“What’s the best part?” he asked.
Abby chewed a tomato while she thought about it. “Little brains are so malleable,” she finally said. “And experiences we have as young children can form pathways in our brains. They’re kind of like road maps, guiding our reactions to things that happen in the future. I love learning about how people are formed.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Bob said. “But you’re right. It is cool.”
He stood to take a half-full bottle of Merlot off the kitchen counter and raised his eyebrows in a question, and she nodded for him to splash some into her glass. “Just a few sips,” she said.
It was all perfectly innocent, she reminded herself. The only reason Abby felt nervous was because this was what she imagined her own life would feel like someday: the husband, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt and cracking a joke about the client who’d called in a panic before realizing her dog had tripped on the computer cord, unplugging the machine; the smiling baby; the easy chatter about the day that was almost behind them and the one that lay ahead. The kitchen with a trio of African violets in little pots on the windowsill and copper pans hanging from a ceiling rack; the table set with pretty dishes and gleaming silverware.
Did Bob ever get lonely? Maybe he’d always imagined his life unfolding this way, too, but Joanna was never around. When Abby was first hired, Joanna had said August would be quieter, since Congress was on recess then. But when August came, Joanna worked harder than ever to contain an erupting scandal—something about a campaign worker who’d sent a libelous anonymous letter about their political opponent to a newspaper. Unfortunately, the campaign worker had used the office fax machine, making its source easy to trace. It was an embarrassment for the senator, and Joanna headed up the investigation determining who was at fault. She was quoted in the paper as saying the worker had been terminated on the spot.
She seemed willing to do anything to quash potential hurt to the senator, yet when Bob stayed home for almost a week with a bad flu that threatened to turn into pneumonia, Joanna hadn’t missed a moment of work.
Was there something going on between Joanna and the senator? Abby sometimes wondered. She’d seen him on the news more than once; he was a good-looking guy, an avid squash player with a head of pure white hair and piercing eyes. Of course, he was twenty years Joanna’s senior, but Abby sensed that wouldn’t matter to Joanna. The silver-tongued, smartly dressed senator was the kind of guy Abby thought Joanna belonged with, not Bob, with the Snoopy tie he’d bought because Annabelle loved dogs, and dress shoes with a hole worn through the bottom of one that was visible whenever Bob propped up his feet on the coffee table.
Abby wondered if Bob ever thought about her relationship. She hadn’t brought Pete by the house, not once, and it bothered her that this didn’t bother either of them. Pete was a nice guy, an accountant who worked for a big firm downtown. He loved Adam Sandler movies and his fantasy football league and extra-hot chicken wings. He was kind and decent, but he didn’t give her the shivers. Their relationship had become so predictable: They went to dinner and watched TV with her feet up in his lap. On summer weekends, they drove to Ocean City, where they lay side by side on the beach, each engrossed in a book, then strolled the boardwalk and ate saltwater taffy and rode the Ferris wheel. They were content, and Abby knew it wasn’t enough. She expected contentment after forty years of marriage, not after a couple years of casual dating.
But being with Pete was so easy; he never picked fights or pressured her. He opened car doors and brought her red roses for no reason at all. Abby had thought about breaking up with him just last week, as she glanced over at his profile in the dimly lit movie theater. His dark hair was starting to recede prematurely, but he lifted weights three times a week and had powerful shoulders and biceps. A lot of women would be grateful for a steady, even-tempered guy like Pete . . . but Abby had to admit he bored her.
He’d turned to meet her eyes. “Everything okay?” he’d whispered, and a sob had unexpectedly caught in Abby’s throat.
“I guess so,” she’d finally said, hoping he would see something in her face that would make him understand how she felt. If he did, maybe it would mean they were more connected than she’d thought. They could leave the movie, go somewhere quiet to talk . . . but he’d just nodded and gone back to crunching a handful of popcorn and, a moment later, erupted in laughter at a dumb joke on the screen as Abby felt the sudden heat of tears behind her lids.
