by Nicola Marsh
I press my other hand to my heart and his stunned gaze follows it. I take advantage by thrusting my chest out a little, using my assets to reel him in. Maybe I have a little of my mother in me after all?
“I don’t know what to say.” He drags his gaze away and shakes his head.
“Say yes.” I squeeze his hand in encouragement. “Say you’ll take me with you so we can have a real relationship.”
The flicker of excitement in his eyes makes me want to punch the air in victory. “What about your folks? Do you seriously think they’ll agree to letting their only child leave with a virtual stranger?”
“They won’t be a problem, trust me.”
I’ll make sure of it. I’m not averse to a little blackmail. Either they let me go or I’ll let their precious pastor know what really happens at their parties. It makes me sick to my stomach to think of how pious they are at church yet so debauched in private. Not that I’d actually reveal the embarrassing truth to anyone but I’m hoping the threat of what I’ll say will ensure they won’t stop me leaving.
“This is crazy.” He slides his hand out of mine to press fingertips to his temples. “I don’t do impulsive things.”
Good. Because once I’m far away from here and living with Walter, I want dependable. I crave it, with every cell in my body. I want stability and peace, not this riotous out of control feeling since I discovered the truth about my parents.
“What if we leave together and discover we’re not compatible? What then?”
I knew this wouldn’t be an easy sell. His steadiness is one of the qualities I admire but also a quality that will make him second-guess everything I say.
“What if you leave here and always wonder ‘what if’? Isn’t it better to take a chance on us than never know?”
After what seems like an eternity, he gives a rueful chuckle. “I can’t believe I’m even contemplating this.”
I clamp down on a triumphant whoop. “We’re going to be happy, Walter. I know it.”
“This is nuts.”
“This is fate.”
As if to prove it, I clasp his face in my hands and draw him toward me. I press my lips to his, tentative, exploring, my first kiss. He surprises me by taking over, his hands stroking the skin along my torso, his thumbs toying with the undersides of my breasts as he deepens the kiss. His tongue slides between my lips, tangling with mine, and I like it. As he moans I feel an answering throb deep within.
I’m not sure how long we make out for and I don’t care because when he releases me his dazed expression matches mine.
“Let’s do it,” he says, his smile goofy.
I fling myself at him and we tumble onto the grass edging the pool in a flurry of limbs and laughter.
I’ve made the right decision.
I know it.
Twenty-One
Frankie
NOW
I’m not in the mood for another party but Luna heard Violette talking about it with Celeste last night and has been bugging me about it ever since. I’m not a pushover when it comes to Luna but to see her so happy with her new friend makes me capitulate, when I’d rather be home enjoying some rare time off binge watching the latest romcom on TV.
Celeste is the other reason I’m attending. I’d glimpsed genuine fear in her eyes last night.
I’m worried about her. Is she hiding from an abusive ex? It’s looking increasingly likely and, if so, I want to reassure her she’s not so vulnerable here, that she does have people who care. That’s one of the great things about this neighborhood: we may not live in each other’s pockets but in times of need, like after Mrs. Obermeier’s hip replacement or Mr. Mac’s wife dying unexpectedly from a heart attack, we pull together.
I’m surprised Saylor is throwing this party, where everyone in the neighborhood who wants to attend brings a plate to share, only a few days after her gender reveal. When I’d been five months pregnant I wanted to sloth around with my feet up as much as possible.
Not as many neighbors have come tonight but there are enough of us, about twenty, that with a little music and the share plates—mostly cheese and fruit platters—we’re having a good time.
Celeste is sitting with the girls on a patch of grass, playing charades with Luna and Violette. Andre and Lloyd are chatting, while Saylor is deep in conversation with some guy. She’s animated, he appears less interested, and when he turns I realize it’s Ruston, who she thinks is hot.
He is handsome, in that polished way some guys favor these days, with the slicked back hair, clean-shaven jaw and manicured hands. I like my guys a little rougher around the edges and as my gaze is drawn toward Andre again I wonder if he knows how much I’m still attracted to him, despite how close we came to splitting up years ago.
“Daddy, come look at this,” Luna shrieks, and Andre joins the girls and Celeste on the grass.
At a casual glance they look like the perfect family and I’m struck by how that could be me if I had another child, a sweet family of four.
As if sensing my gaze, Celeste looks my way and for a moment I’m unsure whether a shift in the light makes her look smug. But then she waves me over and her smile is genuine when I join their cozy circle on the grass.
“Mom, Dad’s hopeless at charades,” Luna says, collapsing into giggles when Andre starts tickling her until she’s rolling next to him, squealing “Stop, Dad, please.” He does and Luna clambers onto his lap, before he moves a few feet away and starts telling the girls an elaborate fairy tale about a dragon. He wraps his arms around Luna and beckons Violette to come closer, and I swear I hear Celeste sigh in unison with me.
“He’s a good father,” she says softly. “You’re lucky to have him.”
