Susan’s company was still relatively young. One of her new clients had hired her to do weekly check-ins on his father at a nursing home. His father was showing early signs of dementia, the client had explained in a phone call.
The client—a businessman who seemed eager to convey how important he was—ate lunch all during his phone call with Susan. He lived in Los Angeles. He was “in entertainment,” he said. He was a very loud chewer.
“Just pop in and make sure he isn’t hitting on the nurses,” the client had said, chortling. “Last thing I need is a sexual harassment suit.”
“Of course,” Susan had said, glad he couldn’t see her rolling her eyes. “We’ll give your father some menu options so we can bring him meals when we visit. Something home-cooked makes a nice break now and then. And we can pick up a Kindle for him as well. The great thing about e-readers is that you can easily enlarge the font size. He can order movies on it, too.”
“Sure, sure,” the client had said in the slightly delayed, distracted way of a person checking emails. “Put it on the bill.”
Susan had planned to visit Mr. Spivey in the nursing home for the initial visit the day before Randall’s party. She always did the initial visits. But Cole’s stomach bug, the mountain of ribs waiting to be cooked, and the impending visit from the in-laws—it had all conspired to devour Susan’s time. Susan only had one assistant back then, a smart, competent woman named Rosa whose kids attended the same school as Cole. So she’d sent Rosa to meet Mr. Spivey instead. Technically she wasn’t doing anything wrong, Susan had told herself. She hadn’t promised the businessman she’d go to the initial meeting.
The day of the party, just as Susan was about to pull the warm, fragrant chocolate marble cake (Randall’s favorite) from the oven, her business phone line and the doorbell had rung simultaneously. At the door were Randall’s family members, minus his father. On the phone was the businessman.
“What the hell kind of scam are you running!” he’d shouted.
“I’m sorry, I— What?” Susan had said. She opened the door and gestured for Randall’s family to come inside, smiling an apology.
“My father’s Rolex is missing,” the businessman had said. “Is that your deal? You like to steal from confused old people? Nice racket you’ve got going, but I will shut you down so fast—”
“Wait!” Susan had cried. She gestured for Randall’s family to make themselves comfortable, then ran upstairs to her bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Susan had said. She’d been breathing hard, aware of the oven buzzer erupting one floor below, reminding her to take the cake out before it burned.
“My father’s gold Rolex is missing,” the businessman had said. “The woman you sent today took it.”
“But you don’t have any proof of that!” Susan had protested. “Your father has early-onset dementia . . . he could have put the watch in a drawer or something. I can go tomorrow and look for it. I’m sure there’s a logical answer!”
“He told me you sent a Mexican. He doesn’t trust Mexicans,” the businessman had said, and Susan had drawn in her breath sharply.
“Rosa Gonzales is an American citizen,” Susan had said. She began to tremble with anger. “She also happens to be one of the hardest-working people you could ever hope to meet!” Rosa had worked for a monstrous boss—a woman who’d paid her below the minimum wage and demanded that Rosa work twelve-hour days cooking and cleaning and caring for bratty twins—in exchange for a green card. She’d earned her citizenship two years ago. She was one of the finest women Susan knew.
“You’ve got until the end of today to come up with the watch or I call the cops on you,” the businessman had said before slamming down the phone.
The damn watch was in a drawer, or a shoe, or under the bed. Mr. Spivey had left it somewhere. Of course it was in his room!
Susan had raced downstairs, yanked the cake out of the oven, and offered beverages to Randall’s family. Then she’d smiled apologetically.
“Can you do me a huge favor?” she’d asked Randall’s mother. “Could you frost the cake as soon as it cools? Everything you need is on the counter—see, the frosting’s in this bowl, and the spatula is here. I have to run out and do an errand, but I’ll be back in plenty of time for the party . . . Cole’s upstairs watching TV . . .”
Randall’s family had looked bewildered as she’d backed out the door, calling a final apology, and climbed into her car.
Twenty miles. That’s how far away the nursing home was located. Susan had driven there in fourteen minutes and was pretty sure she’d be getting a ticket in the mail from a speed camera.
She’d signed in at the front desk, then run down the hallway to his room. “Mr. Spivey?” she’d said as she’d knocked on the door. “I understand you’re missing a watch?”
He’d just blinked at her, a confused, sick old man in a T-shirt and faded sweatpants. His eyes had cataracts and he was very thin. Here he lay, abandoned by his family, to spend his final days among strangers. But Susan felt no pity for him, after what he’d said about Rosa.
“Mind if I take a look?” she’d asked, and didn’t wait for an answer.
She’d searched through his drawers, sliding her hands in between folded shirts and slacks, squeezing to see if she could feel metal through the fabric. She checked his nightstand drawer, and under his bed. She shook out his shoes. She unrolled his socks and looked inside his medicine cabinet, then stood in the middle of the room, her index finger pressing against her lower lip.
“Let me see your wrists,” she’d cried, grabbing them. They were bare.
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” she’d said. If she found the watch in the next five minutes, she could still make it back to the house before the guests started to arrive.
