by Wendy Wax
Her cell phone rang and she hurried inside. As she hunted for the instrument, a part of her brain reveled in the fresh paint smell of her new home, the sparkle of the tall windows that overlooked Peachtree, the gleam of the polished wood floor.
She stepped around the new gray flannel sofa and area rug from West Elm, scanned the Crate and Barrel dining room table that would double as her office, and checked the nightstand next to the brand-new never-before-slept-on-by-anyone queen bed, which she’d tucked into a corner behind a tri-fold screen.
Sidestepping half-opened boxes, she searched the stand on which her new flat-screen TV perched and the bookcases that bracketed the Murphy bed that would be her daughter Hailey’s, when she came home from college. College.
Claire exhaled heavily. Breathed in shakily. Out with the old life. In with the new.
She found the phone hidden behind a box on the kitchen counter—a lovely dappled granite that she’d fallen in love with the first time she’d entered the studio apartment—and managed to answer it before it went to voicemail.
“Hi, Mom.” Her daughter’s voice was achingly familiar and surprisingly grown-up after only two weeks in Chicago at Northwestern University.
Claire reached for a framed photo that lay on the counter and was intended for the nightstand. It was from Hailey’s high school graduation and showed the two of them with their arms slung around one another’s shoulder staring happily into the camera. They were both of average height and had the same even features and wide smiles above pointed, some might say determined, chins. Their heads were bent together in a tangle of hair—Hailey’s long and smooth, the blond tinged with honey overtones, Claire’s a shade that resembled dishwater and which she kept cut in short, low-maintenance layers.
Claire listened to the hum of happiness that infused Hailey’s voice. It made her happy just to hear it. It also made her aware of just how alone she was.
No. Claire silently rejected the word and all its synonyms. She refused to be lonely. No new beginning was without its bumps.
“How was the move?” Hailey asked.
“Good,” Claire replied. When you’d sold or given away 95 percent of your former life and arranged to have most of your new life delivered, moving wasn’t particularly onerous. She’d been able to fit the few things she couldn’t part with in her SUV.
“Have you met any of your neighbors?” Hailey asked. She had helped her search for a rental unit before she’d left for Chicago, tramping in and out of every unit in the geographical area Claire had outlined on her map. They’d made the choice together over cardboard containers of pad Thai and panang chicken, just as they’d made so many other decisions over their years of dynamic duo–dom.
“Not really. The concierge has been helpful and the other residents seem nice enough.” There seemed to be a diverse group of owners and tenants, which was part of what had attracted her to the building. And while Claire hadn’t seen anyone who looked like they were counting their pennies quite as carefully as she was—no one had turned up a nose or been unfriendly.
“Edward Parker is way hot,” Hailey said turning the conversation back to the concierge. “That British accent is fabulous.” She giggled. “I could probably be okay with him for a stepdad.” She said this as if it were only a matter of time before she had one; just as she had since she turned five and began trying to picture pretty much every man they ran into—including her soccer coach, the mailman, and her favorite elementary school janitor—as potential husband material for her mother.
“I’ve talked to him exactly twice for about five minutes each time,” Claire pointed out.
“But he’s cute, right?” Hailey said.
“So are puppies, but I don’t have the time or energy to housebreak one.” Even Claire had to smile as she pictured leading the elegant Englishman to a pile of newspaper or out to a strip of green between buildings and ordering him to “piddle.” “I’m not here to get married, I’m here to write,” Claire reminded her daughter. Somehow in the years filled with work and single parenting that added up to too much stress and too little sleep, Claire had managed to write two historical romance novels and see them published. Writing Highland Kiss and Highland Hellion had been her great escape from the often overwhelming responsibilities of her real life; a chance to live in another time and place and to experience the kind of romantic love and devotion that people like her could only dream about; the kind of love that led to happily-ever-after.
“You’re there to have a life, too,” Hailey added.
“I already have a life.”
