Daphne had nodded. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it . . .”
“Thanks,” Susan had said, thinking maybe she would confide in Daphne when she knew her a little better. But she made a decision to keep her voice light and steer the conversation in a new direction, asking about the Bikram Yoga class Daphne was taking.
Daphne didn’t meet Randall for another two months. Later, Susan would replay the details in her mind hundreds of times, torturing herself with how easily it all could have been prevented. She and Randall could have bumped into Daphne at the supermarket, or on the sidewalk. They could’ve pulled up side by side at the same stoplight. There were so many missed opportunities for Daphne to have seen Randall, to know that he was Susan’s husband.
Randall had been at a bar downtown with a group of buddies. Daphne was there, too, one stool over, waiting for a new friend from the health club she’d joined. One of Randall’s pals had jostled Daphne’s elbow, spilling her glass of wine. A round of tequila shots had been ordered as an apology. Randall’s buddies had been calling him R.B.—his high school nickname.
Randall’s friends had left first. Daphne’s acquaintance texted to cancel when her sitter failed to show up. Randall and Daphne had stayed on alone.
They didn’t touch, not that night. But they’d confided in each other, in an hours-long, deeply intimate talk. They’d stayed until the bar had closed. Randall had confessed in one of the mediation sessions that he’d fallen in love with Daphne instantly.
“I wasn’t looking,” he’d said, seemingly bewildered. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. It just . . . did.”
Daphne didn’t know Randall—R.B.—was Susan’s husband. He’d told her he was getting separated.
But he didn’t ask Susan for a separation, not until two days later. By then Susan knew Daphne had met a guy. She’d written about it in an email: I’ll tell you everything over our next lunch, but he’s incredible! All we did was talk but it was like I’d known him forever. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before!
I’m so happy for you! Susan had written back. She’d actually written those words.
The Monday after he’d met Daphne, Randall had stayed home from work. Susan had just gotten back from taking Cole to the bus stop. She’d shut the door, released the catch on Sparky’s leash, slipped out of her shoes, and was walking down the hallway when she’d caught sight of him sitting on the living room couch. “Oh!” she’d said, putting a hand to her chest. “You startled me!”
Randall hadn’t been watching television or reading the paper or checking his phone. He’d been motionless. Waiting for her.
But that wasn’t the reason why her stomach had dropped. It was the look in his eyes.
• • •
“He moved out that day,” Susan told Tessa. “I was kind of a zombie. I sat in the living room for hours. Kellie stayed with me that first night, but when she had to leave the next morning to take care of her kids, I called Daphne.”
She gave a little laugh. “Can you believe we still didn’t make the connection? Not then, anyway. But of course I didn’t know Randall had met someone. I couldn’t even talk. I just cried and Daphne made me tea with honey and brought a cold washcloth to put over my eyes. Then she went home before Randall came back so we could tell Cole. That was the worst moment. Even worse than when I realized who Randall had fallen in love with. It was seeing Cole’s little face . . .”
Susan squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. “I still think we might’ve had a chance, if it hadn’t been for Daphne. If they hadn’t been so in love.” She tried to put a funny emphasis on the last two words, but it didn’t work because her voice broke.
“When did she realize R.B. was Randall?” Tessa asked.
“A week or two later. She was over here and she picked up one of our family photos. She dropped it and the glass broke. Kind of a fitting metaphor, don’t you think?”
“I’m so sorry,” Tessa said.
Susan nodded. “Me, too.”
Tessa didn’t try to console Susan by telling her she’d meet another man, as so many others had done, and for that, Susan was grateful. She had instinctively known Tessa would understand—some things you couldn’t fix, some wounds left forever scars.
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Joe Kennedy
Congratulations to Newport Cove’s own Joe Kennedy on his victory in the primary nomination for Congress! We’re all behind you, Joe! —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way
*Re: Joe Kennedy
Is the listserv supposed to be used for political messages? I seem to recall a rule about using this medium for personal gain. —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I looked up the listserv’s bylaws and am reposting Clause 10: “In order to keep the Newport Cove listserv primarily a discussion list, posting of ads is extremely restricted. Free ads may only be posted by people who live within the listserv boundaries and the ads must be non-commercial in nature and not too frequent. Non-commercial means you cannot advertise something that benefits you via a sale. Exceptions include teenaged babysitters or recommendations for housecleaners.” —Tally White, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I don’t see how the above clause relates to my message about Joe’s primary victory. It wasn’t a political ad; I was simply congratulating my neighbor. —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I’d be curious to know if those objecting are Republicans, and if their objections are in fact thinly veiled campaign strategies designed to promote their own candidate. —Ruth Smith, Blossom Street
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I resent your implication, Ruth. I assume you’re a liberal Democrat? —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
Can we start talking about dog poop again? —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane
• • •
Gigi opened her eyes the morning after the primary election and enjoyed two peaceful seconds before being engulfed by a sense of doom. She’d experienced other wake-ups like this, mostly back in college when she’d had too much to drink: Once she’d kissed her roommate’s ex-boyfriend, a man she’d never even been vaguely attracted to. Another time she’d streaked across the football field following a night game victory (she said a million prayers of gratitude that cell phones with cameras and Facebook hadn’t been invented during her youth). But Gigi hadn’t been drinking last night. She’d had, what, one glass of champagne? She frowned, wincing when the movement caused additional pain in her head.
