by Dianne Dixon
Ali was looking around the cold, lifeless living room of her new house, the place she and Matt had been so eager to leave their cozy apartment for—and she was grieving for what had died.
• • •
Ali’s wandering trip through the house eventually led her into the kitchen. Matt was there, shaved and showered, briskly taking plates and napkins to the table.
The light in the room was too bright; she ducked her head and put her hand over her eyes. Matt pulled the cord at the side of the kitchen window, dropping the shade, and then went back to setting the table. He didn’t look at Ali. And she didn’t look at him. In the weeks since the rape, it had been nothing but distance between them.
When Matt spoke, it was in a monotone. “After we eat, we could go in the living room and have a fire…might make it seem more like Christmas.”
Ali’s shrug was vague. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I got a tree yesterday.” Matt’s face was blank. “I was going to surprise you, but then I realized I didn’t know where the decorations were.” He had moved to the kitchen counter and was making sandwiches.
Ali sat at the table. Absentmindedly turning her wedding ring in a slow circle—it felt cold and heavy on her finger. After a while, she glanced at Matt and at the sandwiches he was preparing. “Until I woke up this morning, I’d forgotten that today was Christmas. I should’ve asked Ava to send some food over from the restaurant.”
And Matt said, “It doesn’t matter. I’ve never minded having peanut butter and jelly on Christmas.”
Ali blinked, surprised—wondering, When, and where, were peanut butter sandwiches what you ate for Christmas dinner?
She knew Matt’s parents were dead and he was an only child, and that he didn’t have any family; she’d known it from the beginning of their relationship. She’d explained it to the police the night Matt disappeared after the book signing in Rhode Island. But Matt had always described his childhood as “normal, average, middle class.” How could a Christmas meal of peanut butter sandwiches fit into that picture?
If it had been three and a half weeks earlier—if it had been before the rape—Ali would’ve cared about the answer. But her closeness to Matt was steadily eroding, and her thoughts had already moved on. She was inside a flash of memory…being attacked on the floor of the apartment, inches away from that broken lock on the patio door.
Matt dutifully continued making sandwiches. And Ali was furious with him for not fixing the lock. She couldn’t let go of it. Her only way to deal with chaos of the attack was to turn it into an explainable event. Something manageable that could have been prevented with a couple of screws and a power drill.
Ali sensed Matt waiting for her to talk to him. She continued to sit, wordlessly, at the kitchen table. Turning her wedding ring around and around on her finger.
Finished with the sandwiches, Matt stared into an undefined mid-distance. “I’m sorry.”
Ali said, “I know,” and went back to steadily turning her ring.
There was a long space of nothingness.
Then the ring slipped off her finger, clattering onto the table.
Matt winced. As though the sound of Ali’s wedding ring hitting the table had caused him physical pain. “I don’t know what to do, Al. I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”
Ali’s response was, “I’m sorry, too.” But even as she said it, she wondered what it meant. Was she was sorry about how much she and Matt were hurting? Or sorry because she was so dangerously close to wanting their life together to be over?
Matt moved to the sink and stayed there, staring out the window.
Ali picked up her wedding ring, holding it in her hand, weighing her decision. Eventually, she slipped the ring back onto her finger. “I love you,” she whispered.
Her voice got stronger as she said, “I want to forgive you. I just don’t know if I can.”
Matt’s gaze never left the gray winter landscape on the other side of the window. “I understand.”
The look in his eyes was so clearly from some other place and time, it made Ali shiver.
• • •
Wanting to escape the deadness that had been in Christmas Day, Ali got up early the next morning and did what she hadn’t done in weeks. She went to work.
The restaurant was on a holiday schedule, open only for breakfast. The mood was festive. The dining area of the gracious old building was glorious—its glossy black-and-white floors and hammered tin ceiling washed in clear winter light streaming through the plate-glass windows hung with lace curtains the color of whipped cream. Some of the tables were marble topped; others, farmhouse plain and covered in white tablecloths—all of them accented with tiny crystal vases brimming with holiday greenery. The air smelled of oranges and coffee and cinnamon.
