So Pretty It Hurts

Scott rose from his chair, took his iPhone from the pocket of his jacket, and docked it in a nearby iPod speaker. A few seconds later the room was filled with the haunting sound of a woman singing a song with the refrain, “You’ll break my heart a second time.” It was part ballad, part pop song, with a splash of country. I knew it was Devon Barr singing, but it was hard to reconcile the voice with the creature at the table. Everyone just sat there spellbound. When I glanced down a minute later and saw a wedge of apple pie, I realized I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t noticed anyone slide it in front of me.

“That’s absolutely sensational,” Cap said when the track was over.

“Isn’t it?” Scott said. “Devon Barr is going to be huge.”

An awkward silence followed. I was about to ask the release date when Tommy tilted his chair back, a signal, it seemed, that he was about to make a pronouncement.

“Well, well,” he declared. “You were holding out on me, Devon. I had no fucking clue you could sing like that.”

She looked at him slyly.

“I—I thought you didn’t like ballads,” she said. Her words had sounded just a little slurred, which surprised me. I hadn’t seen her drink anything but water before dinner, and her wineglass was nearly full.

“I believe I’ve just changed my mind. Of course, I do need to know who you wrote the song about.”

Devon stared at him intensely. “You’ll have to guess—like everyone else,” she said teasingly. “But what a nice surprise you like it.”

People shifted in their seats collectively, and I half expected someone at the table to shout, “Get a room!” I wondered what Tory was thinking. Turns out I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Nice surprise?” Tory shouted, her voice shrill with sarcasm. She was just a few feet to my right, and her outburst startled me so much, I nearly jumped. “It’s no fucking surprise at all. It’s why you invited us, isn’t it?”

The whole table just sat there in stunned silence. Devon didn’t answer but stared at Tory, the famous mouth pursed and her eyes squinted, as if she had no idea what Tory could possibly mean.

“You wanted Scott to play your stupid ballad in front of me and Tommy,” Tory said, “so I’d have to sit here watching him get a woody as he listened to it.”

Ahhh, I’d wondered if things might come to a boil this weekend.

“I’m sure Tommy’s just being complimentary,” Scott said. “There’s nothing to get excited about.”

“It’s none of your fat business,” Tory snapped. “You want to fuck her, too, I bet.”

“Oh, please, Tory, that’s enough,” Tommy shouted from across the table. “Stop being so freaking obsessed and eat your pie.”

“Why don’t you stick it in your piehole,” she said. She picked up the cobalt blue goblet in front of her and tossed the remains of her sparkling water at Tommy from across the table—though most of it ended up splashing on Whitney. As Richard watched the water trickle down Whitney’s cleavage, Tory stormed off, digging the heels of her boots hard into the bare wood floor.

Sandy moved toward the table decisively, a large rag in hand, and simultaneously Scott passed Whitney his own napkin for her to dab the water off. Then he turned back to the rest of the table, where we all sat speechless.

“Well,” he said, looking like a guy who’d seen far worse and wasn’t going to be thrown off his game by a minor hissy fit, “who would like to join me for a few hands of poker?”

“I’m in,” Richard said, his voice liquidy. Several other people volunteered as well.

“Not me,” Devon said, pushing back her chair. “I’m—I’m going to bed.” I realized suddenly that she was tipsy, and as she stood up at the table, she wobbled a bit. At her body weight, I guessed, even a couple of sips of wine could leave one blotto. “Jane, lez go.”

“I’m not ready, actually,” Jane announced bluntly. She looked self-satisfied, as if she’d been waiting all night for a moment to assert her independence.

“I don’t care. You gotta come.”

“Sorry, this is one mess you’ll have to take care of yourself,” Jane said.

Devon scowled halfheartedly and moved toward the stairs, swaying slightly with each step.

“Devon, let me help you,” Cap called after her. He started to jump from the table.

“No,” she called out over her shoulder. “Don’t need you.”

Whitney rested her hand on Cap’s arm. “Honey, let her be. She clearly wants some time alone.”

After a couple of awkward moments, people began to rise from the table and take positions around the room. For the next hour or so everyone played cards or pool—except Whitney, who sat tightly next to Cap and seemed to be lost in thought. Despite Scott’s attempts to keep things jovial, the party never regained the festive mood from earlier. At about eleven Tommy threw down his cards and said he was calling it quits for the night. I couldn’t help but wonder what might get tossed at him when he opened his bedroom door. Soon afterward, I said good night, not wanting to be the last to leave, and discreetly winked at Jessie.

Heading back through the passageway, I saw that the snow was coming down hard now—and that there was close to a foot on the ground already. I didn’t like the look of it. Getting out to the main road tomorrow wasn’t going to be easy even with the long driveway plowed.

As I dressed for bed, I couldn’t help but think of Beau. If I hadn’t let my annoyance get the better of me, I would have been snuggled up in bed with him in Manhattan right now, instead of being nearly snowbound in a barn with a bunch of totally wacky houseguests who liked to get sloshed or stoned, expose their boobs, and hurl drinks across the table.

Had I totally overreacted about the Sedona trip? I wondered. I knew part of the reason it bugged me so much was that it raised the ghost of the trip Beau had taken to Turkey last summer, not long after I first set eyes on him. I didn’t like anything at all about that trip.

Beau and I had first met in the Buzz office building, on one of the corporate floors. I’d gone up there to talk to someone, and Beau was meeting with the head dude, Tom Dicker, to discuss a documentary film project. When I spotted him across the reception room, it was like being hit by a lightning bolt, and not long after we were having this crazy fling.

He’d been very clear from the start. He was looking for fun, not a relationship—in part because he wasn’t ready and in part because he was heading off to Turkey soon to make a documentary there. I was fine with the fling part for a while, but as I found myself falling hard, I told Beau I needed to break it off. To my surprise he said that he was pretty smitten and asked if I’d give him a chance to mull it over when he was in Turkey. He promised to stay in touch.

But then all I got was one lousy postcard. I gave up after a while, feeling more than sorry about the loss, and became involved with a young actor named Chris Wickersham. I never expected to see Beau again. But after he returned in September, he let me know that he’d fallen for me and wanted to make a full commitment. He sounded genuine, and things had overall been good with us since. Except that I couldn’t unload my doubts. Like I’d told Jessie, I had the sense he’d talked himself into a commitment because he didn’t want to give me up.

I grabbed my BlackBerry from my purse and checked to see if I’d missed a call or text from Beau. I hadn’t. I called his cell, knowing it was still early in Sedona. All I got was voice mail. I left a message telling him I was going to bed but would talk to him tomorrow after his flight landed. I wished him a good trip. There, I thought. I can be a big girl.

I fell asleep pretty easily, exhausted from the group psycho-dynamics of the evening. And then all of a sudden I was awake again and wasn’t sure why. I squinted at my watch: 2:47. The wind was howling fiercely outside my bedroom window, and I guessed that the noise must have woken me. But as I lay quietly listening I heard a sound that wasn’t the wind. Someone, somewhere was wailing.

Maybe it’s just Tommy and Tory having makeup sex, I told myself, but a second later I heard it again—a cross between a wail and a moan, and it was louder now and desperate sounding. I took a deep breath, threw off the covers, and projected myself out of bed. Cautiously I opened the bedroom door a crack. I couldn’t see anything but I heard someone—a woman, I thought—moan again off to the left. I opened the door wider and peered along the corridor.

A complete stranger, a female, was standing in front of the room across and down a bit from Jessie’s. The door to the room was open, and the woman was leaning against the door frame, looking pale and disoriented. She was dressed incongruously in a parka, a flannel nightgown, and a pair of snow boots. Just as I was about to ask