“I am,” remembering a time I didn’t feel so lucky.
“Roland would never sit on the grass with Vi or be so openly affectionate.”
She’s given me the perfect opening to ask more about her ex, to mention how supportive this community can be if she needs it, without appearing too curious.
“Will he be visiting you here?”
“No.”
Short, sharp, ominous, and like last night, I glimpse fear in her eyes. She doesn’t want to talk about Violette’s father but I hate her obvious vulnerability—the look away glance, the fiddling fingers, the slumped shoulders—and I feel obliged to ask more. “Are you divorced?”
“We never married. I think life’s all about timing and it never aligned for us.” She gives a self-deprecating laugh. “A good thing, as it turned out.”
Sadness mingles with regret in her voice and I feel sorry for her. “You can tell me to shut up if you like, but did he do something?”
She’s clasping her hands so tight in her lap the knuckles stand out. “What didn’t he do? It’s only now I’m away from him, I realize how toxic he is. He’s never going to change and I can’t keep hoping for a miracle.” She shakes her head. “Holding onto false hope is the worst. It eats away at you until you question everything.”
She sounds so forlorn I want to hug her. I like that we’re bonding and she’s revealing snippets of her life, but I feel sorry for her too.
I don’t know what to say about the situation, so I settle for, “Violette seems well-adjusted.”
I mean it as a compliment but her eyes narrow with displeasure. “She’s shy, anxious and jumps at her own shadow. I want her to discover her inner confidence before…”
She trails off and I know, by her shuttered expression, I’m not going to get anything more out of her. Then again, do I want to? I may be reaching out on the pretext of friendship but I know we all have secrets that can never be shared.
“Do you girls want some fruit?” Celeste leaps nimbly to her feet and the girls abandon Andre’s storytelling and follow her, leaving Andre and me alone.
He’s watching them walk away and a frown appears between his eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” I reach out to touch his hand.
“You’ll think I’m nuts, but
I don’t get a good vibe from that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head, the frown deepening. “I can’t explain it but I’m not sure you should befriend her.”
It doesn’t make sense he wants me to avoid her, especially when I feel like we’re growing closer, and having Celeste open up about her ex has further cemented our friendship. Andre’s warning could be from a good old-fashioned gut reaction, or is it because he doesn’t want me getting too close for what I’ll discover?
“Luna already loves Violette and she doesn’t have any girls her age to play with around here, so we might be hanging around Celeste more than we’d like regardless.”
I’m surprised by my instinct to protect the fragile friendship I’ve built with this woman despite my earlier suspicions. But with every interaction, I realize the misgivings are all on me and my insecurities regarding Andre; Celeste has been nothing but friendly toward me since she moved in and I value that.
“I guess…” He shrugs. “Just be careful, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure…” He smiles but I see it’s forced as he reaches for my hand. “Maybe I should stop streaming those psychological thrillers every night?”
I chuckle as he intends, but I can’t shake the feeling something isn’t right. My extroverted husband always sees the good in people and loves expanding our social circle; he’s never warned me off anyone before.
What is it about Celeste that has him worried?
Twenty-Two
Celeste
I’m standing at the buffet table where all the shared plates are lined up, supervising Luna and Violette as they serve themselves. They’re endearingly cute, dithering over what to have first.
“Luna, what’s your favorite fruit?” I point at the platter. “Watermelon, grapes, cantaloupe or strawberries?”
She’s adorable, with her tongue poking out between her lips as she concentrates. “My favorite isn’t here.”
“What is it?”
“Apple,” she says, with a shrug. “But I guess I can have strawberries.”
“Apple is my favorite too,” I say, using the tongs to place a few strawberries on a paper plate and handing it to her.
“And grapes are mine,” Violette adds, her cheeks already puffed from sneaking grapes while I’ve been serving Luna.
“You look like a squirrel,” Luna says, with a giggle, pointing at Violette’s cheeks, and puffing out her own with air.
This sets the girls off and they laugh so hard they almost double over. I smile at them, enjoying how they’ve bonded so quickly. Children rarely have the hang-ups of their parents and it’s refreshing. No bickering, no slyness, no jealousy, just a genuine enjoyment of each other’s company.
When their laughter dies down and they resume eating I serve myself a piece of watermelon and beckon them to the bench near the table. That’s when I see Frankie and Andre are watching me. It’s unnerving, being the subject of their scrutiny. They’re probably talking about me. I guess it’s natural, considering what I just divulged to Frankie about Roland. Also, I’m new to the neighborhood and they’re curious about the mother of their daughter’s new best friend, but there’s something in their body language—crossed arms, rigid shoulders—that’s off-putting.
I don’t have the time or the inclination to figure out why they are staring at me, so I say, “Luna, tell me what you like to do.”
She screws up her face, thinking. “I like playing in the park and gymnastics and Mom’s started taking me to this ballet school near the waterfront because I love dancing so much.”
“That sounds like fun. What else?”