“No, you had Grandmom and Grandpop to take care of all those years before they died. And you’ve had me and everything you had to do to take care of me,” Hailey corrected. “That’s not a life. Now it’s your turn to just take care of you.” There was a brief pause. “Or find someone else who will.”
“I’m going to ignore just how chauvinistic that statement was to say that raising you has been a privilege and an honor. And I’m still here to take care of you when you need it,” Claire said.
“I’d rather you write your breakout bestseller and find some hot men to go out with,” Hailey replied. “And FYI, I don’t think those things are mutually exclusive.”
“God,” Claire said, feigning displeasure. “How did you turn into such a relentless optimist?”
“I learned it from the same woman I learned everything else from,” Hailey said quietly. “You deserve the best, Mom. I hope you’re going to go for it.”
A silence fell, reminding Claire just how far away her daughter was and how completely their life had changed. She’d sold their home, bought what she needed to start fresh, and had exactly enough money left over to pay the rent on this condo for one year. That meant she had three hundred and sixty-five days to plot and write a new and hopefully bestselling novel.
“One thing at a time,” she said falling back on the adage turned mantra that she’d used to get over each new hurdle. To put one foot in front of the other. To take care of increasingly infirm parents and raise her daughter alone. To keep going no matter how tired she was or how short of cash.
Claire plugged in her earbuds and tucked her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans. “Tell me about your classes while I make up the bed,” she said as she located the box marked sheets and ripped off the packing tape. “Did you finish that paper for Sociology?”
Hailey chattered happily while Claire smoothed on the bottom and top sheets, slipped pillowcases over the pillows, and arranged the comforter, turning one corner down invitingly. The bed might be new, but the sheets were well worn and familiar.
Moving into the bathroom, she laid out a towel and stacked the others in the linen closet, then arranged her toiletries on the bathroom counter. She’d do just what she had to tonight and tackle the rest in the morning. As they talked, Claire focused on Hailey’s voice and her obvious happiness and knew that Hailey was hearing the same in hers. Both of them were poised to add a new and exciting chapter to their lives.
Hailey yawned midsentence and Claire glanced at the closest clock. It was getting late.
“I think it’s time for both of us to turn in,” she said when Hailey yawned a second time.
“Okay.” The word was followed by another yawn. “G’night, Mom. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Night-night, sweetheart,” she said automatically as she had so many times over the years. And then despite the fact that her daughter was eighteen and too grown-up and too far away to be tucked in, she finished with the same nonsensical cliché she’d uttered when the bedtime story was over and the lamp turned off. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
The line disconnected and Claire stood alone in the center of the cluttered condo. Hers, all hers. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her. How in the world would she ever calm down enough to fall asleep?
“Don’t be a goon,” she said aloud as she plugged in the Snoopy night-light that had always glowed in a corner of Haile
y’s room and which Claire had not been able to throw away. “You wanted a new life and you’ve got one.”
Now all she had to do was hurry up and go to sleep so that she could wake up tomorrow morning and start making the most of it.
* * *
CLAIRE GAVE HERSELF TWO FULL DAYS TO UNPACK, hang her artwork and photos, and organize the kitchen. She slept fitfully both nights, thrown off by each unfamiliar noise that reached her from within the building and the streets below. Each time she woke she had to remind herself where she was. Then she would look around the apartment and consciously think the word “home,” but as excited as she was to be here, her brain was not fooled. Home was the house on Juniper Lane with the fenced backyard and the cul-de-sac out front that filled with kids each evening after dinner.
In between bouts of unpacking she explored the Alexander, trying to make it familiar and vowing to use the fitness room, the pool, and the clubroom with its big-screen TV, kitchen, and bar, which was available for entertaining. Even though she didn’t know enough people in this part of town to fill her tiny bathroom.
Late on the second afternoon she stood in the center of her new home and pronounced it “done.” Her laptop and a yellow pad of character notes and ideas sat on the dining room table/desk right next to the brocade-covered journal that Hailey had given her to record her new life.
