The Perfect Neighbors

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  * * *

  Before Newport Cove

  DISBELIEF HAD FILLED HARRY’S eyes. He hadn’t even realized Tessa had left the house, or that the woman now standing before him was no longer the same person who had cut up carrots and boiled noodles for his dinner.

  “Here,” she’d said, handing him the photograph of Addison. She shuddered as she passed it to her husband; the glossy paper was imbued with evil.

  “Where did you get this?” Harry had asked. So she told him the story again. It had just tumbled out of her, without inflection or emotion, like she was reciting a list of things for him to pick up at the grocery store. But then her hands started to shake. They fluttered wildly, like trapped birds that had been attached to her wrists and were desperate to be freed.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she’d said. She bent over the trash can and retched.

  Her physical state, more than her words, seemed to convince Harry. He leaped up from his chair and ran outside. Tessa had followed him as he circled her car, checking the rear bumper. “There isn’t even a scratch,” he’d said.

  So maybe it hadn’t happened after all. Had it only been a dream? The car blurred as Tessa’s vision swam and she reached out an arm to steady herself against the vehicle. But the photograph! Harry was still holding it. Tessa stared at that rectangle with the jagged edge, wondering if she was losing her mind.

  Harry bent down and looked under her Toyota. He pulled out his iPhone and aimed it at a certain spot, apparently using the screen’s light for a better look. Just as she had done earlier in Danny’s basement. When his face came into view again, something had changed in his eyes.

  “What is it?” Tessa had whispered. Was Danny still— No, no, her mind recoiled at the thought. Besides, she’d seen him lying in the driveway, motionless.

  “I need to think,” he’d said. He circled the car, his face intent. Tessa watched him pace, feeling oddly numb, her mind’s bandwidth taken up by the work it required to keep track of Harry’s movements. Shock. She knew she was in shock.

  “Take a shower and seal your clothes into a plastic bag, even the shoes you were wearing,” Harry had told her. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?” Tessa had asked, but Harry merely went inside, came back out with his keys, and moved her Toyota into the garage. She was still standing there when Harry pulled out in his Honda, the one they rarely used because the Toyota was roomier.

  Harry pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window. “Tessa,” he’d said urgently. “The shower, now. Go!”

  Tessa had nodded.

  “Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. Just wait until I get back.”

  Shower. Plastic bag. Tessa’s mind had latched on to those words as if they were life preservers. She’d think only of the tasks ahead, and block everything else out. She turned and walked into the house and headed for the shower as Harry pulled onto the street, heading in the direction of Danny Briggs’s house.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty

  * * *

  Newport Cove Listserv Digest

  *Missing Package

  A UPS package that was supposed to be delivered to me today is missing from my front porch. I’ll be filing a police report, but wanted to let fellow Newport Cove residents know that we may have a thief targeting our community. —Betty West, Crabtree Lane

  *Re: Missing Package

  I have your package, Betty! I just got home from work and it was left on my front porch mistakenly. I’ll run it right over! —Polly Whelan, Crabtree Lane

  *Re: Missing Package

  Another wonderful reminder that we live in one of the twenty safest communities in the country! —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager

  • • •

  Kellie pulled the steak out of the refrigerator, where it had been resting in an olive oil, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce marinade, and checked the timer on the stove. Fifteen minutes until the baked potatoes were done; she’d start grilling the steaks now. A big green salad was waiting to be tossed with her homemade Caesar dressing, and for dessert, she’d baked snickerdoodles. She never wanted to eat brownies again.

  It was chilly outside, with a drizzling rain, so she pulled on a coat and baseball cap and went to fire up the grill. She could’ve broiled the steaks, as she usually did during winter months, but Jason preferred them grilled.

  As she waited for the meat to cook, she glanced up at the second-story bedroom window. Jason had gone straight into the bedroom after work. She wasn’t sure if he was watching television or showering or packing a suitcase, because he’d closed the door behind him. She wondered if he’d thrown away the lunch she’d prepared for him, the one with a thick turkey and cheese sandwich slathered with spicy mustard and a bag of barbeque chips and a Pepsi, which was Jason’s favorite guilty pleasure drink.

  She’d thought about knocking and telling him what she’d done earlier that day, but in the end, she’d decided to let him be. He’d eventually learn that she’d removed the password from her iPhone, because she planned to leave it on the counter, unguarded, in case he ever wanted to check it.

  She’d also called the office to say that she could no longer work there. “Family emergency,” she’d said, and had felt guilty when the motherly receptionist had expressed concern. She’d gotten two texts from Miller—the first read Everything okay? and the second, Give a call as soon as you can, worried about you.

  She’d texted back, I’m fine. I just need some time to be alone with my family.

  He hadn’t responded. She’d stared at the screen for a while, then she’d deleted the history of messages between the two of them, the ones she’d read so many times she’d committed them to memory, and she erased Miller’s contact information from her phone. She’d felt a tiny pang as the sweet, flirty messages had evaporated—Miller had called her babe in one, in a joking way, but the sexy term of endearment had made her heart flutter—but she reminded herself that she was missing a feeling, not a person.

