by Nicola Marsh
Her nose crinkles slightly. “Can I be perfectly honest?”
I like that she feels comfortable enough around me already to be upfront, something I value. “Absolutely.”
She points to the giant helium balloon filled with either pink or blue confetti tied to a stork. “What’s with the gender reveal thing? When I had Violette I wanted a surprise and I sure as hell didn’t want everyone else knowing my business.”
I admire her honesty, pleased to have found an ally in my skepticism. “Same. Guess we’re in an old-fashioned minority because these parties are all the rage now.”
We laugh in sync and I realize I’ve been enjoying chatting to my new neighbor so much I haven’t really looked at her. I think she’s around my age, but on closer inspection she has carefully concealed wrinkles underlying her eyes and threads of gray through her auburn hair. She could be closer to forty than my thirty and there’s a look in her eyes, like she’s seen more of life than I have and it hasn’t been kind.
When a slight frown appears between her brows I realize I’ve been staring. “Let’s introduce our girls now.”
“Violette would love that.” Her frown deepens. “And I would too, because she’s shy and it would be great for her to have friends around her age. How old is Luna?”
“Five.”
“Same as Vi, great.” Her eyes light up. “They might end up at the same school.”
“More than likely. Hambridge Heights has the best.”
“That’s one of the reasons I moved here. I did a lot of research online.”
I warm to her more. As a mother, I can identify with her wanting the best for her daughter. Giving Luna the opportunity to thrive is my major motivator to slather on make-up, put on a bright top, and step in front of the camera when I’m feeling lackluster and blah with a distinct case of PMT.
“It’s a great place to raise kids,” I say.
“Living opposite this park must be a bonus.” She gestures at the lush green space around us. “You must be out here all the time.”
“We like it.” She hasn’t mentioned a husband or partner and I can’t quite see if there’s a ring on her finger. “Is it just you and Violette?”
“Yes,” she mutters, sharp to the point of rudeness, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a story behind her brusqueness.
“Okay then.”
My smile is apologetic for probing and she winces. “Sorry. It’s just that Vi’s father hasn’t been there for me or her and it’s a sore point.”
“Don’t apologize, I’m one of those nosy busybodies you were hoping to avoid.”
We smile at each other and once again I’m struck by the shifting shadows in her eyes. Celeste definitely has a story to tell.
Then again, don’t we all?
Two
Celeste
I spotted Frankie Forbes the moment she set foot in the garden.
Who wouldn’t? She stands out like a graceful gazelle in a herd of clumsy hippopotami. Several women are wearing sundresses but the simplicity of Frankie’s, combined with perfect accessories, make her eye-catching. The aqua sheath dress has bold slashes of emerald swirled through it, like the rainbow ice cream Violette often asks for but rarely gets. All those artificial colors aren’t good for my baby. Nothing but the best for my Vi.
But it isn’t just her dress that makes Frankie stand out. She’s one of those enviable women who have a hint of class, like they stand head and shoulders above everyone else.
It surprised me to see her standing alone though. I expected her to be surrounded by adoring worshippers. I’m glad she’d been by herself. It made it easier for me to strike up a conversation, to establish a rapport. I don’t know why I pretended not to know her. Inferiority? Shyness? It’s silly because she’s nothing but pleasant and I enjoyed chatting with her.
As we head toward our girls I feign interest in her general chitchat as she points out who’s who from the neighborhood, when I’m only focused on one thing. Meeting Luna. Moving can be stressful for kids and Violette’s not great with change at the best of times, so I’m hoping she makes friends and that will help her adjust to living here. From our chat, Frankie seems just as keen to foster a friendship between the girls, which is great. From what I’ve seen at today’s turnout, there are a lot of young boys. Maybe there aren’t many girls Luna and Violette’s age who live around here.
I feel like I already know Luna. Frankie doesn’t stop talking about her beautiful daughter during her live videos, waxing lyrical as she prepares the perfect child-friendly vegetable lasagna or banana bread that hides zucchini and carrot too. It’s “Luna-this” and “Luna-that”.
Why doesn’t Vi tell me knock-knock jokes off-camera like Luna does, making Frankie laugh uproariously? Does Luna really go to bed at seven p.m. on the dot and not wake for a full twelve hours, or does she sneak into Frankie’s bed like Vi likes to do with me, afraid of her own shadow?
I know I shouldn’t watch Frankie Forbes. Her competency and perfection make me feel bad about myself. But I can’t look away, drawn in by her charisma like the rest of her millions of viewers. Her proficiency intimidates me and I expected to dislike her because of it. When the realtor mentioned her name as I inspected the house before signing the rental agreement I thought it would be daunting to live next door to someone so perfect. But Frankie in person surprises me. She’s… nice. Normal. Almost reticent, with a hint of vulnerability I never expected.
We’re almost at the cupcake table when I spy Luna already chatting with Vi and my daughter is more animated than I’ve ever seen her. I breathe a sigh of relief, short-lived when a man detaches himself from a couple and joins us, and ridiculously, I’m nervous.
“Hey, beautiful, glad you could finally make it.” He slides an arm around Frankie’s waist and plants a resounding kiss on her mouth. “What took you so long?”