Other than her brief conversations with Hailey, a food-and-drink order on a quick stroll up Peachtree, and a deep Dumpster discussion with Edward Parker, she hadn’t really communicated with anyone. She cleared her throat just to make sure her vocal cords still worked.
“Okay,” she said aloud just to confirm that everything was operational, “you’re going to walk to Piedmont Park and find a nice shady spot where you can prime your pump by writing in your journal.” Eager to get outside, she put on her sneakers, tucked the journal and a pen into her cross-body bag, and left the condo. In the lobby, she strode purposefully with her chin up and her eyes on the front door; a woman on a mission. Which may have been why she didn’t see whatever it was that got tangled in her feet. Or understand how she ended up on the hard marble floor with something small and heavy on top of her and an unfamiliar woman’s voice yelling in the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
BROOKE MACKENZIE CLOSED HER MOUTH abruptly. It was too late for yelling anyway. Not that yelling at either of her daughters or the dog ever actually worked.
A blond woman lay splayed on her back on the lobby floor. Brooke’s five-year-old daughter Ava lay facedown on top of her, chubby arms and legs spread out like a starfish. Darcy’s leash was wrapped around one of the woman’s legs. Brooke’s older daughter Natalie was kneeling next to the woman and had already extended one grubby hand toward the woman’s closed eyelids as if she intended to pry them open.
“Don’t touch!” Brooke hissed, unable to infuse her voice with the calm but steely mother tones that Parenting in Small Doses promised would stop a child in his or her tracks—not that she’d seen any proof that these techniques worked. Or been able to parent in any dose smaller than constant since Zachary walked out on them. “Get up and step away from the lady.”
Neither of her daughters moved.
Brooke drew a deep breath, tucked her hair behind her ears—a move that did nothing to keep it from frizzing out from her head like a bright red Brillo pad—and said, “Now!”
Worried at the woman’s lack of movement, she reached down and grasped Natalie’s wrist just before her sticky fingers made contact with the woman’s eyelid, and pulled the seven-year-old away.
The woman opened her eyes and blinked up into Ava’s round, freckled face, which hovered mere inches above hers, but she didn’t move. It was unclear whether this was a result of shock or injury.
“Are you all right?” Brooke reached down, put a hand on each side of her youngest daughter’s waist, and lifted her straight up off the woman’s chest as gingerly as one might extract a pickup stick from the top of a jumbled pile. For a moment she held her suspended in the air, Ava’s arms and legs extended, as if she’d dived out of a plane and hadn’t yet yanked her parachute cord.
“I think so,” the blonde said as Brooke set Ava down on her feet and hurriedly untangled Darcy’s leash.
Sighing in relief, Brooke stretched out a hand to help her. Their eyes met and Brooke was further relieved to see that the woman appeared dazed, but not angry.
“I’m so sorry,” Brooke said. “They were racing each other for the elevator—it’s mortal combat to see who gets to push the button no matter how many times we’re in and out each day.” She pulled gently until the woman was on her feet. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Brooke braced for a snide comment about unruly children and/or Brooke’s ineptitude as a parent. There were no other kids anywhere near Natalie and Ava’s ages in the building; something that had apparently not occurred to Zachary, her now-ex-husband, before he’d chosen the Alexander and moved them into it. Only to abandon them there.
Even normal exuberance, which her children rarely dialed down to, was often met with frowns and disapproval.
“I’ve told them so many times not to run on the sidewalk or in the lobby, but I don’t seem to be getting through.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was an accident.” The woman put her hand out, not for assistance but in greeting. “I’m Claire Walker. I just moved into a unit on the eighth floor a couple days ago.”
“We’re on the ninth floor,” Natalie said. “We’re on the next floor right on top of you.”
“Nine-oh-four.” Ava said this proudly. Much of her first month in kindergarten had been spent memorizing her address and phone number.
