Every Last Secret

by A. R. Torre

  Now, I sipped a chilled glass of juice and wondered how one cleaning van could possibly tackle the layers of dust and grime inside that house. It would take them weeks. Not that I minded a delay before Matt and Neena Ryder moved in. I hadn’t quite warmed to the idea of a new woman moving into both Winthorpe Tech and our street. Especially this woman.

  I settled into one of the balcony’s chaise lounges, trying to pinpoint the cause of my trepidation. She wouldn’t be the first attractive woman inside WT’s sleek corridors. William had hired more than a dozen female doctors and engineers, seeking the best of the best, regardless of their gender or appearance. Typically, the brighter the mind, the more unattractive the appearance, but every once in a while, there was a unicorn like Allyson Cho, our stunningly beautiful lead researcher. Or Nicole Finnegan, our public relations powerhouse. Both Nicole and Allyson were arguably more attractive than this blonde director of motivation—and what a stupid title that was. So, why were my hackles raised?

  There was more movement at the front gate, and I sat up, surprised to see a moving semi attempt the tight turn through the Bakers’ front gate. Unless the moving truck contained a pile of cleaners, it was wasting its time. The truck stopped and reversed, and a beep echoed over the barren lawn. From the pocket of my cardigan sweater, my phone rang.

  “Are you watching this?” Kelly’s voice hissed through the receiver, and I smiled, certain she was up on her widow’s walk, in earshot of the Bakers’ gate.

  “I don’t think it’s going to make the turn,” I remarked.

  “I thought you said the place was in ruins. How could they be bringing in furniture already?” There was a crackle of wind against her mouthpiece. “Oh my God, Cat. There’s a U-Haul coming down Greenoaks. We should call security. Tell them not to let any more in. They’re going to clog up the entire street.”

  I didn’t respond, watching as the semi’s front wheels narrowly missed the cherub fountain.

  “This is a disaster,” Kelly clipped on. “What if it’s still blocking the road when church gets out? Paul hasn’t left yet to pick the kids up. Paul?” The wind diminished as she made her way inside her home in search of their manny. “Paul!”

  “William is calling me,” I lied. “Let me run.”

  “Okay. But tennis tomorrow morning, right? Nine o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.” I ended the call and winced as the side of the shipping container scraped along the gate, then broke free, the truck lumbering down the drive. The sun moved behind a cloud, and I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. Wrapping the cashmere tighter, I decided to abandon the view and move inside.

  I found William on his phone in the kitchen and interrupted his call long enough to steal a kiss. I opened the fridge and removed a parcel of wrapped steaks, holding them up so that he could see the butcher’s writing on the front. He nodded, and I placed the package on the counter.

  “Look, if you need a break, come up here. You can audit our books.”

  I untied the knot on the package and took out the filets, tuning in to the conversation.

  “Bring her with you. We’ve got the guesthouse you can stay in. Plus, Cat hasn’t seen Beth since last summer. They’ll enjoy hanging out.”

  The clues aligned. Beth. A break. It had to be Mac. I slid the plate toward my husband and grabbed a spatula from the rack, setting it beside the blue china.

  “It’s not charity,” William growled. “You’re my brother. And I could use you. I need someone I can trust with these numbers.”

  Someone he could trust. I wasn’t sure that Mac fit that bill. I turned away from William and returned to the fridge, opening both sides of the Sub-Zero and staring at the contents. Unless we had specific plans, the chef had the weekends off, and I looked through the shelf of labeled salads. I pulled out a container of avocado and spring mix.

  Over the last decade, I’d lost count of the things we’d done for William’s brother. It was like giving leftovers to a stray dog—the half rack of lamb didn’t solve its problems but still gave you the sense that you were doing something to help.

  I wasn’t sure that we’d helped him at all. It was hard to help an alcoholic who didn’t want to stop drinking. We’d paid for six rehab stints. Moved him three times. Paid off a gambling debt with some ugly Vegas characters. Pulled strings to get him jobs that he had tanked on. And now William wanted to bring him to Winthorpe Tech? A terrible idea, but I loved the fierce dedication he had to Mac, and I was desperate to grow his limited family to include children of our own.