  When the steaks were nearly charred on the outside and pink on the inside, just the way Jason liked them, she went inside and climbed the stairs, knocking on the closed bedroom door.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she said, and held her breath. Jason might not feel like eating with her. If that was the case, she’d keep cooking his favorite dinners, every night, until he was ready.

  But he opened the door, still in his work clothes, and came out. His hair was rumpled, sticking up over one ear like ­Noah’s sometimes did when he awoke, and Jason’s eyes looked tired. He passed her without a word and headed downstairs while she rounded up the kids.

  The children had been a little subdued today, Kellie reflected as they gathered around the table. They must’ve picked up on the tension in the house. Even Mia’s voice was unaccustomedly soft.

  She tried to offset any anxiety they might be feeling by chatting normally, asking the kids to tell the best and worst thing that had happened to them that day at school. She’d read about the ritual in a magazine—some celebrity parent claimed it was the way she connected with her kids—and had been meaning to try it.

  “Best thing?” Mia asked. “One of the dumb boys tried to kick a football at recess and missed it and fell over on his back.”

  “Like Charlie Brown,” Kellie said.

  “Oh, wait, can I change my best thing?” Mia asked.

  “No,” Noah said, but Mia ignored him: “The best thing is I’m going to be a patrol next year.”

  Kellie could just imagine Mia striding into a crosswalk, holding up her raised palm, and giving a death-glare to cowed drivers while she shepherded younger kids across the street.

  “Congratulations,” Kellie said. “You’ll do a great job.
What about the worst thing?”

  Mia shrugged. “We had to do work sheets in math.”

  Oh, to be ten again, Kellie thought.

  “My best thing was Dylan dropped an Oreo on the floor at lunch and didn’t want it so I ate it,” Noah said.

  “You’re repulsive,” Mia told him.

  “Mia,” Kellie admonished.

  “He is,” Mia said. “He probably got leprosy from it.”

  Jason was being quiet—too quiet. He was just chewing his food and watching the kids.

  “What about you, Mom?” Noah asked. “What was your best and worst?”

  “My best?” Kellie cleared her throat. Now was as good a time as any. “My best was telling my job I’m going to stop work so I can just be with my family,” she said. Jason was bending over his plate to cut off another piece of meat, but his head rose sharply and he looked at her, his hands still poised above his steak.

  “Did you get fired?” Mia wanted to know.

  “Nope,” Kellie said, shaking her head for extra emphasis. “It was my decision. I’ll be here with you guys every night and weekend now. No more going out to show houses. I might go back to work at a different office in a while, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  “Okay,” Noah said. “So what was your worst?”

  She winced, hoping no one had noticed. The worst was hurting Miller. She imagined how she’d feel if she were on the receiving end of her blunt, unfriendly text. No, the worst was seeing Jason come home and knowing she wouldn’t feel his warm arms wrap around her in a hug. He’d hugged her every single day at the end of work, something she’d taken for granted until it was lost to her.

  The kids were staring at her. “The worst was stepping in dog poop when I went to take out the trash,” Kellie fibbed.

  Noah laughed, spitting out water on the table as he did so, which caused Mia to shriek, and Kellie jumped up to get paper towels.

  “Dad’s turn,” Mia said.

  “My best and worst?” Jason asked. He’d cleaned his plate, which made Kellie feel a little better.

  “The best is being here with you kookaburras,” he said, reaching over to ruffle Noah’s hair and to wink at Mia.

  “Tell the worst!” Mia said.

  This wasn’t such a good game after all, Kellie realized, as Jason took a sip of water and the smile fell from his face. Kellie reached for more salad that she didn’t want, to give herself something to do.

  “The worst?” Jason echoed.

  Kellie’s stomach muscles contracted. She deserved whatever might be coming; she’d absorb whatever angry message he wanted to convey. Jason looked at her for the first time in days and she forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “I stepped in the same dog poop as Mom did,” Jason said.

  The kids erupted into laughter, and Kellie released a small, relieved giggle, too.

  “Is it still on your shoe?” Noah wanted to know.

  “I dunno, want to sniff it?” Jason cracked, lifting up his foot.

  “Eww!” Mia yelled.

  “Keep your voice down, honey,” Kellie said. She’d never thought she’d be glad to repeat that particular admonishment.

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” she asked, standing up and clearing the plates from the table, reaching for Jason’s first.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She smiled, knowing her eyes reflected the words back to him.

  • • •

  Susan hadn’t planned to visit Mr. Brannon that day. Her Cole-free hours were already filled to bursting with a long list of business calls, a visit to a new client, and a consultation on her website redesign.

  But when she checked her calendar, she noticed she hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks. So Susan packed the chicken salad she’d made for her own lunch into Tupperware, added a baguette, some pears, and two bottles of sparkling water, and headed for her car, where she could put on her Bluetooth headset and knock out some of the calls while she drove.