It was as if Christmas had come alive in one of the drawings from MaryJoy O’Conner’s portfolio.
JOY was packed with customers. The most demanding ones were monopolizing a table in the center of the room—a pair of teenage girls and two small, unruly children.
Rushing between the kitchen and the dining area, filling in as a waitress, Ali had been trying to gently encourage the two girls to pay their check, which had been on the tabletop for over an hour. The girls had refused to budge.
Ali was ready to scream. Ava, who was dealing with a long line of people waiting to be seated, shot a scowl in the direction of the teenagers, silently telling Ali, They need to go.
The two small children had started squealing and throwing food at each other, sliming the floor with scrambled eggs and marmalade. The girls were chatting and texting.
Before she could stop herself, Ali marched over to the table and stripped away the plates, the centerpiece, and the tablecloth. Then she grabbed a wet towel, dropped to her knees, and began to clean up the mess on the floor. When she finished, she gave the teenagers a withering look and growled, “Out. This instant. Breakfast is over!”
One of the girls immediately shouted to Ava, “This grinchy woman who’s our waitress is a total nightmare. If I were you, I’d get rid of her. It’s like she thinks she owns the place.”
The absurdity of that statement released the tiniest bit of pressure and made life bearable again. Bringing Ali a surprise—the sound of her own laughter.
She was enjoying the moment, unburdened. And completely unaware of what was happening on the other side of the front window.
A beige Honda was driving past the restaurant at a crawl. Repeatedly making U-turns. Then coming back again.
The grim-faced driver was Morgan. And her attention was locked on Ali.
• • •
Morgan’s strange surveillance continued to go unnoticed by Ali and ended after the restaurant, on its holiday schedule, closed early.
Ali was in the kitchen with Ava. Bundling Sofie into her stroller. Getting Ava and Sofie ready to go home.
Just as Ali and Ava were saying good-bye, holiday visitors arrived—Jessica and Logan, coming in through the door to the walled garden, bringing Christmas presents and excitement.
Within minutes, Ali was preparing an impromptu brunch. She invited Ava to stay. And, in what seemed like no time at all, a party had happened. The room was loud with laughter and cooking clatter.
Jessica was using a soup ladle as a gavel, banging it on the wooden table at the far end of the kitchen, shouting, “Hey. Hold it down. I have something to say!”
Sofie, now seven months old, was in her high chair, keeping up a nonstop stream of baby jabber. Ali was busy making brioche French toast and lemon-ricotta pancakes. Ava was working on fresh fruit for a salad. And Logan, who’d been asked to fry thick-cut strips of applewood-smoked bacon, was at the griddle.
“Will somebody please listen? I have an announcement.” Jessica raised her voice. “Delivering Christmas presents isn’t the only reason Logan and I came h
ere today!”
“It’ll have to wait, Jess.” Ali held up a stoneware platter stacked with French toast and lemon pancakes. “Brunch is served!”
This, for some reason, made Sofie giggle. Ava leaned over and tickled her. Sofie giggled again.
Ali asked if the bacon was ready, and Jessica handed over a bacon-filled plate, telling her, “I want you to know this is Logan’s signature dish. He only makes it for very special occasions.”
“Bacon is a signature dish?”
“Absolutely. And his backup showstopper is buttered toast.”
Ava passed between Ali and Jessica, bringing the fruit salad to the table, playfully saying, “You are a lucky woman, Jessica, to have such a talented husband.”
“I am a very lucky woman.” Jessica took a dramatic pause. “Which brings me to my big announcement. Frying bacon and burning a piece of toast aren’t my husband’s only talents. It turns out he’s pretty good at making babies, too.”
