will be fun,” she said. “I’ll get the coffee started.”
He turned his phone off and shoved it in his pocket. Stephanie told him over her shoulder, “My sister would have a fit if she knew I was doing this.”
Matt had already thought the same thing. It was a delicate situation. He wanted to spur Lauren into participating, not send her over the edge.
“You said she was out of the house today.”
“Yeah, she’s always working. Or running like a maniac.”
“She runs a lot?”
“Every morning at the crack of dawn. Before dawn. All the way to the casinos and back. Totally psycho.”
Stephanie’s son walked into the room. Matt recognized him from her Facebook page. A good-looking kid. He clutched a soccer ball.
“Ethan! I told you to stay upstairs until I got you.”
“Can I use the computer?” He dropped the ball, dribbled it for a few steps. Matt watched him. Something about the footwork triggered the idea that this kid might make for good B-roll: innocent boy, the early love of sports.
“Yes, yes,” Stephanie said, exasperated. “I said that you could have computer time.”
The kid fixed his dark eyes on Matt.
“Hello there,” Matt said.
Ethan kicked the ball into the other room and ran after it.
“Would you mind if I filmed him for a few minutes? Later, after we’re done?” he said.
Stephanie visibly stiffened. “Why would you want to interview my son?”
“No, not interview, just film him kicking the ball around. Sometimes things like a shot of scenery or a kid make good footage to juxtapose against interviews.”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Matt.” His DP peeked in. “I want to get her situated in the room to check the light.”
“Showtime,” Matt said to Stephanie with a wink.
They followed Derek back into the living room. Stephanie gasped.
“Oh my God, you moved this whole room around. My mother will have a stroke.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll put everything back the way it was.” Derek showed her a photo he’d taken of how the room had looked before they’d made it shootable.
Placated, Stephanie followed Matt’s direction to sit on the bone-colored couch next to a wood coffee table stacked with oversize, glossy books about architecture, great American gardens, and the jewelry collection of Elizabeth Taylor. A tall silver vase had been filled with fresh lavender.
Paul slipped the mic wire down the front of her shirt and hooked the sound pack to the back of her jeans. Matt sat directly across from her. Derek made a last-minute change to the camera, moving it a few inches just above Matt’s left shoulder.
“You ready to get started?” Matt asked Stephanie.
“I’m ready.”
“Are we rolling?” he asked.
“Rolling,” Derek said.
“Action,” Matt said. He faced Stephanie. “I want to thank you for participating in this film. I really believe Rory’s story is worth telling. And I couldn’t do it without the help of the people who knew him best.”
She nodded, looking nervous for the first time.
“When I ask you a question, I need you to respond by repeating part of it. So if I say, ‘What is your name?’ you say, ‘My name is Stephanie Adelman.’ All of my questions will be edited out, so for this to make sense you need to repeat part of what I ask.”
If he got a rambling answer, he would ask her to repeat the one sentence that was usable. Years of sitting in front of screens in editing suites had taught him which answers were usable and which were not. Too much padding or repetition, and no matter how important the idea being expressed, he had to cut it.
He asked Stephanie for her name, and she told him about how her name was technically Stephanie Keller now, but she was getting divorced and going back to Adelman, so should she use…
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Matt said.
“My name is Stephanie Adelman.”
“And how did you know Rory?”
“High school,” she said.
“Can you include my question in your answer?”
“Oh—right. Sorry. I knew Rory from high school. We were in the same year.”
“Do you remember when you first met?”
“God, it was so long ago. It’s like I always knew him.”
“Did you meet him when he started dating your sister?”
“No! Is that what she told you? Typical. I knew Rory first. She got to Rory through me.”
Matt refrained from reminding her that he hadn’t interviewed Lauren. “How did she get to Rory through you?”
“Rory was in my group of friends. I mean, I don’t want to brag or whatever but he and I were juniors. We were popular. Lauren was a year younger. A nobody.” Matt glanced at the row of silver-framed photos on the fireplace mantel.
“Is that you up there? Were you a cheerleader?”
Stephanie smiled. “Yep. I was a cheerleader. Starting sophomore year. I was squad captain by senior year.”
“Did the squad cheer at hockey games?”
She shook her head. “Just football and basketball.”
“Did you go to hockey games?”
“Sometimes. Hockey wasn’t the big sport at LM. It was more soccer and football.”
“So Lauren met Rory through you?”
“She was writing some article for the stupid paper. The school paper. And she was like, Oh, I need to interview Rory. Can you give me his number? Like, she had zero interest in sports and suddenly she’s Bob Costas.”
“How well did you know Rory prior to him dating your sister?”
Stephanie paused. “I mean, we hung out. Went to the same parties. I went out with some of his friends.”
“Did Rory party a lot? Drink, smoke, that sort of thing?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t drink, didn’t get high.”
“Can you include the question in your answer?”
“Oh—sorry. Rory didn’t drink or do drugs. Anyone else would have been considered totally lame, but he could get away with anything. Not only did people not give him shit for not drinking, but some of his friends didn’t do drugs when he was around because they didn’t want him to think less of them.”
Matt decided to abruptly switch direction, a tactic he used sometimes in interviews to get a more honest, spontaneous response from a subject.
“Do you know why your sister doesn’t want to talk to me?”
Stephanie hesitated for just a beat before saying, “It’s not personal. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Maybe she thinks she’s protecting his memory or something.”
“Protecting his memory from what?”
“I don’t know. Negative stuff.”
“Is there something negative to say about Rory? Because I can tell you that I’ve spent years talking to people about him, and no one has ever said anything negative.”
A strange expression crossed her face. “I guess you’re talking to the wrong people, then.”
“Do you have something negative to say about Rory Kincaid?”
Stephanie lowered her gaze. He was disciplined enough not to push.
“No,” she said finally. “But what do I know? Except that no one’s perfect, right? I mean, Lauren always worshipped him and now the whole world does.”
“Stephanie, I want to see Rory Kincaid for who he really was. I’m just trying to tell the truth.”
Stephanie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know if that’s going to help you where my sister is concerned.”
“Why not?”
“Because not everyone wants the truth. Some people see only what they want to see.”