  William moved out onto the veranda, and I popped open a beer, certain that he’d need a drink after he finished with Mac.

  The beeping of a truck’s reverse faintly sounded, and I moved to the sink, glancing out the window.

  “Mac’s on tilt.” William strode through the opening, pushing his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. “Won’t leave the house. Drunk.”

  “Oh God.” I ripped open the salad’s bag and evenly divided the contents onto two plates. “Has he been fired yet?”

  He grimaced. “I was afraid to bring it up. Can you call the bank and have them make a deposit into their account? And check with their landlord—”

  “Rent’s paid through next year,” I interrupted. “I did that a few months ago.” I slid the beer toward him.

  “Good.” He downed half of it in one long gulp. “He doesn’t want to come here.”

  I fought to keep the relief from my face. “I’ll talk to Beth and see if there’s a good day for me to drive down for a visit. I’d love to see the baby.”

  “Yeah, I’d like it if you could put eyes on him.” He moved forward and kissed me.

  I tried to be disappointed in his refusal to come, but Mac was always a volatile guest. I once came home to find him in our master bedroom, naked and facedown on the bed, vomit spewed over the expensive duvet.

  The beep sounded again, and William glanced toward the noise. “They already moving in next door?”

  “Yep.” I pulled two sets of silverware out of the drawer and stacked each on the plate. “I can’t believe they’re bringing furniture in with it in that condition.”

  “It’s not uninhabitable. It’s neglected.” He cracked a grin, and maybe the conversation with Mac wouldn’t ruin his day. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten that cramped apartment I pulled you from. Your shower handle was held together with a rubber band.”

  I picked up both plates and headed around the marble island. “You pulled me from? I was an unpaid college intern. I was doing just fine on student loans and fast food. You’re lucky I gave all that up to move in with you.”

  “Oh, sure.” He blocked my way, taking the plates, and leaned forward, asking for a kiss. “You were an angel to sacrifice all that just for me.”

  “Better.” I accepted his kiss. “And hey—my tiny apartment had charm.”

  “Well, compared to it, they’re moving into a palace.” He turned. “We eating outside or in?”

  “Outside.” I returned to the kitchen’s window and could see Neena, standing in the driveway in cutoff shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, directing traffic. I let my eyes drift over the home’s brick exterior, the wide porches and double fireplaces. William was right—it wasn’t uninhabitable, just dated and dirty. Fifteen years ago, I would have considered it a castle, but a decade as Mrs. Winthorpe had made me a snob, one who now thought of heated towels and ironed sheets as a necessity.

  Neena yelled something at the driver, and I thought of the day I’d moved into this house. The wedding-ring set was still unexpectedly heavy on my finger. All my belongings would take up a laughably small portion of the massive closet. I had stooped to lift a box of personal items from the trunk of my brand-new Maserati, and William had stopped me with one gentle shake of his head. “Do you see this?” He’d pulled at my hand, bringing the diamond up between us. “This means that you don’t move your own things. You’re Mrs. Winthorpe now, and everyone bows and caters to you.”

>   “Even you?” I had said saucily, even as the thrill of power had swept giddily through me.

  He had laughed and never answered the question. I hadn’t cared. I had stepped into this house and devoured every opulent inch of it. I had settled, immediately and comfortably, on my throne and never lifted a box again.

  In contrast, Neena staggered around the back of the truck, her arms wrapped around a heavy cardboard box. She squatted, setting the box carefully on the ground, then stood and brushed off her palms. Turning to the side, she examined our house. From this distance, across the manicured gardens and behind a row of Italian cypress trees, I felt protected, even as her stare lengthened. I didn’t blame her. There was a reason that cars lined the street to see our Christmas decorations, and Architectural Digest had devoted a center spread to our home. It was stare-worthy. Gawk-worthy. I watched as her gaze cataloged the stone framework, the modern lines, the copper roof and glass railings.

  William moved beside me, following my line of vision. “Should we go over? Welcome them to the neighborhood?”

