She turned to Kellie. “I’m sorry Addison couldn’t play with the boys the other day, but maybe Noah and Cole would like to come over this weekend to watch a movie?”
“Sure,” Kellie said. She was a little surprised by Tessa’s sudden warmth, but her timing was excellent. Mia had been invited to a friend’s house on Saturday. If both kids were busy, the house would be quiet for a few hours. She’d take a bubble bath, maybe give herself a manicure, and catch up on episodes of Orange Is the New Black. The thought sent a little shiver of delight through her body.
“And don’t forget about the soccer team,” Kellie said.
“Right . . . ,” Tessa said. The smile slid away from her face. “Does one of the parents coach it, or . . . ?”
“Actually, we hired a professional coach,” Kellie said. “I know, I know, it’s completely ridiculous, but it actually costs next to nothing when you split it twelve ways and he’s really good at teaching the kids skills. We had a dad doing it last year, but he got way overcompetitive.”
“He had the kids doing wind sprints,” Susan explained. “Have you ever seen little kids doing wind sprints? I haven’t, either. They all got distracted by dandelions midway through, and then one kid decided to tackle the others. They ended up in a scrum while the dad stood there frantically blowing his whistle.”
“Also, the guy we hired is about twenty-five and he looks like Liam Hemsworth,” Kellie said. “Susan cheers whenever he wears shorts.”
“Now she’s making stuff up,” Susan said. “I only cheer when he bends over to pick up his water bottle.”
Tessa laughed. “In that case, I’m going to make Addison join the team,” she said.
“I may join it, too,” Gigi said.
“Gigi’s younger daughter is a great soccer player,” Kellie told Tessa. “Their team was the county champion last year.”
“How many kids do you have?” Tessa asked Gigi.
“Two,” Gigi said. “Melanie and Julia.”
“Do they both play sports?”
“No,” Gigi said. She drained her glass of wine. “Just Julia.”
Kellie reached for the bottle again. “Another?” she offered.
“Please,” Gigi said with a sigh.
“Long day?” Kellie asked.
“Just, you know . . . high school is tough,” Gigi said.
And it was tougher when your daughter was going through a difficult stage, Kellie thought. Sweet Melanie, who’d always worn hair ribbons that matched her clothes when she was a little girl and had been a mother’s helper for Kellie when Mia was a toddler, had transformed into a young woman Kellie would’ve sworn before a jury couldn’t possibly be the same person. A few weeks earlier, Kellie had been walking down the sidewalk when Gigi’s Ford Fusion Hybrid had pulled up. Melanie had gotten out of the passenger’s seat, yelled something at Gigi, then slammed the car door and run inside the house. Kellie had waited for her friend to exit the vehicle, planning to make a joke about hormones, but Gigi had stayed in the driver’s seat, her head in her hands. Gigi had sat there for so long that Kellie became worried her friend would be embarrassed if she knew she was being watched, so Kellie had turned around and walked the other way.
“Oh, Susan, I met your husband at school yesterday,” Tessa was saying. “Randall’s his name, right? He was helping out in Ms. Klopson’s class. She said he volunteers every week. What a nice guy.”
Susan smiled without showing her teeth. “Ex-husband,” she corrected.
“Sorry,” Tessa said. “Anyway, he was working with Cole and another boy on math, so . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Who else should we introduce Tessa to?” Kellie interjected quickly. Tessa obviously didn’t know yet that Susan was divorced—or the awful reason behind her divorce. But surely she’d seen the way Susan’s face had tightened, causing her soft brown eyes to narrow.
Gigi glanced around. “There’s Reece Harmon—she’s wonderful but a little frazzled, since she’s got five boys, so we should probably give her a chance to chug her wine before we make our way over there—and, oh! Jenny McMahon lives right around the corner. She’s probably the one who left you the casserole.”
“How’d you know?” Tessa asked. “I think that was the name on the card.”
