Unmasked Read online

  Although he received the best treatment money could buy, Mitch struggled with his sobriety. He just couldn’t take the painful withdraw symptoms, and after a few days he walked out of the facility and into the Miami sunshine, stopping at the nearest bar, knowing there would soon be a warrant out for his arrest. When he sobered up a little, he panicked. Borrowing a cell phone from a fellow barfly, he called the secret number he memorized for such emergencies. A brief conversation with one of her many assistants brought him an airline ticket to Newark, New Jersey where a limousine with a young German driver waited for him. He wasn’t sure what was in store for him, another rehab? A vacation in the country where he could relax, hide out from the law until Karla’s lawyers could help him work this thing out and (he hoped) drink just a little. As a reassurance on this point, Mitch packed a bottle of his favorite bourbon in his suitcase, but that was stored away in the trunk. The cocktails he had on the plane had worn off hours ago, and a loop of the same Karla music video was getting on his nerves big time. He banged a hard fist on the glass partition that separated him from the driver.

  “Yo! You got anything to drink besides…” Mitch read off the bottle. “…Ostara Water?”

  There was no response from the stoic driver. Mitch banged harder.

  “Is this thing stopping soon? I gotta take a piss!”

  “Be patient. We are almost there,” the driver said, spitting out the heavily accented words through tightly drawn lips.

  “Be patient, eh? Where the hell are we going?”

  No answer.

  Mitch threw the water bottle against the glass partition. It bounced and landed back on his seat next to him.

  Fucking bullshit! He thought, cracking his knuckles loudly.

  Looking out the window at the passing landscape of green fields and thick woods, he recognized something that immediately lightened his mood: an old biker bar with a few beat-up cars and motorcycles parked in front, then a faded sign pointing to a dirt drive.

  “White Wolf Camp! What the fuck! I don’t believe it!”

  * * *

  The limousines formed a caravan, moving slowly down the winding lane.

  “Where are we?” asked Chrissie, noticing the worry lines between Jenna’s eyes.

  “You were too little to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “Oh, only the thing that changed all of our lives forever,” Jenna said with a deep sigh.

  Chrissie didn’t remember this place, but she understood Jenna's reference. Now that she had a chance to see it finally, maybe the blurry recollections gleaned from her siblings’ stories may start to make more sense.

  * * *

  At the sight of the weathered gate: two towering wooden totem poles carved into likenesses of animals and topped with twin wolf heads, Warren was breathless suddenly, transported in time. And when he spotted the majestic spires of the mansion, Wolf House, in the distance, his heart leapt.

  “Tara!” He said aloud and laughing, wishing Peter was there to share this moment with him. “It’s still there!”

  3

  Except for a few random sheds, the outbuildings and bunkhouses that had once made up a large part of the camp had disappeared. But Wolf House, the Gothic revival mansion that had once belonged to a wealthy industrialist, had been magnificently restored with a new slate roof, cleaned and pointed stones, and a fresh coat of paint on the door and window frames. The front lawn and surrounding grounds were expertly landscaped, including the rear veranda that now boasted a raked gravel path and flowering plants in large turn of the century urns receded into niches along the back wall. Past the emerald rectangle on which the great house sat, a thick bank of trees and overgrown foliage extended into the far distance where the lake, just visible through the trees, mirrored the blue, cloudless sky overhead. A few small boats dotted the far side of the lake where the marina still kept up a steady business, but this end was eerily quiet.

  The limousines crept up the curved gravel drive and parked in front of Wolf House’s main entrance. With military precision, the identically attired drivers exited their vehicles and opened the doors, releasing their passengers into a bright, green world they hadn’t seen in thirty years. Squinting in the mid-day sunshine, the siblings looked around eying each other suspiciously, wondering who was in on the joke.

  Warren was the first to break the ice with an affected show of friendliness. “This is quite the family reunion. Anne, darling!” He rushed to embrace her. Her feelings were still tender from Warren’s description of her in his book—a Stepford wife by way of Larchmont—was the exact phrase, but she allowed him the hug, holding her lit cigarette over his shoulder.