Before Frankie can respond, he says, “Let me guess. You were getting the gift wrapping just right.”
“Nothing wrong with good presentation.” Frankie arches away from him slightly, as if uncomfortable with his overt display of affection. “Andre, I’d like you to meet Celeste Reagan. She’s our new neighbor. Celeste, this is my husband.”
He’s tall, with dark blond hair in a ruffled surfer-cut, dark blue eyes bordering on indigo and a wide smile. They make a good-looking couple.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says, barely glancing at me. “Would you ladies like a drink?” Frankie and I ask for sparkling water and he bounds away like an eager puppy, his long, loping stride indicative of a man who likes to go places fast.
“If our girls start hanging out together, you’ll see Luna has inherited his energy,” Frankie says, her laugh self-deprecating, but I detect a hint of weariness rather than admiration.
“How long have you been married?”
“Six and half years, but sometimes it feels like forever.”
“Don’t all wives feel that way after two years?”
“That long?” I laugh at her sarcasm and she smiles. “Don’t mind me. I’m tired and I’ve got a lot of work to do after this.”
“What do you do?”
Her eyebrows rise slightly and I’m glad she believes my act. After pretending I didn’t know her earlier, I’m too embarrassed to admit I watch her religiously, usually at the end of a day after Violette’s in bed and I’m curled up on the couch with a glass of wine.
“I’m a lifestyle vlogger.”
I feign confusion. “I’m a bit of a dinosaur, so, similar to all this gender reveal stuff, I don’t really know what that is.”
“I make videos and post them online, mostly about motherhood. I talk about my daily life, activities, interests, funny stories, cooking, decorating. A bit of anything and everything, really. People seem to enjoy it.”
I hear a squeal and glance over to see the kids, Violette included thank goodness, engaged in a game of tag. Frankie and I share an indulgent smile, pleased our daughters are holding their own with t
he rowdy boys. “That sounds… different.”
She laughs at my naivety. “It started out as a bit of fun and has grown so huge I don’t know what to do most days. It’s exhausting trying to come up with new stuff to talk about.”
“You film at home, right? Must be great.”
She nods, pensive. “It is, but sometimes I envy those mothers who get to walk out the door and compartmentalize their home life as separate from their work life, whereas my worlds are constantly colliding.”
She sounds sad and for a second I pity her. Before I remember she probably doesn’t have a clue what it’s like to have it tough, to raise a child on her own, to want to feel safe and protected.
I might tell her what that’s like one day but for now, I’ll take it slow until we know each other better. I don’t have many friends. None I can count on, and while I think this whole gender reveal is stupid, I like the camaraderie among the neighbors.
Surprisingly, I feel like I almost belong here.
Three
Saylor
My back aches, my feet are swollen and my head is on the verge of exploding. Enduring congratulations from a bunch of strangers isn’t my idea of fun but I decided to throw this party to establish rapport with our new neighbors. I need to fit in, to be accepted, to become one of them, because I only moved here for one reason.
To get what I’m owed.
“You okay?” Lloyd’s hand rests in the small of my back, giving it a gentle rub, and I stifle a moan.
“Better now you’re doing that.”
“I told you not to wear those heels.”
“Stop nagging, more pressure,” I murmur, sighing with pleasure as his strong fingers dig into my back. “That feels so good.”
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Maybe we should ditch this party and continue this massage in private?”
“Pervert,” I say, grinning at him, loving that he still finds me as attractive at twenty weeks pregnant as he did when we married nine months ago.
Our trajectory from dating to parenthood has been swift. My religious parents approved of my pregnancy so soon after we married because they introduced me to Lloyd in the first place. They knew him through their church, a modern blend of Methodist and Presbyterian. He’d been a visiting youth minister and his ease talking with kids is one of the things that caught my eye. I saw him preach once, in the early days, and anyone who can captivate a bunch of kids must be doing something right. He’d been using an old parable about forgiving your neighbor for any wrongdoing and relating it to a kid who’d stolen his friend’s bike the week before. Making the story relatable ensured the kids could identify and I’d been impressed.
Lloyd is trustworthy, exactly what I needed at the time after having my heart broken by a guy who was anything but. A guy who’d been the love of my life. A guy who wouldn’t know the meaning of dependability even if it bit him on the butt.
My parents had seen it. They’d disapproved of him from the moment he strutted into my senior year at high school. I’d fallen hard, they’d done everything in their power to keep us apart. They deemed any boy who didn’t go to church not worthy of me. Throw in the rumors about alcohol and drug use, and our romance had been destined for failure.
I should’ve been happy to see the back of him. But there’s a vast difference between logic and the heart, so when I saw him last year, I did something incredibly stupid.
I’m dealing with the consequences now.
Lloyd and I married in a quiet ceremony presided over by my folks. I hadn’t wanted any fuss or attention. I’d been eerily composed standing outside the church, mentally counting the red bricks above the doorway to stay focused and quell the urge to bolt. My father had been reciting some passage from the Bible about love, but I’d tuned him out too, breathing slowly and deeply, filling my lungs with the familiar scents of damp moss and oak, comforting smells that evoked memories of attending services every Sunday for as long as I could remember.
