The Old Deep and Dark Read Free Page A

dad’s life was generally too peripatetic for him to remain in one place for such a long stretch. His career, even at fifty-nine, was still going strong. Booker couldn’t see any end in sight—for either of his parents. Unless it was a physical ailment. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Tooth decay might have the most devastating immediate effect on their careers, since their bright, broad, icy white smiles were fundamental parts of their home-and-apple-pie images.
    Booker loved his parents, he supposed. It wasn’t something he thought about much anymore. They didn’t really know him, partly because they hadn’t had the time or inclination to ask leading questions, and partly because he tried hard not to present them with any obvious problems that would take them away from their more immediate interests: themselves. Mostly, though, they couldn’t possibly know him because he’d purposely stayed under the radar. He’d seen what their attention had wrought in his sister’s life—she was three years his senior—and he wanted no part of it. “Mom and Dad don’t understand me” might be a familiar refrain, which didn’t make it any less true. In Booker’s case, it had been his goal.
    Booker and Chloe had been two kids swimming—drowning?—in a sea of seeming perfection, expected to live up to standards that were nothing more than chimeras. In many ways, they were still those kids, still fighting their way to a safe shore. Jordan and Kit Deere weren’t bad people. Far from it. They could be generous, good-natured, occasionally even kind. They weren’t big on consistency, however. Booker was never quite sure, when he came out of his bedroom in the morning, what mood he’d find them in. They had many. Often, when they were gone, Booker felt more at ease because he didn’t need to check which way the wind was blowing every few minutes. In Booker’s opinion, his parents’ failings all stemmed from an inability to perform even the rudiments of introspection—of self-examination. They saw no further than the adoring reflections of themselves in other people’s eyes. They were cursed by mistaking those reflections for reality.
    Coming down the steps to the patio, Booker saw that Chloe had a thick stack of typing paper wedged against her stomach. She’d built a fire and was tossing pages in, one by one. Wearing a baggy sweater, black leggings, and a pair of wedge sandals, she looked about as angry as he’d ever seen her. On a bench by the edge of the flagstones was a bottle of red wine and a half-filled wineglass. “Hey,” he said, holding open his arms as he walked toward her. “Remember me?”
    She brightened instantly. “Booker,” she said, rushing to him. “God, I’m so glad you’re here.” She squeezed him tight with one arm, holding on for almost a minute. “You’re the only thing that’s going to make the next few days bearable.”
    â€œThat bad?” he said, kissing her hair. Hugging her felt like hugging a sparrow. He could easily feel every bone in her back. She maintained to everyone in the family that she was in great shape. He knew she got a lot of praise for her slimness, the last thing she needed.
    She tilted her lovely, heart-shaped face up at him, looking so much like their mother that it was almost uncanny. “Why do we live on opposite ends of the country? Sometimes I miss you so much it’s like … like I’m missing a limb.”
    â€œWe’ve had this conversation before. Do you want to live in New York City?”
    She scrunched up her nose. “You should move to L.A. It’s not so bad.”
    â€œWith all the beautiful people? I think not.” He gave her another kiss, then backed up and pointed to the papers. “Burning your X-rated diary?”
    â€œIt’s his goddamn manuscript.” Her fury seemed to boil up