“Because she’s the nicest woman on the block,” Gigi said. “She adopted three orphans from Peru. They’re in college now, so she’s the foster mom to homeless kittens. She even chats up Mason Gamerman. The Dalai Lama wouldn’t have the patience to talk to Mason.”
“I’ve met him,” Tessa said. “He yelled at Noah to get off his lawn when Noah was just trying to retrieve a Frisbee.”
“That’s our charmer,” Susan said. “I call him my boyfriend, so hands off.”
Tessa laughed again, and something shifted in her expression. She’d been holding herself so tightly before, her shoulders rigid and her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass, but something—perhaps the wine, or the warmth of the kitchen, or the sounds of murmured voices and women’s laughter—seemed to have untwisted something in Tessa. Her face looked younger. She was actually a pretty woman, with her dark, straight eyebrows and sculpted cheekbones, Kellie realized with a jolt of surprise.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Tessa said. “Did the elderly couple who owned the house before us have just one child?”
Kellie frowned. “I don’t think they had any.”
“I’ve been here forever, and they definitely didn’t have kids,” Gigi said.
“Oh,” Tessa said. “It’s just that I found this little stepping stone in the garden, the kind with a kid’s handprint on it. I didn’t know if Mr. Brannon had forgotten it when he moved.”
“Probably a gift from one of the neighborhood children,” Kellie said. “Everyone loved Mrs. Brannon. She used to make these amazing caramel apples at Christmastime and invite everyone over to decorate them and sing carols. See, I told you your house had happy memories.”
“I can ask Mr. Brannon if he wants it next time I check in on him at the assisted living center,” Susan said. Then her voice dropped. “Incoming, incoming. Nine o’clock.”
“Who?” Kellie asked.
“Tally White,” Susan said. “The neighborhood busybody. She comments on every thread on the listserv. She knows exactly how many bottles of wine are in your recycling bin . . . Oh, thank God. Jenny McMahon just started talking to her. That woman really is a saint.”
The women stayed in their group of four for another few minutes, then Susan took Tessa off to meet Jenny, and Kellie chatted with a few other neighbors before heading out. As she walked slowly down the street, feeling pleasantly buzzed, she detected fall’s first faint nip in the air. It was a lovely night; the full moon hung low in the clear sky. She was happy, Kellie realized as she climbed the steps to her home. Thoroughly, ridiculously content. Going back to work had been the right move. She found herself looking forward to the morning, when she’d shower and put on a nice outfit and go into the office. And chat with her colleagues.
It wasn’t until she’d unlocked her own door and walked in, stripping off her shoes so her footsteps wouldn’t wake the kids, that a thought struck her.
When she’d first started dating Jason as a senior in high school, she’d have given anything to be alone with him. They’d created elaborate ruses to slip away from their parents’ homes, complete with code words spoken over the phone. An hour in the backseat of his beat-up Mustang, steaming up the windows, was her wildest fantasy.
But when Tessa had invited Noah over and Kellie had begun to imagine what she’d do—conjuring the things that would make her feel relaxed and happy—she’d imagined being alone.
When had her husband disappeared from her dreams?
* * *
Chapter Five
* * *
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
/> *Re: Lawn Bags!
Just a friendly reminder to all Newport Cove residents that the burning of leaves is prohibited by ordinance C-5238 due to fire hazard. Proper leaf disposal methods include bundling leaves into the large paper bags provided free of charge by the Newport Cove Manager and leaving bags at your curb for pickup. Alternately, you may choose to place your leaves on your compost pile. A little tip: Shredded leaves break down faster! Thank you! —Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager
*Dry Cleaner Recommendation
Can anyone recommend a good dry cleaner? The one on Forsythia Lane “lost” my best cashmere sweater although my synthetic-blend ones, which were dropped off at the same time, were miraculously not misplaced. —Melinda Morton, Tulip Way
*Re: Dry Cleaner Recommendation
I’ve used the dry cleaner on Forsythia Lane for many years, and I’d like to state for the record that they’ve never misplaced any of my belongings. —Tally White, Iris Lane
• • •
Susan’s favorite day of the week was Friday. Not because of the impending weekend—anyone with young kids had to reshape expectations of what days off meant—but because Friday was her long walk day. After taking Cole to the bus stop, she always led Sparky on a looping trek of about four miles, giving them both a good workout. When she’d first begun the ritual, she’d returned business calls during those walks, and had checked emails on her iPhone. But one day, Susan had realized she’d returned from her walk with no memory of it. Not a single recollection of a leaf that was changing color, a bird singing on a tree limb, or a cool gust of wind tightening the skin on her face.
