The Big Bang

by Linda Joffe Hull

  Will raised his glass. “I think I’ve had my fill of neighborhood affairs for a while.”

  Tim gave Will a brotherly pat on the shoulder but smiled at Hope. “To neighborhood affairs.”

  ***

  Maryellen allowed herself a glass of champagne, and then a well-deserved refill.

  Her house and the playground would be restored. The deed to the land was hers, at least until she sold the property on behalf of the Harmony Hills Church. Frank’s life insurance insured her and Eva’s comfortable future.

  She looked over at Hope, standing beside her beaming husband.

  And Hope was officially pregnant.

  Maryellen first blamed Hope for seducing Frank, subjecting her to countless hours of imaginary interrogation and non-NATO-approved coercion techniques. When you say you don’t remember anything from the night of the potluck, what exactly don’t you remember? Where the hell don’t you remember being with my husband? Does the art supply closet ring any kind of bell?

  Problem was, every time she actually spotted Hope in her open garage or at the rec center, all she saw was strain and misery where there should have been glow.

  Worse, everywhere she looked, from the sunken playground, to the empty lot, to Eva’s troubled expression, all she saw was the legacy of misery Frank had left behind. Fallout from his need to conquer and control hovered like a gray cloud she couldn’t attribute to Hope any more than she could blame Eva for the after-effects of the hash brownies that had been accidentally passed around.

  Hope claimed not to remember that evening at all.

  Frank clearly had, and had gone back to the rec center to erase the evidence.

  Guilt stricken, he’d taken the note from Hope’s house thinking she’d attempted suicide and worried she’d written something incriminating about him.

  When nothing came of the “fall” he lied about having the note.

  Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.

  Maybe it was the now-familiar shock, or the odd sense of justification that had led her to dip his toothbrush every so often, but she decided then and there to let Frank take it up with his maker.

  Maryellen looked over at Hope, standing practically glued to Jim, and noticed her hand trembling as she raised a champagne flute of sparkling water to her lips.

  If she did remember, she was suffering terribly.

  And if she didn’t, wasn’t it that much worse?

  ***

  “Interesting how you soft-pedaled Tim on the presidency issue,” Meg said. “Are you really going to let him step in?”

  Will steered the minivan toward the entrance to the cul-de-sac. “If I do, will you think I’m a pussy?”

  “I’d hardly categorize what you did, have been doing all along, as anything akin to being a pussy,” Meg said. “You saved the neighborhood.”

  “Aw shucks,” he said, “I didn’t do it alone.”

  “You certainly didn’t do it with any help from Tim.”

  “He got the Errors and Omissions insurance activated.”

  “After you fed him the information.”

  Somehow, Trautman’s pomp-but-no-circumstance routine didn’t bother Will at all. “He kept the troops entertained while the battle surged around him.”

  “By spouting rhetoric.”

  “Making him perfect for the job.” Will pulled up the driveway and pushed the garage door button. “As history has shown.”

  “Trautman’s a sleaze,” she said.

  “Roseanne’ll keep him honest.” Will pulled in and turned off the engine.

  “You know,” she said, “I overheard your comments about Hope.”

  “Okay.”

  Both were silent for a moment.

  “Will, did anything happen between you and Hope that night?”

  “No,” he said, tempted to say nothing more and enjoy the power a touch of jealousy always added. He couldn’t though, not with the worry he saw in her eyes. “Meg, I would never compromise our marriage that way.”

  “You sure?”

  “Can’t say I wasn’t tempted.”

  “Fair enough. She is beautiful.”

  “She’s not you. Us.”

  Meg kissed his cheek. “Do you think anything happened between her and Tim?”

  “Trautman wishes.”

  She put her hand in his lap.

  Will pushed the garage door remote, sat back, and let her.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  4.25. Greenhouses. Committee approval is required.

  Hope felt beyond anxious as she passed the excavation equipment in front of the Estridges’ house and started up Maryellen’s front walk. She’d managed to keep a polite distance. Somehow, she’d even kept it together enough to accept a warm hug from Maryellen after Jim announced their pregnancy at the neighborhood meeting.

  If only he’d kept quiet, she could have gone about finishing the last of her upcoming jobs, set up the holiday decorating in advance, and waited in peace for the relatively minor repairs on their home. Once everything was done, she’d have joined Jim in London, not returning until after the baby was born.

  Fundamentally, the plan hadn’t changed, other than forcing herself to smile through all the well wishes and jarring I knew its. In two days, she’d still be on a plane, free of any worry, at least where the neighborhood was concerned.