“I’m Brooke Mackenzie,” Brooke said, relieved. “This is Natalie.” She placed a hand on her oldest’s bright red hair and then on her youngest’s. “And Ava.” Brooke smiled apologetically. “And this . . .” She tightened her grasp on the leash attached to their dachshund. “This is Darcy, the disobedient wonder dog.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Claire Walker looked and sounded sincere, though Brooke knew here in the South that what was said wasn’t always what was meant. “And don’t worry about the collision. I have a daughter of my own. She’s in college now, but she had lots of extra energy when she was little.” She smiled. “I used to expend a lot of my own trying to get rid of hers.”
“The only time these two are quiet is when they’re asleep.” Brooke was about to apologize again when Edward Parker walked up to them, calm and unperturbed. The concierge’s formal elegance was a perfect match for the building’s magnificence. He belonged there in ways Brooke knew she never could or would. But he didn’t frown at her in disapproval or attempt to reprimand the girls. Beneath the polished efficiency she sensed warmth and a belief in fair play. If he disapproved of her, her children, or her sad little cliché of a life, he never let on.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked, reaching down to scratch behind Darcy’s ear.
The dog’s tail wagged with happiness. She raised her long nose and looked up at him adoringly. So did Natalie and Ava.
“Mr. Mackenzie left this off for you a little earlier.” He handed Brooke a sealed envelope, with her name on it in her ex-husband’s tight, angular writing. Her own smile fled, but her daughters, ever hopeful, assumed this was a good thing.
“Daddy was here!!” Natalie’s happy voice cut right through her. Both girls looked around the lobby expectantly as if their father might be hiding behind one of the potted palms or a section of the banquette, waiting to surprise them. As far as Brooke was concerned none of Zachary Mackenzie’s surprises had been remotely pleasant. Since he barely showed up to spend time with the girls when he was supposed to, she doubted the envelope contained a hint or clue in a first-ever game of lobby hide-and-seek. If she were lucky, it might be the monthly maintenance check that he always seemed so reluctant to turn over.
“Thanks.” Brooke’s hand tightened reflexively on the leash. “Let’s go, girls.”
This time she didn’t have to work on the commanding tone because she needed to get upstairs to see what the envelope held. Experience had taught her that bad news—and Lord knew there’d been a ton of it over the last year—was better received and digested in private. She nodded to Claire Walker. “It was nice meeting you.”
There was the click of high heels on the marble floor and Brooke looked over Claire Walker’s shoulder to see the woman she’d mentally labeled “rich bitch” headed toward them. Or as it turned out, toward the concierge.
Brooke had seen her coming and going, sometimes with a tall, good-looking blond man she assumed was her husband. She knew little more than her name and that they lived on the top floor—the entire top floor—and were always beautifully dressed and in the process of sweeping off to somewhere undoubtedly wonderful. Zachary had told her stray bits and pieces about the Davises as he’d gleaned them and had been convinced that living near and rubbing elbows with people like them would help build his medical practice in Atlanta. A woman like Samantha Davis could bring him a boatload of influential patients.
Brooke glanced down at her lumpy pear-shaped body, practically feeling her thighs and stomach straining against the “miracle” fabric that was supposed to make her look ten pounds lighter. Maybe she’d been wrong to turn down Zachary’s offer of a tummy tuck and boob lift after she’d finished nursing Ava, but Brooke had resisted what her husband had referred to as those “small enhancements.”
Her friends and family believed free corrective procedures were simply one of the perks of being married to a plastic surgeon. Her divorce attorney had insisted that putting Zachary through medical school and supporting them while he completed his residency and built his first practice in Boston had earned her the right to free plastic surgery for life. But Brooke was even less interested in being “fixed” after the divorce than she had been while she and Zach had been married. What she wanted was to be loved regardless of the elasticity of her skin or the shape of her breasts.