  “Not yet.” I watched her, waiting for her to turn, but she kept in place, her gaze locked on our house. “She’s just staring over here.”

  He shrugged and began to wash his hands.

  “It’s a little creepy.”

  “It’s a big house, babe. Lots to look at.”

  “How was she this week? Does the team like her?”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t met with all of them yet. I’ve gotten a few hostile comments and a few supportive ones. Some think she’s a little too rah-rah.” Using the back of his wrist, he turned off the water.

  I grinned. “Let me guess: Harris?” The Nigerian scientist was the sort to scowl when words like teamwork or cohesion were used. His annual evaluations always garnered the lowest scores from fellow team members on communication skills but the highest on aptitude.

  “Yep. I think his exact quote was, ‘We don’t need the Kumbaya stuff to save lives.’ Which”—he pulled a hand towel off the rack—“I agree with. I told Neena to steer clear of him.”

  Neena. No longer Dr. Ryder. I notated it, then dismissed it, aware that everyone at Winthorpe was on a first-name basis. Even the janitorial staff referred to William by name.

  He tossed the towel beside the sink. “Come on. Steaks are almost ready.”

  I remained a moment longer, waiting until she turned away from our house and back to hers. Her husband appeared in the open garage door, and she pointed to the box. I folded the hand towel into thirds and placed it back in its position. Pulling a Pellegrino from the cooler, I glanced out the window. She was gone, swallowed by the house. At a second-story window, I watched a maid spray cleaner on the glass and wipe a cloth across the surface.

  I didn’t understand anyone moving into a dirty house. It was like skipping past blank pages in a notebook and then starting your story on one that was already half-full. It was bad karma.

  CHAPTER 4

  NEENA

  I was on a ladder beside our bedroom wall, a pencil in hand, when the power went out, the abrupt event punctuated by a clap of thunder that shook the home.

  “Neena?” Matt’s voice came out of the black, somewhere to my right. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m on the ladder,” I snapped. “Can you help me get down?” The darkness was disorienting, and I clutched the top rung, forcing my panic down.

  “Just a second . . .” Matt’s phone’s flashlight illuminated, sweeping over the interior of the room and blinding me as he moved closer. I chanced a descent, making it down one rung before the light bounced, then swung wildly as he tripped over something. He cursed and I paused, my foot hovering in space.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He grunted, and the flashlight refocused on me. “Here. I’ll help you down.”

  We worked in silence, and my tension eased once I was back on firm footing. Making our way downstairs, we stared at the fuse box in ignorance, then discussed our options. Outside, sheets of rain peppered the roof and poured loudly from uncleaned gutters.

  “It’s got to be the storm. Probably blew a transformer. I bet the whole neighborhood’s out.” Matt swung the fuse-box door shut and latched it.

  I shook my head. “I saw the lights on next door when we came down the stairs.”

  “They probably have a generator.” He moved past me and headed to the dining room. Peering through the glass panes of the window, he jumped when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “I vote we wait it out, unless you want to drive around and see what areas have power. I’ve got a small generator at the shop. It could get us through the night, if you don’t mind being a little hot.”

  I kept close to him, uncomfortable in the dark house. “I could go next door and speak to William. And Cat.” I hadn’t intended to separate their names, but it happened, the gap hanging in the sentence like an out-of-place comma.

  “What?” Matt pressed a button on the side of his watch, lighting up the digital dial. “It’s almost nine.”

  “No one’s in bed this early. We can ask them how long these outages normally last or—if it’s just us—if there’s an electrician they recommend.” I warmed to the idea. I’d spent most of the day wondering if I should head over to say hi—and being a little surprised they hadn’t shown up here. Wasn’t it a common courtesy to welcome someone to the neighborhood? Or maybe that sort of thing was done only in our old neighborhood, where the homes didn’t have private gates, uniformed staff, or police officers who patrolled the streets on horseback.

  “I don’t know,” Matt said slowly, and this was why he’d never really amounted to anything. As I had just told that Asian doctor at Winthorpe—Allyson Cho—you had to act decisively and take the consequences. Grab life by the balls. My husband liked to tickle them with a feather and then wander away.