  Perspiration broke out at the nape of her neck.

  All she had to do was get through the tea she couldn’t decline with Maryellen.

  The front door opened before she could put her finger to the bell.

  “Welcome,” Maryellen said.

  Hope smiled through pure, sick dread. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “I wanted to have the chance to say a proper good-bye before you leave.”

  “So sweet.”

  “I won’t be here when you get back from London.” Maryellen opened the door to the boxes lining the back hall. “We’re moving.”

  “Moving?” Surprise and, strangely, a tinge of panic tempered what should have felt like relief. “I had no idea.”

  “Neither did I until, well, until I just did.” Her face hinted at a smile. “Truck’s coming in the morning.”

  “I didn’t even know you’d put the house on the market.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Laney and Steve are going to live here while their house is being rebuilt.”

  “Oh,” she managed. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a job prospect downtown,” Maryellen said. “Whether I get it or not, I fell in love with this little bungalow in Congress Park.”

  How much less anxiety might she have suffered knowing Maryellen was leaving too? “I guess I’m just surprised by the suddenness.”

  “The hush money made the decision that much easier.”

  “I hate to think of it that way.”

  “I hate to think of the other people in the other communities whose homes won’t be fixed,” she said. “But I had my daughter and our future to think about.”

  How many of her own thoughts had centered around Maryellen, her daughter, and their future? She willed away the sting of impending tears. “I really am so sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”

  Maryellen nodded. “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “But sometimes so differently than you might ever expect.”

  “Have to agree with you there.” Maryellen motioned her toward the kitchen. “Come. I have something for you.”

  “For me?”

  The note lay on her kitchen table beside the teacups.

  Hope stopped breathing.

  “He had it with him when he died,” Maryellen said. “In his briefcase.”

  Her heart couldn’t have stopped, not with the way her brain was racing or the way words began to spill from her mouth. “Frank must have taken that note thinking it was a… If only he had known I wasn’t trying to… I was having some marital problems he knew about, so he must have t
aken the note thinking he was sparing me from the aftereffects of doing something rash. Wasn’t doing what it may have looked like.” She took a breath. “I’d cleaned the house and was trying to clean the chandelier because I was thinking about, planning to leave Jim.”

  “I see,” Maryellen said in response.

  She patted her belly. “We worked it out, though.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m sure Frank didn’t admit he had the note to—”

  “To protect you,” Maryellen said.

  Hope nodded.

  Maryellen smiled. “All that matters now is you’re going to have the beautiful, healthy baby you’ve wanted more than anything.”

  With the hug that followed, Hope prayed she wasn’t as clammy as she felt.

  “You know,” Maryellen said releasing her. “It’s so hot today, I don’t think I’m in the mood for tea.” She opened the freezer. “How about an ice cream sandwich instead?”

  As Maryellen led Hope to the back porch to eat their ice cream, Frank’s last psalm began looping, probably infinitely, in her head.

  Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.

  Part VI

  AFTERBIRTH

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Duty to Disclose: In connection with any possible conflict of interest the existence of said conflict, financial or otherwise, must be disclosed prior to any discussion or action on that issue.

  Ten months later

  Laney backed her new Lexus out of the Griffins’ garage and reparked at a strategic angle to highlight both the for-sale sign featuring her professional glamour shot and the view of her nearly finished, already fabulous, house next door.

  The Universe had come through in spades. She still had a standing appointment at Bastian’s for mold-related chiropractic adjustment, but the bill for homeopathic supplements was nothing relative to the mortgage she’d never have again.

  What she did have was everything she ever wanted.

  Steve was healthy again and working for Scott Connors at his booming insurance agency. The girls not only had passing, if not stellar, grades, but also had enthusiastically stepped into the shoes of Eva Griffin as copresidents of the Melody Mountain Ranch Youth Group. Mother’s Helpers was doing brisk business. Better yet, as soon as she sold Maryellen’s house, she’d have the commission proceeds from both the Griffin and Fowler properties to help furnish her completely rebuilt, loaded with granite, hardwood, and crown molding, dream home.

  She tucked a stray strand of freshly low-lighted hair behind her ear and straightened her cream-colored jacket. She’d managed to sell Sarah’s house using the new ten-year warranty upgrade as a selling point and without arousing any suspicion as to why a pre-owned house would come, free of charge, with such a bonus.

  A car neared the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

  No reason she couldn’t do the same for Maryellen’s.