She searched the laundry hamper and trash can. She asked—ordered, really—Mr. Spivey to stand up and she looked beneath him and shook out the covers in his bed. He watched her, seemingly fascinated.
“You don’t like Mexicans, huh? Let’s see how you feel about a black woman tearing apart your room,” she muttered, too low for him to hear, although she was tempted to raise her voice. She’d be firing him as a client tomorrow, right after she found the watch and photographed it on his wrist and texted the image to his son.
She heard her cell phone erupt with Randall’s ringtone. She let it go to voice mail, then texted: Sorry, work emergency but I’m on my way home! See you in a few!
She stopped checking her own watch. She couldn’t bear to see how late it was becoming. She was still wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a streak of icing on it, her hair in a ponytail. She was a mess, but she’d have to walk into the party like this.
She finally found the watch nestled in the soap holder in the shower. He must’ve taken it off so it wouldn’t get wet. She brought it over to Mr. Spivey, intending to shake it in his face. But he’d fallen asleep, his head tilted to one side, his mouth open. Susan had flung it onto his lap, taken the photograph, and run for her car.
She still had time! She could make it before the cutting of the cake. She’d be there for most of the party, she thought as she pulled onto the highway and stepped on the gas.
Then she saw a wall of red brake lights up ahead, as she hit a massive traffic jam.
When she’d finally walked into the party, the cake had been served, and the food was mostly gone.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d told Randall. “It was a work emergency . . . and there was traffic . . .”
He’d smiled, and had told her he understood, but his eyes were cold.
Susan realized she’d been standing there in her hippie headband, lost in thought, for too long. Kellie and Jason would walk through the doors soon. She was reaching for a stack of paper plates to set beside her cake when she heard someone yell, “Help!”
Sus
an turned around, and saw Tessa lying limply in Gigi’s arms.
• • •
“Give her air!” someone shouted as people pressed in around Gigi and Tessa.
“Should we call 911?” someone else wondered.
Tessa’s eyelids fluttered a few times, then opened. “Did I faint?” she asked.
“Yes,” Gigi said. She eased Tessa to the floor. “Can you sit up by yourself?”
“Give her some water,” Susan instructed, and a cold bottle appeared and was thrust into Tessa’s uninjured hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Tessa said.
“It’s okay,” Susan said. “I used to faint at the sight of blood, too.”
Tessa glanced at her hand, which Gigi was wrapping up in a paper towel that someone had passed to her. “That was really foolish of me,” she said. She started to get up, but her legs folded beneath her and Gigi caught her again.
“Give yourself a moment,” Gigi said. She put pressure on the wound and sat with Tessa for another moment, then told Tessa to close her eyes.
“I’m going to check the cut,” she said. “You may need stitches.”
Tessa nodded. She was still pale.
Gigi carefully unwound the bandage. She dabbed water on it, cleaning away some of the blood.
“It actually isn’t too bad,” she said, wrapping it up again with a fresh paper towel. “The bleeding is slowing down. You may want to get it checked out to see if you need a stitch or two, though.”
“Thank you,” Tessa said. “I’m sure it’s fine, and I don’t want to miss the party.” She reached for Gigi’s steadying arm and slowly stood up. She looked over to see Jenny McMahon kneeling down, cleaning the drops of blood from the floor.
“Are you okay?” Gigi asked. “You’re still pretty pale.”
Tessa nodded slowly, and kept staring at the blood.
* * *
Chapter Thirty
* * *
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Re: Help Needed for Holiday Decorating Committee!
Wow, a visit by Santa and wreaths. I didn’t realize every single resident of Newport Cove celebrated Christmas. —Amy Smith, Magnolia Street
*Re: Help Needed for Holiday Decorating Committee!
Guess we Jews are getting the shaft. Maybe we should form our own holiday decorating committee? —Deborah Feinstein, Crabtree Lane
*Re: Help Needed for Holiday Decorating Committee!
Um, I hate to break it to you, but FYI there are more religions than simply Christianity and Judaism. How about a Kwanzaa Decorating Committee? A Ramadan Decorating Committee? —Lisa Crane, Tulip Way
*Re: Help Needed for Holiday Decorating Committee!
We’ll also be decorating Newport Cove with menorahs and symbols of other religions! All suggestions and decoration donations welcome! —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager
• • •
She had to tell Jason. Of course she had to tell Jason.
She watched him sip from a flute of champagne in the back of the limousine, and noticed a stain on the collar of his blue shirt. Her messy, sweet, loving husband.
She thought about him standing next to Miller in the office, the two men assessing each other. She knew she hadn’t imagined the hitch in their energy, or the way they’d locked eyes for an extra beat. They seemed like different species. One tall and trim and smooth; the other—her Jason. The man she loved, but had betrayed many times over.
“Cheers,” he was saying as he held out his flute. “To my beautiful wife.”
She clinked her glass against his and took a sip, but her stomach twisted and she had to force herself to swallow it.