The lightheartedness in Ali suddenly dimmed. She was startled, envious. “Jess. You’re pregnant?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you for days. I called a hundred times, but all I got was voice mail.”
“I’ve been a little distracted.” A moment passed before Ali realized she’d stopped talking, and when she said, “But, Jess, I’m so happy for you,” it was an awkward combination of gladness and jealousy.
Jessica only seemed to hear the gladness; she was glowing with delight. “I’m three months along. We didn’t want to make the announcement till we were sure everything was okay. And it is!”
“Many, many congratulations.” Ava clapped her hands.
Ali was fighting tears, forcing a smile.
Ava clapped her hands again. Sofie spontaneously did the same.
Everyone laughed. And Sofie crowed with delight.
Ali went to one of the refrigerators and brought out a bottle of champagne, taking longer than she needed to, waiting to get her emotions under control. A baby was something Ali wanted desperately and couldn’t have, because it had been pushed aside by the opening of the restaurant and then buried by the trauma of that night in the apartment.
Ali was truly glad for Jessica, and infinitely sad for herself, as she called out, “Let’s drink to the new parents and their new baby!”
Ava embraced Jessica, saying, “You must be very happy.”
“We’re so excited we’re practically delirious!” Jessica was beaming, looking at Logan.
Following the direction of Jessica’s gaze, Ali expected to see that Logan’s enthusiasm was as bright as Jessica’s. But it wasn’t.
He seemed uncomfortable and trying to play it off as a joke. “What’s the big deal? All I did was what my wife told me to do. I got her pregnant.”
“How does it feel,” Ali asked, “knowing you’ll have somebody looking up to you, following in your footsteps for the rest of your life?”
Logan shrugged. “I guess I’ve never thought about it.”
Jessica put her arm around him, gave him a teasing grin. “I think the boy’s finally admitting it. All he thinks about is sex.”
Logan stepped away from Jessica. “Okay, enough. I’ve done my time in the hot seat.” He picked up an empty plate from a stack on the table and began piling food onto it. “My wife’s knocked up. Nothing more to discuss.”
Logan’s flippant attitude grated on Ali. While she was filling three flutes with champagne, she said, “Are you kidding? There’s a lot more to discuss.”
“Like what?” Logan asked.
“Well…for instance, are you guys going to find out if it’s a girl or a boy? Or will you hold out for the surprise?”
Logan passed a glass of champagne to Ava. There was a clumsy silence. He was obviously waiting for Jessica to answer Ali’s question.
“The mother-to-be plans to stay uninformed and surprised,” Jessica announced.
Not liking the way Jessica was being treated, Ali glared at Logan. “And what about the Bacon King? What are your plans?”
“What plans do I need?” Logan seemed annoyed.
Jessica sounded mildly exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Logan…all kinds of plans.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…like are you going to make a video of our baby being born?”
“And then what? Show it later at parties?”
“Don’t be a dope.” Jessica gave him a frown. He walked away. Jessica looked at Ava, eager for information. “What do you think we should do? Did Sofie’s father shoot a birthing video?”
“It was not possible. He was not with us.” Ava’s tone was matter-of-fact.
Ali put down her champagne glass, listening closely. Ava was an obsessively private person. This was the first time Ali had ever heard Ava mention Sofie’s father.
“Where was he?” Jessica asked.
“In the Marines,” Ava said. “In Afghanistan.”
“Oh. Is he still deployed? Has he had a chance to see her yet?”
Ava smoothed the skirt of the yellow apron she was wearing, each of her movements restrained and deliberate. “He did not see her. And now he is no longer alive.”
Ali gasped. “Ava, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Then she murmured, “Oh my God, he never got to hold his only child.”
“I thought that, too. For a time.” Ava glanced down, carefully folding her hands. “But I discovered he had already had three children to hold in his arms. And a wife.”
Ali didn’t know what to say.