Maybe two glasses, or two and a half, tops, but only because people had stuck the flutes in her hand and toasted Joe. She certainly hadn’t been drunk.
But the muscle relaxants! You were not supposed to mix them with alcohol. She’d known that, but she’d hardly been pounding shots. Should those slim flutes of champagne really have affected her that much?
She had a vague recollection of trying to give a speech, and of seeing Joe’s wide, worried eyes as he wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders and eased her out of the room.
Oh God. Gigi heaved her feet over the side of her bed and took in shallow breaths as she fought a wave of nausea.
Had Julia or Melanie seen? It would probably only make her older daughter hate her more.
The television camera had been there. That detail surfaced in Gigi’s murky brain, making her stomach give another unfortunate lurch. She hadn’t eaten much yesterday—or not at all? The muscle relaxants erased her appetite. No wonder the alcohol had hit her. She remembered a chipper young blonde clutching a microphone. Had the camera captured everything? What had she said?
She could hear Joe in the shower. He wasn’t singing.
She saw a glass of water on her nightstand and she reached f
or it and greedily gulped its contents.
Another horrifying memory flash: the cold bathroom tile beneath her knees, her stomach clenching and bucking. She’d made it to the toilet, though. No one had seen.
But what, exactly, had she done before she’d thrown up?
• • •
“Where are you going?” Jason asked, glancing over as Kellie laced up her boots.
“Out to check out some open houses, remember?” she said. “It’ll give me a better sense of the market and how to price my own listings. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
He was sitting on their couch, his feet up on the coffee table, watching a football game. Mia and Noah were sprawled on the carpet, both engrossed in handheld electronic games.
“Can you get the kids off those games?” she asked. “Don’t you think one screen is enough for them?”
“Yes!” Jason bellowed, pumping his fist into the air. His eyes were fixed on the television.
Kellie sighed and went into the kitchen. She’d made Jason and the kids pancakes that morning and the mixing bowl was still coated with batter and the plates, sticky with syrup, were piled up in the sink. A half-full carton of orange juice sat on the counter, along with part of a rapidly browning banana.
Kellie hated the smell of rotting bananas more than just about anything in the world. She felt irritation build within her as she picked up the slimy skin with two fingertips and dumped it into the trash can. “Yuck,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She rinsed the glasses and plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, then she scrubbed down the counters.
She’d always done more around the house—a lot more—than Jason. It had made sense, when she was a stay-at-home mom. It wasn’t difficult to throw in a few loads of wash and run the vacuum cleaner while the kids were in preschool. But now she was working, trying to squeeze in cold calls and network and lure in clients. It would be nice if Jason stepped up. She’d asked him, and he’d cheerfully agreed—Jason was nothing if not agreeable—but he never seemed to see the messes until she pointed them out. He had a much higher tolerance for clutter than she did. She had to give him specific directions: Can you please switch the load in the washing machine into the dryer, then put away the clean stuff? And of course, the next morning Noah would put on sweatpants that were two sizes too big, because Jason had mixed up his clothes with Mia’s, and Kellie would notice it just as they were running late for the bus.
It was easier to do it all herself, she thought, banging the door of the dishwasher closed.
When the kitchen was clean, she went back into the living room. Jason’s chin and cheeks were coated with stubble and he was wearing his grubbiest jeans. Sometimes on Sundays, if they weren’t going anywhere other than his parents’ house for dinner, he skipped showering completely.
“See you soon,” she said.
“Huh?” he asked. “Did you see that field goal? Forty-six yards.”
She was too annoyed to answer him. The kids were still engrossed in electronics, probably zapping their own brain cells along with zombies with every passing minute. She slipped out their front door, resisting the urge to slam it behind her, and got into her minivan. She typed the first listing’s address into her GPS and drove to the house.
Miller was already waiting by his car, squinting into the sunlight as he looked in her direction. He gave a little wave.
“Hi there,” she said as she got out of her van. Seeing him here, away from the office, felt very intimate.
“Hey, you,” Miller said. “What do you think they priced it at?”
Kellie squinted at the house, a brick Colonial with a generous yard. “Five seventy-five,” she guessed.
“I’m thinking five even,” Miller said. “Loser buys coffee.”
Kellie laughed. “Deal.”
They began to walk down the sidewalk, side by side, toward the house.
An older man walking his golden retriever approached and Miller stepped aside, behind Kellie, to let him pass. She could feel Miller’s presence as acutely as if electricity were arcing between their bodies.