Now she wondered if Bob felt an absence in his life, too, an emptiness that kept growing. But he seemed happy. He smiled a lot, and he lit up around Annabelle. If he had complaints about his marriage, they weren’t transparent.
“More lasagna?” he asked.
“Did you know I’m a quarter Italian?” Abby asked. “I think I’m genetically incapable of undereating lasagna.”
He laughed. “Then we’re a perfect pair.”
He reached for the spatula and delivered another helping to her plate. It was sensational; he’d roasted the vegetables first, then folded them between layers.
She noticed his wrists were strong-looking. She wondered who had taught him to cook. She thought about whether he’d made this lasagna last night to fill the time because Joanna was working late again.
Did she only imagine seeing loneliness in his eyes?
“So what made you decide to work with children?” Bob asked.
“I had a younger brother who died,” Abby blurted out. She looked down at her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “I don’t have any real memories of him. I was barely four. I think . . . I think I’m drawn to kids because of him. He’s why I want to take care of children. To make them happy.”
“I’m sorry,” Bob said, his voice gentle.
Abby nodded. “My parents never talked about him when we were growing up. We didn’t do therapy or any of that. It’s almost like he never existed. And I accepted that, for a long time . . . but the older I get, the more I think about him. Isn’t that strange?”
“I don’t think so,” Bob said. “What was his name?”
“Stevie.” It was one of the few times she’d spoken his name aloud, and it was as if something tight within her loosened a bit with the release of the word.
Bob nodded and they were both silent for a moment. “Abby, I just want you to know how lucky we feel that you’re the one taking care of Annabelle. You’re . . . amazing with her. You bring sunshine into this house.”
Later, Abby would replay those words over in her mind. She’d look back and remember that dinner as the moment they became true friends, when they’d shared hidden pieces of themselves. Yet the singular moment Abby would go back to again and again had nothing to do with their conversation. She had stood up and collected her dishes and was moving toward the sink at the exact moment Bob came around the table from the other direction to refill his wineglass. They’d ended up facing each other in the too-small space between the table and the open dishwasher door.
“Sorry,” Bob had said. He’d laughed, but it had sounded forced. As lightly as the touch of a fingertip, his chest had grazed the tips of her breasts through her sweater as they passed each other.
Bob had quickly swallowed the rest of his wine, then busied himself at the dishwasher while Abby wiped Annabelle’s face and hands with a damp paper towel. She’d thanked him for dinner, then excused herself, saying she needed to study.
But the words in her textbook had blurred as she found herself listening for him for the rest of the night. She caught his deep murmur as he spoke to Annabelle, then the sound of water running as he gave her a bath. Then, an hour or so later, water rushed through the pipes again as Bob took his own shower. When her cell phone rang, Abby saw Pete’s number and let it go to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to him, not tonight. Just before nine, Bob came back into the kitchen, and she could hear the beep of the microwave. Did he have a second helping of lasagna? she wondered. A few minutes later Joanna came home, and t
hen Abby turned on her iPod to listen to Taylor Swift.
In the middle of the night, she woke up feeling hot and flushed, with the sheet twisted around her. She’d been dreaming that she was alone in the house when suddenly she heard the shower turn on. She walked toward it, as powerless as an actress in a slasher movie, but she felt no fear as she slowly pulled aside the curtain. Bob was naked, soapy water coursing down his broad chest and flat stomach.
He turned to see her staring at him.
“Aren’t you coming in?” he asked.
As Abby lay wide awake in the darkness, she couldn’t help thinking about him, lying just two floors above her.
Trey had promised to bring Abby by at ten Saturday morning before heading to the airport. He was flying to Thailand to interview an extreme surfer—a guy who risked his life to catch hundred-foot-tall waves. He’d be gone for five days, which Renee knew was the quickest turnaround time possible for such a long journey. Trey’s devotion to his sister only made him more attractive in Renee’s eyes. He would be, she thought, an extraordinary father.