Marrying Lloyd had been the best decision I’ve ever made. Some guys have dependable stamped in invisible ink on their foreheads and Lloyd is one of them. I’m so lucky. His adoration, his steadiness, calms me. I wish I could be a good person like him, so I could be honest and tell him why I really wanted to move to Hambridge Heights, why I insisted on it. He’s clueless and I intend to keep it that way. I need him, as more than a husband and a father. He’ll never know how much.
“We should introduce ourselves to our next-door neighbors.” He points to an attractive blond couple talking to a woman in dowdy jeans and an ugly paisley top. “Frankie and Andre.”
“They sound like a pop duo.”
“Pretty enough to be one too.” He bumps me gently with his hip. “Don’t go getting any ideas about swapping me for that blond himbo.”
“Don’t you mean mimbo? As in male bimbo?”
“Whatever the terminology, you’re stuck with me.” He presses his palm to my belly that’s only just beginning to protrude. The ob-gyn said the baby is small for five months but he’s not worried so neither am I. I may be able to control some things in my life, like where we live and how I’ll get the money to support my baby, but the size of the life growing inside me isn’t one of them.
“We’re lucky to have you.” I cover his hand with mine and we stare into each other’s eyes. Lloyd’s are brown, mine are hazel, and I wonder if our baby will inherit the same color or something entirely different.
I know next to nothing about Lloyd’s family. His parents died a few years ago and that’s when he found his way into the church. My parents adore him and I can see why. He’s never given me any reason to doubt him, which makes my deception worse.
But everything I do is for our baby. It’s justified. Maybe if I keep telling myself this, I’ll start to believe it?
I keep referring to our “baby” when I know it’s a boy, as everyone at this gender reveal is about to discover. I’ve already started decorating the nursery in pale blues and greens, with a border featuring tiny boats and dolphins. I love the idea of having a boy the image of his father. Lloyd had been ambivalent about discovering the sex but I’d been adamant. I had to know. I’m done with surprises.
Someone snaps a photo of us on their cell and we blink, breaking our stare and we laugh. I turn and see it’s the small pretty blonde whose husband is a himbo according to Lloyd.
She’s brandishing her cell and smiling. “Sorry for the intrusion. I’m not usually snap-happy but the two of you standing there with your hands on your baby bump is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Thought you might like a memento.”
“Thanks.” I slip my hand into Lloyd’s and we move toward the small group. “I know it’s weird to meet like this but I’m Saylor, this is my partner Lloyd and this,” I pat my belly, “is Bump.”
“Frankie. Pleased to meet you.” She gestures at the gorgeous guy by her side. “This is my husband, Andre, and our neighbor on the other side, Celeste.”
No wonder Lloyd scoffingly warned me off. Andre’s stunning, his beauty marred by a scar running from his right eyebrow to his hairline. It adds a toughness to his features, making him breathtaking.
“Hey,” Celeste says, her gaze lingering on my belly a tad too long, making me uncomfortable, but I force a smile and return her greeting with a “Hey.”
As Lloyd and Andre shake hands, I see something over Andre’s shoulder: more precisely, someone.
It can’t be.
What is he doing here?
I feel the blood drain from my face and I’m grateful Lloyd has his arm around my waist.
Ruston is standing by the food table, alone, serving salad onto a plate. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up and his shock mirrors mine.
Like always, I feel the eye contact with Ruston all the way down to my toes. Neither of us look away. Stunned, I can’t breathe, my lungs constricting in horror. This can’t be happening.
After what seems like an eternity, he arches an eyebrow and finally turns away, leavi
ng me flustered. My palms are clammy, my fingers tingling, and I’m lightheaded with nerves. It’s hard enough pretending daily that everything’s fine so Lloyd doesn’t notice I’m on edge. Secrets have a way of festering and growing, until it’s too late to contain and they explode in a gory mess. I don’t want that. Now this?
As if sensing my unease Frankie touches my arm, her smile genuine, her big blue eyes guileless, and I’m glad for the distraction. I wish I could tell Lloyd everything. But I can’t.
Not yet.
Four
Frankie
THEN
The afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, I’m heady with excitement and come home early from the hairdresser’s, eager to try a few new make-up looks before the party tonight. I jog up the path to the front door and am about to open it when I hear a crash coming from the garage. Hoping it’s not a present for me that’s fallen—my folks have always hidden large birthday and Christmas gifts in the garage since I could walk—I let myself in the side door to check out the noise.
To find my dad having sex with my mom’s best friend.
They don’t see me because I back out of the door as fast as humanly possible, those few seconds I witnessed more than enough. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen but not the most shocking.
The shock comes thirty minutes later when I confront Mom at work after running the whole way there to tell her what I’d seen.
And she shrugs.
My gorgeous mother—with her flawless skin, big hazel eyes and long auburn hair—who I’ve wanted to emulate my entire life, actually shrugs, like what I saw is inconsequential.
“Francesca, I haven’t raised you to be a prude and now you’re eighteen perhaps it’s time you understand the ways of the world?”
