The Carriage House by Louisa Hall Read Free Book Online Page A

in William.” The neighbors had always hated Adelia. Ostensibly, the reason was some altercation that took place between Adelia and Mrs. Cheshire’s overweight son, but Louise suspected it had more to do with Adelia’s successful career, which functionally undermined the importance of their housewifely routines. Louise had always felt for Adelia, if only because she fit so poorly into the schedule of grocery shopping and lasagna trading that held the women of Little Lane in its death grip. The petty triumph that a woman such as Mrs. Cheshire felt upon discovering that Adelia had disgraced herself irritated Louise, and she renewed her commitment to depicting Adelia as a complicated and at least partly sympathetic villain. Mrs. Cheshire should be the worse of the two. Louise reminded herself to describe the precise stiffness of Mrs. Cheshire’s anachronistic beehive hairdo, and the waxy permanence of her magenta lipstick, both of which caused her to resemble a well-off zombie sent from the American suburbs of 1959.
    “Listen, Louise,” the beehive continued, “do you mind if I ask a personal question? Is Adelia staying with him, in the bedroom?”
    Louise feigned a shock of morality. “No, Mrs. Cheshire, of course not. She’s moved her things into the guest room.”
    “I see.” Mrs. Cheshire’s eyes gleamed. This was the neighborhood gossip event of the century. She was damaging swathes of peaches in her excitement. “Well, give my best to Margaux,” she said, and Louise agreed to do so, although she would not, because the last time she carted Mrs. Cheshire’s greetings to Margaux, Margaux murmured, “She always frightened me,” and Louise could see her point.
    Back at the house, Louise started surreptitiously snooping. While Margaux was out in the garden, she rummaged through various desk drawers and made the following list in her CVS notebook: Margaux’s Desk Drawer Contents: a) tiny red paper clips; b) oil paintbrushes, uncleaned, well ruined now; c) unpaid bills (tell William to call credit card company; you should have caught this earlier, you fuckwit, Louise); d) photos of Margaux with her girls when they were little babies, dressed in costumes and other such heartbreaking stuff; e) silver box with mother-of-pearl-clasp, full of broken glass.
    And then, in the bottom left-hand drawer, Louise found a pile of notebooks. They were unmarked, but it was clear they had been well used. Louise reached down for the top notebook and changed her mind, going for the bottom of the stack. As soon as she opened it, she knew from the elegance of the cursive with which Margaux had filled its pale blue lines that she had found something important. In the back of her brain, she began to hear the buzz of a book party, and she imagined that Bradley would understand, forever and for always, that his bland blond wife was no match for the fascinating woman he’d left behind. Attempting to temper the increasingly noisy chatter of her daydreams, Louise took a deep breath, smoothed down a crease in the binding, and plunged.
    March 14, 1988
    I remembered yesterday that my mother kept a memory book. The idea of it intrigued me and I told myself to get one next time I went to the store. When I went, I remembered this notebook but forgot to buy apples and tonic water. William will be frustrated and Izzy will have to go without fruit in her lunch bag. Still, I’m happy to have remembered this, at least. There’s so much I’d like to write down.
    For starters, there is this: I have suspected for six years that I would develop my mother’s illness. The feeling came first when I was pregnant with Isabelle. I was trying to remember how my mother looked when I was a child, and suddenly I thought, “I can’t be a mother for another little girl.” The idea of it sickened me. I tried to tell William, but he was too happy to listen. He is deafened by excitement sometimes. Later, when Izzy was born, I wished I had never seen her face so