  I rerouted my path and navigated to the back door, my decision made. This was a blessing, actually. The perfect excuse to pop in. Maybe Cat would be in pajamas, her makeup off, and I could replace my Instagram-perfect images of her with something more attainable. I thought of William and wondered what he’d look like. I’d seen him only in a tuxedo—at the party—and in suits at the office. Would he be in workout shorts and a T-shirt? Jeans and a polo? Underwear and no shirt?

  I swung open the door to the garage, my sneakers making the transition from wood floors to the spongy welcome mat, and I heard Matt follow me into the dank interior, his phone extended like a sword, the flashlight beam cutting past me and reflecting off the hood of my car.

  It wasn’t a surprise. Matt would follow me anywhere.

  We rang the bell twice before Cat answered, her cheeks flushed, eyes warm. They’d either been in bed together or she was drunk, and I hesitated on their front porch, rethinking the hour.

  “Matt, Neena, hey!” She swung the door open farther, and the three-story foyer glowed with light. “Is everything okay?”

  “Our power’s out,” I said, suddenly aware that I should have done as Matt suggested and waited out the storm. Instead, we looked like dripping-wet cling-ons, begging for scraps and favors. I pulled on the top of my leggings, making sure the wide band was holding in my stomach. “We didn’t want to bother you, just wanted to see if it’s a neighborhood-wide thing or just our house. Obviously you have power, but—”

  “We have a generator,” she said quickly. “It just started up a little while ago.” She swung her arm, gesturing us in. “Get in before you catch a chill. William’s in the shower, but he’ll be out any minute.”

  We ended up in their kitchen, perched on stools at a massive marble island, shot glasses lined up before us as Cat poured an African liquor into each one. I watched her slide the first glass toward Matt.

  Her thick, dark hair was up in a messy bun, wisps of it hanging loose. My wish had come true—she was makeup-free, in silk pajama pants and a long-sleeve Mission Valley High soccer T-shirt—but the effect was the opposite of what I’d hoped for. Maybe it was th
e high school logo across her small chest, but she looked young and beautiful. I watched Matt carefully to see if he noticed. He didn’t seem to, and I stretched my face forward, hoping my neck scars weren’t showing.

  “What’s this?” William approached, his stride lazy, his smile wide, and my insecurities grew deeper. He had jeans on, his feet bare, a white T-shirt sticking to a torso that was still damp from his shower. “Are we celebrating?”

  Cat lifted a shot glass and held it out to him. “We are celebrating and commiserating. To new neighbors and the headaches of California storms. Cheers.”

  Glasses clinked, and over the rim of his glass, William’s eyes met mine for a brief moment. I held the look and tilted back my glass.

  Three drinks later, we were lounging around the fireplace, Cat and William on one sofa, Matt and me on the other. I relaxed back on the soft leather, settling into Matt’s side, and put my bare feet up on the ottoman, careful not to disrupt the mirrored tray of lit candles in its center.

  “I swear, Neena could give Tiger a run for his money,” Matt protested. “She’s a freak of nature with a putter in her hand. It was the worst place I could have possibly tried to impress her.”

  I smiled at his recollection of our first date. “You should have known better, given that my father was a course superintendent.” I lifted the glass, needing a drink at just the mention of my father.

  “You grew up playing?” William ran his hand over Cat’s knee, his fingers caressing the joint through the thin fabric.

  I pulled my eyes away from the motion. “Yeah. My father wanted a son, so he tortured me with the burden.” I laughed in an attempt to hide the bitterness that crept into the response. Tortured had been an apt description. Hundreds of hours in the sun, sweat dripping down the back of my legs, the sound of his voice raised in frustration at each inaccurate drive. The yelling had been rough, but when he’d picked up the switch, things had turned bad. I’d worn jeans my entire freshman year to hide the welts on the backs of my calves. I still couldn’t sit in a foldable chair without thinking of him settled back in his, boots crossed on the grass, the switch waving through the air in anticipation of my failure.