  Mitch was next in line, and she greeted him warmly, but not without noticing with a pang in her heart how awful he looked.

  Warren moved on to Chrissie, pulling her into a bear hug and catching a whiff of her lemon-scented hair.

  “This is a wonderful surprise! It’s so great to see all of you,” Chrissie said with beaming sincerity.

  “One big, happy family!” Warren said, with less conviction. He spotted Jenna, arms crossed, standing back from the group. “There’s the old sourpuss. I meant to call you.”

  “Really Warren? It’s only been six years,” she said sharply.

  He came at her with wide, open arms. She offered up a wan hug; he squeezed her so tightly he felt the bones in her back.

  “Six years? It seems much shorter.”

  “Same old Warren.” Jenna shook her head.

  “Same old all of us. You didn’t think any of us would ever change, did you? Anne may change husbands but never her self, right Anne.”

  You haven’t changed either, Warren, Anne thought turning her attention back to Mitch. The twins had stayed in touch over the years; Anne had been on the receiving end of many of Mitch’s self-pitying, drunken late-night calls. She usually didn't mind. She was a good listener, and alone in her cold bed it felt good to be needed, but his last few phone conversations had been manic. She wondered if he was doing coke again. She asked how he was.

  “Well, you know, my wife…ex-wife,” he said, shifting uneasily in his tight, trendy clothes. “…she moved with the younger kids down to Atlanta a few months back...well, it’s a long story. What can I say? Time flies...”

  “When you’re in and out of rehab.” Warren shot off.

  Mitch took a step towards Warren, stating with quiet conviction, “I can still kick your ass if I have to.”

  “Indeed.” Warren said. He had long ago learned to stand up to bullies.

  “Yeah, and another thing—I read that book you wrote about us.”

  “You can read, Mitchell? I’m shocked.” Warren didn’t flinch.

  “How can you write something so filled with inaccuracies? You know I have half a mind to sue you.”

  “Half a mind is giving you way too much credit,” Warren snapped.

  The calm, verbal expression skills Mitch had learned in rehab therapy quickly evaporated into the humid air. “Why, you little faggot asshole...”

  “Fuck-off fatso!” Warren shot back.

  Mitch lunged at him with clenched fists. Chrissie was quick to intervene, grabbing Mitch by the t-shirt and pulling him back, revealing a flash of his hairy beer gut.

  “Will you stop? All of you! Please! We haven’t seen each other in years, and you start fighting already!” Chrissie whined, her face reddening.

  Anne tossed her spent cigarette to the ground. “She’s right. We’re too old for this shit.”

  “Can’t we all just get along?” Chrissie pleaded with moist eyes.

  Jenna, observing the family farce from a safe distance piped in, “Well, it’s not quite all of us.”

  As if on cue, the massive front door of the lodge swung open with a loud creak. They turned in unison to face a handsome, dark-skinned man in his mid-thirties standing on the threshold. He introduced himself as Jorgé; his black mesh top revealed ripped muscles and several tattoos. He wore his long,
black hair tied in a slick ponytail and his neck and wrists were festooned with silver jewelry. Jenna, catching his coconut scent in the soft breeze, thought he looked like an actor from the internet porn she watched occasionally.

  Jorgé addressed the group with affected politeness. “Welcome back to White Wolf Camp. I hope your journey was pleasant.” He turned to the drivers who still stood at stiff attention, and then dismissed them with a nod of his head. Then he welcomed the guests inside.

  * * *

  Once filled with dusty Victorian froufrou, the lounge area next to the foyer had been redecorated with low sofas fashioned from roughhewn logs. Hand-made rugs with Native American motifs lined the wide-planked floors, and authentic Hudson Valley landscapes adorned the white plaster walls; the vaulted ceilings and peaked windows added grandeur to the rustic mix. A curved staircase led to a second floor, and looking past the velvet robe that barred entrance to it, Warren could see from the stained fleur-de-lis patterned wallpaper he remembered as a child that the interior had been only partially renovated in honor of their stay.