Now she left her phone at home. She tried to breathe deeply, to soak in the delicate texture of the petals on a magnolia tree, to really see the vibrant green of the grass. To live in the moment. Once in a while, it actually worked.
Today, though, she was seething. That innocent comment from Tessa about Randall volunteering in Ms. Klopson’s classroom had been enough to put a damper on the evening for her—and it had been a night she’d looked forward to all week, since she went out so infrequently.
She quickened her pace, charging up a hill, Sparky bouncing along by her side.
She imagined Randall standing up from a tiny chair in Cole’s classroom, extending his hand to Tessa, smiling that smile. He was so handsome, with his milk chocolate skin, almond-shaped eyes, and broad shoulders. Men liked him. Kids adored him. Women loved him most of all. Susan had been charmed when they’d first met, too. The bottom of her paper bag had torn as she’d walked from a supermarket toward the parking lot, and her carton of orange juice had fallen out. Of course Randall had been there to scoop it up and carry it to her car, the big jerk.
She couldn’t stop Randall from volunteering in Cole’s class, from coming to all of his soccer games, from putting on a ridiculous white chef’s hat and serving up pizza in the school cafeteria on special occasions and making the kids laugh with his silly fake French accent. Actually, she wouldn’t want to stop him; it made Cole happy, and that was the most important thing. Far more important than her peace of mind.
She realized she was gritting her teeth, and added buying a night guard to the mental to-do list she wasn’t supposed to be keeping because she should be focusing on the changing leaves. There! An orange one. Well, orange-ish. She could feel her neck muscles loosening up already.
She continued on, found herself ruminating about Randall again, and gave Sparky’s leash a little tug to the left to take a shortcut home. She’d try the walk again this afternoon, when she was in a better mood.
If Susan had adhered to the Friday ritual, it never would have happened. In the past, when there had been close calls, Susan had crossed the street, or turned around and retreated. But she was so deep in thought, so not in the present moment, that she didn’t look up until Sparky yanked on his leash, lunging ahead to greet a cute little French bulldog puppy with a comical overbite—the kind of dog Randall had always wanted.
Attached to the other end of the leash was her. She. Daphne.
Susan reared back, her heartbeat quickening. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, not while she was wearing old jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with Keds on her feet. Keds, for Christ’s sake! There was even a hole in one of the toes.
Daphne was biting her lower lip, like a nervous schoolgirl.
“Hi, Sue,” she said in that low, melodious voice.
Susan had always been envious of Daphne’s voice. “She sounds like one of those radio hosts who come on late at night, doesn’t she?” Susan had once said to Kellie.
“Oh, I know who you’re talking about—the one who takes sappy dedications for love songs,” Kellie had said. “Not that I listen to those shows.”
“Me, either,” Susan had said. “Just when I’m doing dishes or something.”
“Me, too,” Kellie had said. “Oh God, did you hear the one last week when the little boy dedicated a song to his father—?”
“The soldier?” Susan had interrupted. “He was deployed to Afghanistan, and he missed his son’s fifth birthday . . .”
Both women had wiped their eyes, then looked at each other and burst into laughter. “Anyway,” Susan had said briskly. “That’s the kind of voice she has.”