Naomi had moved out while Renee and Cate were at work, leaving behind a few full garbage bags of old clothes mixed with junk and her bed and bureau. She hadn’t bothered to call Goodwill to haul everything away—a typically thoughtless Naomi move that turned out to be a blessing, since Abby had no furniture.
Around seven on Friday night, Cate walked into the nearly empty bedroom, where Renee was rolling paint onto a wall. “You’re painting her room?” Cate asked.
“Nah, I’m pole dancing,” Renee said. “I was thinking, instead of getting a roommate, we could practice a routine and make extra money on the weekends.”
Cate laughed. “Do you always punish people who ask dumb questions?”
“Punishment would be me actually pole dancing. I’m the world’s most uncoordinated woman. Anyway, the room looked awful with Naomi’s stuff gone.” Renee shrugged. “She was a slob. There was some gross crust on a wall and dust marks that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. I figure the last thing Abby needs is a dingy-looking room.”
“That’s so nice of you! Hang on a sec.” Cate hurried to her bedroom and came back wearing old jeans and a plain red T-shirt, tying her hair up in an elastic.
“I knew I got two rollers for a reason.” Renee grinned.
“Then Chinese food is on me, okay? You paid for the paint,” Cate said.
“Deal.” Renee lost herself in the rhythm of painting for a few minutes, dipping her roller in a creamy hue the color of sunshine and sweeping it up and down on the walls.
“This color is perfect—” Cate began to say, just as Renee said, “What do you think happened to Abby?
“Sorry, go ahead,” Renee said.
“No, actually, I was wondering about it, too . . . I . . . That’s what I was talking to Trey about in the cafeteria,” Cate said. She cleared her throat and dipped her roller back into the tray of paint before she spoke again. “I thought it might have looked . . . strange to you. He got upset, and I grabbed his hand. Just to comfort him, because of his sister.”
Renee was silent for a moment. She’d seen Cate reach for Trey’s hand, and she’d noticed how close together they’d been sitting at that table, leaning toward each other . . . Her reaction had been to get away from them as quickly as possible, to hide her hurt and confusion. She knew she didn’t have any claim on Trey, but out of all the women in New York, did he have to pick her roommate? Cate’s explanation relieved Renee, even though she couldn’t help wishing she was the one Trey had come to for advice about Abby.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” Renee finally said.
“Only if rugged perfection appeals to you,” Cate said.
Renee laughed, more out of surprise than anything else. She hadn’t known Cate had such a quick wit. “Look, we dated for a few weeks, and that was a couple of months ago. He wasn’t interested. It’s not like I have a claim on him. We’re not in sixth grade.”
“But you like him,” Cate said, her tone turning what could have been a question into a statement.
Renee nodded and lowered her eyelashes. She almost wanted to lie about it, but there wasn’t any point. “Oh, crap. Everyone knows, don’t they? You’d have to be blind and deaf to miss it. I wish I could hide that sort of thing better. But if you’re interested in him—”
“I’m not,” Cate interrupted. “We’re going to work together on a story. But that’s it.”
“Okay.” When she spoke a moment later, Renee’s voice sounded lighter. “How does this look?”
Cate stood back and surveyed the two finished walls. “It’s gorgeous. Let me order the Chinese now. General Tso’s for you, right? And I’ve got some Chardonnay in the fridge . . .”
“Ooh, perfect—” Renee started to say, then she quickly amended her order. “But mixed veggies and brown rice for me.”
“I thought General Tso’s chicken was your favorite,” Cate said.
“It is. But it’s a mortal enemy of my ass.”
Cate grinned and hurried to the kitchen to order the food. “Music?” she called out.
“Yes!”
Cate scrolled through her iPod until she found John Mayer and tucked it into its speaker. She came back with the wine bottle and two glasses. Renee took a long sip as she plopped down on the floor, and Cate joined her.