  “Charming,” Warren observed, meaning it. The center fireplace with its antique copper hood was a prime example of the Arts & Crafts style he and Peter loved. Everywhere he looked his eye caught a subtly tasteful detail. It had been a lifetime since Warren had explored the old mansion, and he found the prospect piquing his interest once again.

  “Your rooms are this way,” Jorgé’s bass voice droned. “Dinner will be served here in the main hall. You have a few hours to rest.” He made an elegant, silver-adorned gesture towards the west wing.

  The tired siblings obeyed his instruction and moved as a group down the long hallway. When they passed a large window Anne gasped. “Look Jenna! The lake!” She pointed through the leaded glass panes to the blue and gold flecks glistening through the trees.

  “I see it,” Jenna said. She sensed Anne’s anxiety from the moment they arrived, and was in no mood for it.

  They stopped before a row of doors, adorned with small brass frames that held cards bearing each of their names in elegant, hand-written script.

  “Stay with me!" Anne grasped Jenna's arm. "Please! Bad memories, you know.”

  “My room is right next to yours.” Irritation crept into Jenna’s voice despite her best effort to conceal it.

  “Just for a little while,” Anne insisted, her French-manicured nails digging into Jenna’s arm.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Jenna nearly shouted, wrenching her arm away with a bit too much force. Anne reeled back, hurt welling in her eyes. Jenna felt a familiar tinge of guilt, overshadowed by annoyance. She was already drained from the long ride with Chrissie, and now Anne was clinging to her like a vine. No wonder her lovers rejected her, she thought unkindly.

  Chrissie sidled up to Anne and said, “I’ll stay with you.”

  “Thanks, baby. I’m glad someone understands.”

  Before Jenna could respond, they disappeared into Anne’s room, practically slamming the door in Jenna’s face. Her therapist had educated her about the concept of triangulation, but she was too late on the play; before she realized what was happening the sisters had fallen effortlessly into their old roles: Anne the victim, Chrissie the savior...and me the bitch, she thought.

  Once inside her room, Jenna’s relief at being alone overshadowed any sting of their rejection. The limousine ride with Chrissie’s incessant chatter and the general stress of the day had left her exhausted. She looked forward to dinner and then to bed early with a good book, if only she had remembered to bring one.

  As if someone had read her mind, she noticed several romance novels—the kind she devoured as a child and still enjoyed as an adult—stacked neatly on the nightstand. She knew that someone was Karla, and she hoped that this retreat was nothing more than a chance to rest, but inwardly she braced herself. She suspected the true purpose of their arrival, and their hostess, would reveal itself at dinner.

  She looked around her room. It was tastefully decorated in the same rustic style as the main hall. The four-poster bed was high and inviting, with an antique lace coverlet and a stack of pillows.

  She moved to the window and opened it. The curtains billowed in, and with it a delicious breeze redolent of honeysuckle and pine needles. It had been ages since she was in the country. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, catching the subtly briny odor of the clay that lined the lake’s banks. She hadn’t smelled that in years, and it instantly triggered a memory of her as a skinny twelve-year-old kid, pelted by rain as a distressed seventeen-year-old Karla lay on the pier in her red bikini, quaking violently and struggling to breathe. It was a horrible vision and she forced it from her mind. She closed the window halfway and moved to the bed. She was about to hoist herself into the high mattress when she saw a note propped up on one of the pillows: creamy linen stationery adorned with an engraved letter “K”. She opened it and immediately recognized Karla’s Catholic school cursive. It read: Please dress for dinner. You’ll find proper attire in the closet. XOXO K.

  Rolling her eyes at the affectation, she dropped the note on the nightstand and opened the closet, gasping audibly at the stunning collection of designer clothes hanging in neat rows before her eyes—all in Jenna’s size 4.

  Karla had gone to a lot of trouble to get everything just right, but why? she thought. She moved to the bathroom and found an assortment of expensive cosmetics, lotions, and perfumes on the shelf next to a stack of fluffy white towels.