  She made good time to Sunrise, but when she pulled into the parking lot, she realized she’d forgotten to let Mr. Brannon know she was coming. But she’d dropped by in the past without warning and he’d always been happy to see her. Mr. Brannon rarely left the nursing home, save for their outings.

  She supposed it was part of the natural funneling of the end of a life, his geographical retreat. In his twenties, while serving in the army, Mr. Brannon had fearlessly traversed the world, devouring adventures. Now his journeys were confined to his mind, laced with regret and sadness. She wondered how much time he had left, and whether he was looking forward to that final release, hoping to see his wife again. To seek the forgiveness that had eluded him in this world.

  “So I think this will really work,” Susan’s potential client was saying in her ear. The client, a man who lived in Miami, was concerned about his mother, who had been widowed the previous month. He wanted to hire Susan for what she’d termed “bridge services”—to help support his mom until she learned to do the things she’d relied on her husband for, like fill the car with gas. He also wanted to make sure his mother had an active social network, since she’d been consumed with taking care of her ailing spouse during the preceding year and seemed to have lost her way.

  “We’ll help her get back on her feet again,” Susan promised as she turned off the car. “Maybe find a support group, or if she’d rather, we can look into local book clubs, things like that.”

  “She loves to read,” the client said. Susan could hear the concern in his voice. Cole would grow up to be like this, she thought. He’d be caring and conscientious. That wasn’t just a reflection on her, or her parenting. It was also due to Randall.

  “Good,” Susan said. “Her local library has a fiction group that meets the first Tuesday of every month. We can go with her the first time or two, if she’d be more comfortable. And another one of my clients joined recently; she’s a sweetheart and I know she’ll take your mother under her wing. In the meantime, I can send you over a contract later today, and once you review it, you can feel free to call me back with any questions.”

  Susan locked the car as she concluded her call and tucked her cell phone into her purse. It was a cloudless day and although the sun shone weakly in the sky, the promise of spring perfumed the air. Susan was ready for it. This winter had seemed unusually long.

  The sliding doors automatically opened as Susan stepped onto the welcome mat, and she entered the reception area, waving a hello to the woman at the front desk.

  “Oh, he isn’t here,” the receptionist called out.

  Susan blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “Mr. Brannon,” the receptionist said. “That’s who you’re here to see, isn’t it? He left about an hour ago.”

  “Oh,” Susan said, thinking, He left? “Do you know where he went?”

  “Sorry, I don’t,” the receptionist said.

  Maybe he’d taken a cab to the bank, or the doctor’s, Susan thought. “Do you mind if I leave lunch for him in his room?” she asked.

  “Go right ahead,” the receptionist said.

  Susan took the elevator upstairs and was waylaid by Garth. She ended up giving him the half of the lunch Susan had intended for herself in order to escape. She left a note for Mr. Brannon, telling him she’d be by over the weekend for another visit and to call if he needed anything, then she headed back downstairs.

  Maybe he had gone to the doctor. Now that she thought about it, she’d noticed a slowing in Mr. Brannon, a kind of winding down, ever since she’d given him the handprint. He’d been as sweet and gentlemanly as ever, but his face had looked drawn—almost collapsed into itself—the last time she’d seen him. She’d thought it was due to the new resurfacing of his old sorrow, but maybe he was physically ill.

  Susan exited the building, frowning, thinking that she’d call him tonight
to check in. She crossed behind a red Honda that had pulled up to the main doors and headed toward her car. When she reached it, though, something made her glance back. She saw Mr. Brannon get out of the Honda, moving slowly as he struggled to put his weight on his cane and pull himself upright. Susan hesitated, her keys in hand, wondering if she should go help him.

  Then the driver’s-side door of the Honda opened and a man got out, hurrying around to Mr. Brannon’s side. The younger man steadied Mr. Brannon by the elbow and walked him to the front door. The two stood there, talking, then the man reached out a hand. Mr. Brannon took it, and held it for a long moment.

  Not quite a hug, but much more than a handshake.

  Susan felt the air leave her lungs as she watched.

  She’d pictured Edward as a boy who would still fit into that small handprint, but he was a grown man now, of course. He looked so much like his father, with that tall, lanky frame and full head of hair that was beginning to turn silver around the ears.

  Edward released his father’s hand, then reached over and patted him on the shoulder. Just once, but Susan could feel the warmth of that touch from dozens of yards away.

  Edward reentered his car while Mr. Brannon stood by the entrance of the building, watching his son drive away. Then he looked up and saw Susan and beckoned to her. She hurried to his side.

  “Did you see my son?” Mr. Brannon asked. “Edward came here!”

  “I saw,” Susan said. “He looks just like you. But . . . how?”

  “I’ve been writing to him since you gave me that handprint,” Mr. Brannon said. “Every single day . . .”

  “He read your letters?” Susan asked.

  “No, not at first,” Mr. Brannon said. “I knew I didn’t deserve his forgiveness, but I wanted to write the words, to say that I was wrong. So very wrong. I wanted to tell Edward I was sorry, that the greatest regret of my life was the way I’d treated him, and that I’d have given anything to change it. Even if he didn’t read the letters.”