“Careful,” Renee said, pointing at the newspaper under Cate. “You’re sitting on Justin Bieber’s face, and that’s just a thousand levels of wrong.”
Cate laughed and shifted over a few inches as Renee rolled her neck around in a circle, working out the kinks. “Oh, I needed this wine,” she said, wincing as her neck made a popping sound. “Should we take a break and get back to painting after we eat?”
“Sure,” Cate said. “Hard week at work?”
Renee shook her head. “It’s sort of a weird story.” She took another deep swallow, relishing the way the Chardonnay burned a gentle trail down her throat. “I’ll blurt it out like they do on Jerry Springer. I’ve got a half sister. I just found out about her.”
Renee thought about that phone call from her father, and how he’d sounded so formal, as if he was reading from a script. Renee wondered if he actually was; if he’d written down his words so he could be sure he’d choose the right ones. It had taken her a moment to do the math when he’d told her that Becca was thirty, then she’d said, “But weren’t you and Mom—”
“Yes,” her father had said, cutting her off, as if he couldn’t bear to hear the complete question. He’d gone on to say that it was the only time something like this had ever happened, and he’d apologized, profusely. But all Renee could think of was how strange it felt to be having this conversation with only her father. She was used to important family discussions being conducted by a three-person conference. Not having her mother’s quick, crisp voice weighing in, counterbalancing her father’s deeper tones, made an already bizarre phone call feel even more alien.
Her father had clearly felt it, too. “Do you want to talk to Mom?” he’d finally asked.
“Sure,” Renee had said. “Um, Dad?” She’d had no idea what to say; her loyalties were divided. One part of her understood how awful it was that her father had slept with another woman just a month or so after he’d married Renee’s mother. And yet, he was so young back then. Renee had seen photos of him from that time, wearing knee-high white tube socks with shorts, his hair shaggy around his ears. He was like a different person.
She’d tried to picture him sitting on the nubby brown couch in the living room, one of his dog-eared crossword puzzle books nearby. Her father, who drank Metamucil in the mornings, loved soup for lunch, and had worn his tuxedo, slightly shiny with age, to take her to the father-daughter dance in the fifth grade. He must feel so adrift now that his steady, predictable world had flipped upside down. “I love you,” she’d finally said, and he’d whispered the words back to her.
Cate’s eyes revealed a flicker of surprise at Rene
e’s revelation. “Did your mother have a baby when she was young and give her up for adoption?” she asked.
“No. It’s—she’s—my father’s daughter. He had a fling. No one knew about her, not even him. Her name is Becca. She’s a year older than me.”
Cate’s expression stayed calm and encouraging. Renee was surprised by how grateful it made her feel; the magazine world was an incestuous arena, and Renee wasn’t ready to share her news yet because she still hadn’t absorbed it, but she desperately needed to talk to someone. Her instincts told her she didn’t need to worry about Cate telling anyone. With that realization, Renee found herself opening up.
“Becca lives back in Kansas City, not too far away from my parents, actually. I guess my dad fooled around with a woman he knew in high school. Anyway, the woman never told him she was pregnant. She died recently and when . . . when Becca was going through her things, she found papers that revealed my dad’s name.”
“Your parents are still together, right?” Cate said.
“Yeah. My mom’s mad, but she’s taking it surprisingly well. I guess three decades of marriage are going to cancel out a one-night stand. . . . Anyway, Becca and I chatted for a few minutes the other day on the phone, and she wants to meet in person.”
Cate topped off Renee’s glass. “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel selfish,” Renee blurted out. “Part of me wants things back the way they were, with my parents happy and my dad faithful. But it isn’t her fault, and she’s got a right to know my dad, too. Our dad. God, it sounds so strange to say that.”
“Are you going back to Kansas City to meet her?”
“She wants to come here, actually. I feel like I should invite her to stay with us, but . . .”
“You don’t want to rush into a relationship before you know more about her.”
“Exactly.” Renee looked at Cate in surprise.
These Girls Page 9