“This is nice,” she said. Jason put his hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. Her throat contracted, and she turned to look out the window so he wouldn’t notice the tears flooding her eyes.
She wished she’d never gone back to work. Life had been so simple—dull, yes, but pleasantly so—before she’d met Miller. He’d opened up possibilities she hadn’t known existed. The tingle of attraction that now felt as necessary as oxygen.
Jason’s hand was still on her knee, steady and strong. She covered it with her own, feeling his warm, thick fingers wind between hers. She was filled with a deep sadness.
How do I find my way back to my husband again? she wondered, aching to know if it was possible.
Maybe it started with a confession. If she told Jason about her flirtation, the element of secrecy would be stripped away. He could hold her accountable. He wouldn’t want her to continue working in the same office as Miller, and if she was going to save her marriage, she’d have to agree. Jason would force the choice she seemed unable to confront.
Maybe she’d take some time off, and go to couples therapy with Jason. She would make him special dinners and give him back rubs and curl up against him at night. Fake it till you make it, wasn’t that the saying?
Jason might look at her differently, though. She would no longer be his golden girl. There might be confusion, or worse, hurt, in his eyes. The next time that blonde came into the hardware store and hung on his arm, he might smile down at the woman and move in closer.
Jason could decide he didn’t want her anymore. He could leave.
But she deserved whatever was coming, Kellie thought, remembering the nights she’d imagined Miller while she’d been making love with Jason, the lies she’d told, the way she’d compared the two men and had found Jason wanting. She gulped the rest of her champagne, shuddered, and turned to Jason. He was texting on his cell phone; probably checking in with his mother to see how the kids were doing.
“Honey,” she began in a trembling voice. She bit her lower lip hard so the burst of pain would hold back her tears.
Jason looked up quickly. “What is it?” he asked, a look of concern spreading across his face. His kind, dear face.
She’d seen Jason cry a few times before—in joy when their children were born, in sorrow when the black Lab he’d had since the age of twelve had died—but her behavior had never been the source of his tears. He’d planned this beautiful night for them to reconnect as a couple; of course he knew something was wrong. He was fighting for their marriage, and she needed to do the same.
“Kell?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “The guy in my office, the one you met today—”
“Miller,” Jason interjected. “The tall one.”
Kellie nodded. “I didn’t sleep with him—” she blurted.
“What?” Jason jerked his hand away from hers.
“Oh God, I mean, I didn’t— I didn’t do anything with him,” she said. “I didn’t even kiss him!”
Jason was looking at her with something akin to horror. “Why are you telling me this?”
Kellie swallowed hard. “I had a crush on him . . . more than a crush. We became friends but then I started to feel something more . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
“You’re in love with him?” Jason asked. His brow furrowed. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No!” Kellie cried. “I don’t know—I’m just so confused, Jason. Please, don’t be mad. I thought you knew . . . the way you looked at him when you came into the office . . .”
“I knew something was up,” Jason said. His face looked different now. He was clenching his jaw and his eyes were narrowed. She’d thought he’d be hurt, but he wasn’t. He was angry—no, furious—another emotion she’d rarely seen him display.
“All those new clothes you bought,” he said. “The way you haven’t wanted to be with me . . .”
She’d thought Jason didn’t see her anymore, but he did. He’d noticed everything.
“It wasn’t you!” she blurted. “It wasn’t anything you did . . . I’ve just been at home for so long, raising the kids. I kind of lost myself. And then when someone looked at me as if I was an attractive woman . . .”
“You’re saying I don’t look at you that way?” Jason asked, leaning back from her. She should have thought this through; everything she said was making it worse.
“You do, you’re wonderful,” she said. “It wasn’t about us.”
He gave a little laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Like hell it wasn’t.”
“Jason, I’m so sorry,” she said. Her heart was pounding so loudly it seemed to be invading her mind, making it impossible to gather her thoughts. Why had she told Jason? “I want to stop it,” she finally said. “I don’t want to be with Miller.”
“You need to tell me exactly what’s going on,” he said. “You didn’t fuck him?”
Kellie winced at the harsh word, but shook her head. “I swear.”
He exhaled a measured breath. “Did you ever see him outside the office?” he asked.
She wanted to lie, but she nodded. “We went to scout houses a few times and had coffee sometimes.”
His eyes were so hard! They were no longer Jason’s eyes; she didn’t recognize them.
“Anything else?” he asked. “You better tell me it all now.”
She dropped her gaze from his. “Once he came to a bar when I was out with the girls, and we danced, but that was it.”
“You brought him out with your friends?” Jason’s tone was dangerously calm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She started to reach for him, then withdrew her hand. “You knew something was wrong, didn’t you? That’s why you planned tonight . . . to reconnect. And I want to do the same.”
“No,” he said. “That isn’t why I planned tonight. I didn’t ever think you’d ever do something like this. Fall for some jackass in a nice suit.”
He wasn’t even looking at her now. He was staring out the window, his body rigid.
The Perfect Neighbors Page 24