  She hurried up the front steps, clicked open the lock box, and opened the door as though she hadn’t been living there for nearly a year, waiting for her house to be done.

  Closing her eyes, she took a Chi-balancing breath, willed these buyers not to ask too many questions about the house or neighborhood she was contractually unable to answer, and waved as a Toyota Sienna XLE approached the driveway.

  The passenger window slid down and the wife, an attractive brunette, waved warmly.

  Laney proffered a practiced, but authentic smile.

  The husband parked and came out the driver’s side. Forty-ish, five-ten or so, graying and wearing nice sportswear, he fell firmly into the more handsome than Tim Trautman category.

  Of course, he probably didn’t do that trick with his tongue Tim did.

  Laney offered her hand. “Laney Estridge, Mountain Realty.”

  “Rob Fineberg.”

  And Tim’s handshake was anything but clammy.

  The wife made her way over. Her leggings and tunic top both hid and highlighted the beginnings of a baby bump.

  “I’m Tara.” Her sufficiently oversized diamond wedding set sparkled in the sunlight. “We were so excited to see your listing online.”

  “Isn’t this a Henderson Home?” the husband asked.

  “Better known these days as a Casa De Oro home,” Laney smiled. “They’ve gone big time in California.”

  The wife looked past her at the roofers, laying sheets of shingles onto Laney’s roof.

  Laney prayed she wouldn’t have to cough out a lie about the amazing warranty-covered job happening next door.

  Instead, the wife pointed at the playground. “Look, honey.”

  “Saw that,” the husband said.

  “We love having a place for our little ones in this corner of the development.”

  “You live nearby?”

  Laney nodded without elaborating. “Meg Pierce-Cohn lives on this block, too.”

  “The state rep?” Rob asked.

  “And Tim Trautman, our HOB president, is over on the next cul-de-sac.”

  A bi-weekly convenience, in and of itself.

  The wife scampered toward the open front door. “This house does look a lot like my sister’s in California. Don’t you think so, Rob?”

  “This one’s bigger,” he said.

  “This particular floor plan is somewhat unique.” Laney’s voice echoed across the oversized foyer as she stepped inside and pointed to the full-size living room. “There’s also an enhanced great room.”

  “I love the space.” The wife spread her arms out.

  “Price seems a little on the high side,” Rob said.

  “The owner’s willing to entertain a reasonable offer,” Laney lowered her voice slightly. Her desire to play the heartstring card and tell the story of Frank’s tragic accident and its emotional aftermath for both Maryellen and Eva was overridden by her business sense. Even though Frank hadn’t died in the house, he’d succumbed too close for selling comfort. “She’s a widow and doesn’t want to hold on to the property indefinitely.”

  “I love the décor,” the wife said.

  Laney’s heart skipped a delighted beat. “It is darling, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll still need to factor some redecorating if we write a bid.” She patted her tummy. “If only for the nursery.”

  “The neighbor across the street designs the most darling nurseries I’ve ever seen,” Laney said. “And there’s a waiting list to have her do Christmas decorating.”

  “We’re Jewish,” the husband said.

  “Perfect,” Laney said, relishing the quick save. “Congregation Beth El just broke ground at the corner of Wonderland Valley Way and Wonderland Valley Parkway.”

  “What about the schools?” the wife said, heading for the kitchen. “And the rec center?”

  “First rate,” she called after her, confident she didn’t need to follow behind to point out the commercial style refrigerator and range or the granite Maryellen had the resale wherewithal to have installed from the beginning.

  The husband ducked into the office.

  “Everything’s built in,” Laney said following behind.

  “Hmm.” He didn’t stop to examine the cherry desk or pull on a drawer. His attention was instantly focused on the window, or rather through the window and across the street.

  More accurately, at the neighbor standing on her driveway.

  Wearing a tank top and jean shorts, Hope Jordan was bent over her stroller tending to her infant daughter Lilly, providing an inadvertent peek at her voluptuous nursing chest.

  “Who’s that?” the husband asked.

  “Hope,” Laney said. “The interior decorator I was telling you about.”

  “Honey,” the wife called. “You have to see the kitchen.”

  The husband’s eyes lingered as Hope took her gorgeous, if unexpectedly dark-haired, daughter out of the stroller. She turned, and gave them a full frontal view of her slightly more curvaceous but equally as fetching post-pregnancy figure.
/>   “Coming,” the husband said.

  Copyright © 2012 by Linda Joffe Hull

  All rights reserved.

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