  She returned to the closet and chose an outfit for the evening: a taupe gown in a pleated Grecian style that appeared expressly designed for her slim, flat-chested figure. She hung it on the back of the bathroom door, loosened the fly of her jeans, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed for a quick nap. A few hours later, a sharp rap on the door roused her from her sleep.

  4

  After a dinner of light Asian fare, the five siblings sat in a square of sofas surrounding the lounge’s center fireplace shifting uncomfortably in their evening clothes, and eagerly imbibing the wine offered to them. Their hostess had yet to make an appearance.

  “Yo waiter!” Mitch snapped his fingers at Jan, the young, blond man who served them. “Don’t you have anything stronger than this berry juice?”

  “I’m very sorry, Sir. This is all we have.” Jan spoke in the same clipped German accent as the limousine drivers.

  “Dis is all we have,” Mitch said, mocking his accent. “No bourbon? Nothing?”

  Jan smiled coldly. “I’m sorry this is not to your liking, sir. It is very fine wine.”

  “It certainly is. What is this please?” Warren asked, breaking the tension. He wasn’t in the mood for another Mitch scene.

  “Chateau d’Yquem, sir,” Jan replied with perfect diction.

  “Indeed. What year?” Warren could act the wine snob too.

  Jan named the year as he refilled Anne’s upheld glass.

  “Aw, that explains it. That was an excellent year for Bordeaux,” Warren said.

  A crash of thunder rocked the thick walls, and the lights from the Tiffany chandeliers flickered overhead.

  “That was an excellent year for a lot of things."

  All heads turned at the sound of an unmistakable voice. Karla—dressed in a white strapless gown shimmering with beads—appeared in the foyer as if by magic. Her platinum hair hung in loose waves to her bare shoulders, and her skin, complemented by topaz and diamond jewels, was as smooth and as supple as a woman’s half her age. She held her pose for several beats, enjoying her effect on her dumbstruck siblings.

  “That was the year I was born, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at me, would you?” The affected British accent was something she had acquired in recent years; the sardonic delivery was pure Karla.

  Warren, the first to break the spell her appearance had cast upon the room, rose to his feet and bowed with false gallantry. “Always one to make an entrance. It appears that the rumors about your botched face-lift are false. You look s
tunning.” He moved a few steps towards her, picked up her hand and led her to join the others.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said, casting him a sideways glance. “I see you’ve put on weight. It doesn’t suit you, but then you never had my discipline.”

  Before Warren could hit back with a witty retort, Karla addressed the entire group. “Hello everyone. Please don’t get up.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” said Mitch, chugging down the last bit of wine in his glass.

  Karla laughed, the dimples appearing in her lightly rouged cheeks. “Good old Mitch. “Always the charmer.”

  “Old, eh? You’re older than me, baby. Me and Anne came eighteen months after you, ain’t that right?” Mitch looked over at Anne and winked. Anne nodded kindly but--stunned by her older sister’s appearance--kept her eyes on Karla.

  Karla looked down at Mitch, who sat on the sofa with legs splayed. “It’s nice to know you’re still capable of simple mathematical equations despite all those years of alcohol and drug abuse. Did they treat you well at the last rehab I paid for?”

  “Yeah, I got a real nice tan while I was there too.” Mitch grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table and poured the rest of it into his glass, splashing a bit on the rug.

  Karla smirked as her eyes drifted down to the straining waistband of his tuxedo trousers. “It’s a shame you’ve let yourself go, Mitch. You used to be such a handsome man. Do you know you were my first crush? It’s true. It was when I was still innocent, before I knew those things were forbidden.”

  “You? Innocent?” said Warren, entering the fray. He meant to show more restraint, but he couldn’t resist having a go at her after all these years. She hadn’t mellowed at all, he thought. In fact she’s in top form.

  “Got something to say, Warren?” Karla placed her hands on her hips, challenging him. Thrown by the strength of her beauty (he wasn’t expecting her to look this good), the witty retort he had at the ready evaporated in his mouth. Karla inwardly smiled at her small victory over him and addressed the next sibling.