Ava’s expression was serene. “Sofie and I are alone. But we are fine.” She turned to Ali. “In fact, we have just received some very good news. There is to be a master cooking class in the Napa Valley. One of the students has unexpectedly declined.” Excitement crept into Ava’s voice. “I have been accepted to attend in her place.”
“Ava, that’s fantastic!” Ali said.
“When I begin, in a few months”—Ava lifted Sofie from her high chair and cuddled her—“will you watch after Sofie for me while I am gone?”
“Yes, of course.” Ali’s response was enthusiastic, eager. “I can keep her for as long as you want.”
“It will be for two days only.”
Jessica reached out to stroke Sofie’s hair. “What a precious little angel. If you were leaving her with me, I wouldn’t care if you never came back.”
Jessica looked from Sofie to Ava to Ali and said, “I love you guys. Let’s make this a tradition. No matter who else comes or goes, the four us…Ali, Ava, Sofie, and me…Christmas brunch, here at JOY. Same time next year. Promise.”
Ali raised her champagne glass. “Same time next year. The four of us. I promise.”
Same time next year. The four of us. Ali had made a vow that would be impossible to keep. In a matter of weeks, one of the four would be dead.
Less than a mile from JOY,
two days after Christmas.
Terror.
White cotton, ripped and torn.
And a woman’s green eyes—so very wide open.
Ali
Elegant stone walls, lush green lawns, and iron gates were on the other side of the truck’s window. Ali and Aidan Blake were driving through an upscale neighborhood on the western edge of Pasadena, on a street called Patrician Way.
Aidan shot her a look that was undisguised, unembarrassed lust.
It touched a nerve that had been raw in Ali ever since the night of her attack. Determined to sound controlled and businesslike, she told Aidan, “I appreciate you giving me this ride. But—”
Aidan cut her off. “No worries. Matt had meetings all morning and I didn’t. Which is why I took the liberty of taking his place. I’m more than available.”
He shook a fresh cigarette from the pack in his lap. After he lit the cigarette, he blew out a long stream of smoke. “Will yo
u want me to come and collect you later?”
“No. All my car needed was an adjustment to something in the computer. It’ll be ready right after lunch. My friend Jessica can take me to pick it up.”
Ali moved closer to the truck’s passenger door, wanting to be as far from Aidan as possible. There had always been something about him that made her nervous.
Aidan studied the expensive homes they were passing. “Whatever your friend Jessica does for a living, she must do it very well.” When Ali didn’t answer, he gave her a slow, sidelong look. “Or is it that your friend doesn’t do anything? And it’s whatever her husband does that’s going so brilliantly?” Aidan nodded, indicating the spectacular array of houses. “Makes you the slightest bit jealous, does it?”
“No,” Ali said.
“That’s good. You being jealous would be a fucking waste of energy.”
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out. “If this television show Matt and I came up with is only a fraction of the hit everyone’s expecting, it won’t be long before you’ll be taking up residence in a neighborhood twice as posh as this one.”
She scowled at him. He was goading her, annoying her. “Posh isn’t who I am. I want kids…and I’m happy with the house I have, a place that looks like a home, not a hotel.”
Aidan chuckled and returned his attention to the road.
Ali was uncomfortable with how male Aidan was. In every way. From the deep rumble of his voice to the rough handsomeness of his face to the authority with which he was maneuvering his massive, gleaming F-250 through the hairpin turns leading toward the top of the hill. She was uncomfortable because he was a man she didn’t really know, and she was in a confined space with him. The awfulness of her attack was still too fresh. She desperately wanted this trip to come to an end. Without warning, Aidan brought the truck to a screeching stop. Ali gave a startled shout.
Aidan’s reaction was a belly laugh. “No need to scream. You’re as safe as in your mother’s arms.” He grinned, amused that he was making her nervous. “Look.” He gestured toward the numbers on a copper mailbox just outside the truck’s passenger window. “This is the address you asked to be delivered to, right?”