“Gorgeous day,” the man said.
“Sure is,” Miller replied.
“Have a good one!” Kellie called as she and Miller turned up the front walk of the brick Colonial with the FOR SALE sign staked in the front yard.
Kellie wondered if the man thought she and Miller were married, if perhaps they were thinking of buying the house together. She turned her head to hide her smile.
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
“THINGS ARE GOING TO start getting real now,” Zach said as he stood in front of Joe and Gigi on the couch. He cracked his knuckles and Gigi winced. She’d always hated that particular sound.
“We don’t have that long before the general election, and it’s going to be tight,” Zach said. He began pacing, and Gigi couldn’t help but feel as though he were a professor and she and Joe his students.
Zach stopped pacing and squatted down, his hands on his thighs. Now he’d transformed into a football coach, intent on securing victory in the big game.
“I need to know anything in your background that could come up during the campaign,” he said. He was looking directly at Gigi. “Ex-boyfriends who might make a stink? Drug use?”
She glanced at Joe, who frowned.
“Is this really relevant?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” Zach said. “The other party is searching for ways to discredit you as we speak. You’re squeaky clean, Joe”—except, Gigi thought, for that time when he was twenty-four and had nearly been arrested for public indecency for mooning a motorist who’d been stuck at a red light after the man had cut Joe off and nearly caused an accident; Joe had actually pressed his bare buttocks against the guy’s driver’s-side window—“so we have to be prepared for the possibility that they’re going to come after your wife, especially since she’s been pretty visible on the campaign trail. It’s better I know everything now.”
Joe stood up. “Tell you what, give us a few minutes alone,” he said.
Zach pressed his hands together like he was praying and gave a little bow—an odd gesture for so hyperactive a young man—and left the room, checking his iPhone as he walked.
Gigi reached for her mug of tea and took a sip. “It’s because of what happened on election night, isn’t it?” she said.
Joe shrugged and sat down beside Gigi. “Maybe. Who cares. Look, you got a little tipsy and tried to give a speech. It was funny.”
“Joe, come on,” Gigi said. “Melanie told me I was practically falling down. She said I was slurring my words. It was awful.”
“You were on muscle relaxants,” Joe said.
“You realize that sounds like the excuse every celebrity gives right before they check themselves into a hospital for ‘exhaustion,’ ” Gigi said. She put her mug back down on the table with a little thud and some tea sloshed over the side. She didn’t bother to clean it up. Suddenly, she was furious. “Are we really going to do this? Tell this kid about the abortion I had when I was eighteen? Tell him that yes, I smoke pot and I’ve tried mushrooms more than once? Does he want to test my tea to see if I spiked it with vodka?”
It was humiliating. Zach would know intimate things about her, things that even her kids and some of her friends didn’t know. And what would happen if he were stolen away by a competitor? People jumped ship all the time in political campaigns. Gigi wasn’t ashamed of her past, but she didn’t want it spread around.
The abortion: she’d been a freshman in college, and she’d made the choice that had seemed best for her, given the circumstances, which included the fact that her then-boyfriend had disappeared from her life as soon as he’d heard the news. The pot, the mushrooms: technically, she’d broken a few laws, but she hadn’t hurt anyone. She’d never driven while under the influence
. And a little marijuana buzz seemed far less dangerous than things she’d seen on campus, like kids doing beer bongs until they passed out in their own vomit.
If Zach drew out her secrets, he’d have a file on Gigi. Maybe not an actual one tucked away in a secret drawer, but there would be notes saved on an iPhone, or in the mind of a twenty-two-year-old guy Gigi didn’t know very well, perhaps to be used in the future when he needed a favor. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold and exposed.
Joe was watching her. “Zach?” he called out.
Zach came back into the room so quickly Gigi wondered if he’d been hovering just beyond the doorway, trying to eavesdrop. Suddenly she felt a flash of distrust for Zach with his golden surfer-boy looks and cold blue eyes. She didn’t know him at all, yet he’d asked her to lay bare her history so he could pick through it like a salad bar.
“We’re not going to do this,” Joe said. “My wife’s private life will remain private. If Max Connor tries to dredge up something on her, we’re going to attack Max for having the low morals to go after a wonderful wife and mother.”
Zach nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “You’re the boss,” he said.
Gigi felt warmth creep back into her body as she felt Joe’s hand cover hers. She looked at him and he smiled at her and she felt a little flutter in her stomach. Put that in your file, Zach, she wanted to say. I’m still in love with my husband! In fact, I’d like to push him down on the couch and jump his bones right now! The decisiveness and moral courage voters had seen in Joe was real.
“We’ve got the Optimist Club meeting to drop by in thirty minutes,” Zach said. “Should I tell them we’re going to be late, or . . . ?”
“Nope, we’re done here,” Joe said. He kissed Gigi and got up and left the room.
The Perfect Neighbors Page 12