Children are so trusting they’ll open up to anyone who asks the right questions and engages with them. Especially if their own parents are distracted by work and too busy to interact on a level beyond telling them to eat their veggies and clean their room.
“I like drawing and coloring and jigsaw puzzles and watching TV.”
“Me too,” Vi says, and they’re soon lost in conversation again, discussing their favorite colors and what’s better to draw, unicorns, monster trucks or fairies. I let their conversation wash over me, making a mental to-do list for tomorrow.
Starting with enrolling Vi at the same ballet school on the waterfront that Luna attends.
Twenty-Three
Saylor
I can’t believe I had to throw another party in order to speak to Ruston but I’m tired of watching and waiting. He has no intention of visiting me and I can’t exactly stroll across the park and knock on his door without people talking. In the last half hour alone I’ve heard several women gossiping about the dubious male visitors the married woman who lives at number fourteen gets during the daytime and I have no intention of being the next target.
I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m obsessing, thinking about him day and night when I shouldn’t be, scared he’ll let slip we know each other to Lloyd, and I need to make sure he doesn’t. Our paths rarely cross so this social situation is the only way I can think of to confront him.
I bide my time, mingling with everyone, answering solicitous questions like “How’s the morning sickness?” to “Have you made a birth plan yet?” I’m bored but my time will come and when the opportunity presents itself—he’s near the buffet table nibbling on cheese, I’m there on the pretext of filling a plate for Lloyd—I pounce.
“Hey,” I say in a soft voice, not wanting our conversation to be overheard.
Ruston glances up from the cheese platter and smiles, appearing genuinely happy to see me. I can’t work him out because any other guy would feel bad about how he treated me—many times—over the years, but he seems oblivious to the tension.
“Hey, new neighbor, fancy seeing you here.” He leans in closer and I hold my breath against the rush of pheromones his signature citrus body wash never fails to elicit. “Are you stalking me?”
“You wish,” I mutter, hating how he slips into flirtation mode without trying. “What are you doing here?”
“House-sitting for a friend. She’s a campaign manager for a senator and is on the road for six months.”
I zero in on one word, “she”, annoyed at myself for caring. I flounder for something to say, other than “I hate you for breaking my heart, I hate myself more for still caring.”
He smirks as the silence grows between us and points at my belly. “I guess congratulations are in order. I would’ve said something at the gender reveal but you seemed to have your hands full meeting everyone.”
“I wanted to talk to you too.”
His eyebrows rise. “About?”
Everything. Anything. But I can’t, not anymore. I’m married and expecting a baby. Unfortunately, confronting Ruston, getting the first awkward meeting out of the way, hasn’t helped. He still has a ridiculous hold over me, like we’re bound by invisible strings and all he has to do is jerk on them and I’ll dance for the puppet-master.
I know Ruston. If he suspects how anxious I am about revealing our past to Lloyd, he’ll do it to spite me. I need to lead into it, so I settle for a lame, “Just wanted to say hi,” and he nods, his stare too intense, as if he sees right through me.
“How are you settling in?”
“Fine,” I say, when talking to him like this is anything but.
“Good. This park is great for get-togethers like this.”
“Yeah, that’s why I moved here, for the family community.”
If he notices my emphasis on family, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He nods in agreement, content to stuff his face with wedges of Brie on crackers, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, trying to establish some kind of truce with my new neighbor, when I know deep down he’s always been so much more.
He points at my ring finger, where the shiny gold band feels a tad tight; probably from a retention of fluid and not an imaginary constriction I feel being someone’s wife. “How long have you been married?”
�
�Nine months.”
“Your hubby’s a fast worker,” he says, glancing at my belly again. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.”
He hesitates, before saying, “Does he know about us?”
“No.”
He winks. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
I don’t want to buy into his buddy-buddy act, like we’re co-conspirators in some elaborate ruse. He’s my past. I need to remember it.
Besides, I’m harboring a secret far worse than the two of us being ex-lovers.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I flash him a serene smile when I’m feeling anything but inside. “I hope we can be friends.”
“Friends, sure.”
Before I can react he clasps my hand between his, infusing me with warmth, making me remember when I shouldn’t.
I clamp down on the urge to yank my hand away and ease it out of his grip, turning and walking away before I say something I’ll regret.
Twenty-Four
Frankie
THEN
Turns out my parents don’t take kindly to their only child having a mind of her own and leaving them without a backward glance, because when I marry Walter six months later in a tiny ceremony at City Hall, they don’t turn up. Considering I’d tried my blackmail spiel on them so I could leave Gledhill with Walt and they’d blown up, followed by a massive argument to end all arguments when we’d hurled awful accusations at one another, it’s no surprise. We’ve had zero contact since but a small part of me hoped they might still show up for my wedding after Walt insisted I invite them. Their no-show hurts and Walter, intuitive, as ever, does his best to make me laugh.
“Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“I bet you have.” I bat my eyelashes, more to blink away the sting of tears rather than an attempt to flirt.