And now here was husky-voiced, lip-chewing Daphne, looking tragically beautiful in her slim-fitting (designer!) jeans and belted black sweater. Looking as if she’d been the wronged one. Sparky was showing a distressing lack of loyalty by enthusiastically sniffing the butt of Daphne’s dog.
“Excuse me,” Susan said as she tried to untangle her leash from Daphne’s. It required the two women to perform a complicated, dancelike maneuver, but they finally got the dogs straightened out and Susan turned to go.
“Sue?” Daphne said again.
Daphne was the only one who had ever called her by that nickname. Susan froze.
“I’m . . . Could you . . . ?” Daphne began.
Susan whirled around and raised a single warning finger. “Don’t.”
She stood there for a moment, staring at her younger, thinner replacement. Randall had even upgraded Sparky to a cuter model.
When Daphne’s eyes dropped, Susan turned and walked away, yanking on Sparky’s leash to get him to follow.
* * *
Chapter Six
* * *
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Re: Dog Poop
Just wanted to add to the discussion that for only $20, I picked up a little gizmo called an “ornament grabber,” I guess for those hard-to-reach ornaments on the top branches of your Christmas tree! Anyhoo, I use it to reach down and grab the little bags of poop if they get stuck to the bottom of my trash can. Once you tuck the bag of doggie leavings into a larger trash bag, our collectors will carry it away—no problem! —Jenny McMahon, Daisy Way
*Seeking Used Car
Does anyone have a used, sturdy car they’re willing to sell? My teenaged son just totaled mine. Will consider a trade: my son for your car. —Liza Edelstein, Iris Lane
*Re: Seeking Used Car
Will also throw in one or more of my five boys, free of charge! —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way
• • •
Gigi’s stomach muscles clenched up when the doorbell rang.
Strangers swarmed into the house—Joe’s campaign manager and press secretary and the image consultant, along with the photographer and his assistant and another guy whose role wasn’t entirely clear to Gigi. Everyone immediately began to order everyone else around.
The photographer positioned them all on the front porch steps, an American flag billowing in the holder over Joe’s head. Zach, the campaign manager, who looked about twenty-two years old, told the press secretary, who appeared to be even younger, to move a pot of red geraniums and put it next to Joe. “Too busy,” sniffed the image consultant, who demanded that t
he geraniums be moved to the other side of the steps. The photographer’s assistant sprang forward to pluck a brown blossom from the plant at her boss’s directive. Someone adjusted Gigi’s shoulders from behind, tilting her closer to her family. Someone else dusted imaginary lint off Joe’s suit lapel.
“Smile!” the photographer finally commanded. He snapped a few shots, then began issuing commands.
“Joe, sit up a little straighter. Megan, can you put your hand on your father’s shoulder?”
“It’s Melanie,” Gigi corrected, before wondering if Melanie would be irritated she hadn’t let her daughter speak for herself. This was how women in abusive relationships felt, wasn’t it—all the second-guessing, the fear of missteps?
But Melanie showed remarkable restraint, at least for a few minutes. Then the photographer said something in a low tone to his assistant, who ran off and came back with a makeup bag.
“Just a little touch-up,” she said, pulling out a tube of pink lipstick and moving in toward Melanie.
“But I don’t like makeup,” Melanie said, leaning back. Gigi wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Melanie’s eyes flick toward Zach, who was a very handsome young man, with sun-streaked hair and broad shoulders. He looked like he’d be more at home on a surfboard than volunteering on a congressional campaign.
“You’ll look really washed out in the photos otherwise,” the photographer said. “Even your dad has some on!”
Before Melanie could respond, the assistant said, “At least let me cover up this blemish.”
“This is so stupid!” Melanie shouted, leaping up and running into the house and slamming the door.
“Did you have to say that?” Gigi snapped at the assistant.
She looked at Joe. She wondered if one of them should go after Melanie. She wondered if Joe really did have on makeup.
“I can probably Photoshop her in,” the photographer said. “Maybe use a filter to give her a little color wash.”
The Perfect Neighbors Page 4
