Entering the kitchen by the side door, Miles heard his father talking in the living room and assumed he was on the phone—his dad using that reassuring tone that rarely appeased Miles’ mother—only then Miles heard a woman’s voice, saying: “Thank you so much. I’ve felt so badly about everything.”
Miles found them seated on the floral-print sofa by the window: his father and the woman angled toward one another, arms reaching across the empty cushion between them just enough for his dad to hold one of her hands between his.
On Miles’ arrival, his father—still in a white shirt and dark tie from work—startled as if caught at a guilty pleasure. He sprang to his feet, stammering before he could get out: “Hey, son, didn’t hear you come in.”
The woman remained seated, withdrawing her hand to the lap of her business-attire skirt. Slightly straightening her back, she looked at Miles with an unsure smile as his father explained: “This is Ms. Blakely—Ian’s mother.”
The woman who lived next door.
11.
When she first saw Miles, Cara Blakely gasped quietly—not merely because she hadn’t heard him come into the house, but because he wasn’t anything like she’d expected. Nothing like the way he’d seemed when glimpsed from her adjacent yard the few times she’d waved to him the week his family moved in.
After neighbors warned her that Miles had killed someone, she’d avoided looking at him and instructed Ian stay away from him. That horrible revelation had changed Cara’s impression of what Miles actually looked like. She imagined him as crazy and dangerous, with ugly dark circles under deep-set eyes. Which was nothing at all how he really looked, which was—she could think of no better word to describe him than—elegant.
For a few brief seconds, the sight of Miles distracted Cara from her failed marriage, torturous divorce proceedings, the new job she was struggling to learn and didn’t really like. And most importantly, that her 11-year-old son was now 1,000 miles away, taken from her by his father, a man who hadn’t wanted children in the first place.
#
It was Miles’ idea that she stay for dinner, which he cooked: a quick stir-fry of sliced chicken breasts, vegetables, and rice that had been the first thing the head cook at the marina restaurant, Ramon, had taught him. Explaining that any idiot could do it.
Miles could tell his father was drawn to Cara Blakely in that way he was with women he believed needed help. Miles always thought his dad would have been a wonderful father to a daughter although his mother never saw it that way.
Miles also wanted his dad to have someone new to talk with—someone other than the people he was just now beginning to know by name at the place he’d been working for less than two months.
As it turned out, dealing with a new job was something his father and Cara Blakely had in common. Although for her it was proving even more difficult because she’d been out of the workplace for almost a decade and a lot had changed since she’d last set her bedside alarm to get to an office on time.
She explained how she’d been young then, fresh out of college. Now, although only 35, being at work made her feel old. And the nomenclature—the slang and acronyms that bullet-pointed every communication—seemed not just foreign, but obtuse, even stupid and immature. She felt foolish using it. And wondered how it all had changed without her realizing.
Miles’ father was wonderfully reassuring, telling Cara not to worry—that he felt the same about all the changes, and he’d been working the entire time.
Cara nodded and smiled, so unlike Miles’ mother, who tended to become agitated whenever his father stretched the truth when waxing philosophical. But his father liked to make people feel better, seeing no harm in a little fabrication as a means to that end. Then again, that George did this mostly with women, rarely men, may have accounted for his mother’s ire: she was jealous.
With dinner finished and Miles slicing the cheesecake Cara Blakely had brought as a gift along with her apologies, George said that exact cheesecake was Miles’ favorite and had been the kind of birthday cake he’d wanted every year since he was 13. George talked of taking Miles to the Cheesecake Factory in West Palm for his birthday, where Miles, who hadn’t until that night even known there was such a thing as cheesecake, proceeded to eat three pieces. And when George smiled at Miles and said, “Remember that, son?” Miles willingly played along even though the only part of what his father had just said was true was that they once went to a Cheesecake Factory for Miles’ birthday. But the anecdote seemed to make Cara Blakely happy, so what was the harm? And it looked like it had been a long time since she’d been happy—just like his father.
Miles wondered if his dad might be attracted to their neighbor. Why wouldn’t he be? She was pretty, with shoulder-length auburn hair parted in the middle, and a body his father would call shapely, although the conservative blouse and below-knee skirt seemed intended to play down her figure. Or was it simply because she was here, which Miles’ mother was not, and did not look as if she was going to be.
Although the word divorce had not been mentioned, boxes in the basement remained unpacked as if living here was temporary. As if the lease for the house wouldn’t be renewed for a second year, and maybe Miles’ father would go back to Florida once Miles graduated from high school. Maybe that had been the plan all along, except for his mother to be here with them.
The house didn’t matter to Miles, nor did his mother’s absence. Although Miles and his mom used to be very close, that had changed. She believed she’d done something wrong raising him and that was why that man was dead. That worry—at first suppressed by the risk of Miles going to prison for 20 years—consumed her after the charges were dropped. Her insomnia worsened, and the lack of sleep and stress caused her hair to become brittle and the skin on her face to become even more thin and pale and papery than when Miles had been in jail. His mother had begun to look much older than his father, and joyless—as if once your son takes another man’s life, you are no longer entitled to happiness.
#
“I should go.” As soon as Cara Blakely said that during a pause in conversation, George aborted a sip of what remained of his coffee, setting down his inexpensive cup in its matching saucer.
“It’s early,” he insisted.
Cara could tell that George was a very nice man. Considerate and thoughtful. And lonely. And worried. And he loved his son—that, above all else, radiated from him.
Cara had been anxious about visiting the Petersons to say she was so sorry for causing the police to suspect Miles had been involved with Ian’s disappearance. She’d been embarrassed by her suspicions, worried about how her apology would be received. She wouldn’t have blamed George and his son for slamming the door in her face—which was how she’d react if her estranged husband were to appear at her own doorstep. She would never forgive Sean—never—even if he brought Ian back.
But her apprehensions had proven unwarranted. George was very understanding. He’d put her at ease, seating her on the sofa, listening to details about her life: how her marriage collapsed with bitter arguments over money and Sean’s selfishness.
George had engaged her. Listened. Comforted her. And she was grateful. And grateful to Miles, although she hadn’t told him so—hadn’t apologized to him directly—and wanted to.
Cara found Miles in the kitchen, drinking his own coffee and looking out the back window. She said, “Thank you so much for dinner.”
“You’re welcome. We should do it again.”
“Yes,” George quickly chimed in. “Let’s.”
Cara smiled at Miles, her worries that he’d resent her—possibly hate her—already gone. “I told your dad before you came home how I am so, so sorry I said anything to the police that made them…” She hesitated.
“It’s okay,” Miles assured.
“No—please, let me say this.”
“It’s really not necessary, Ms. Blakely. Your son was gone. If you thought your husband could have done something that awful
you’d have told the police that.”
“But I had no reason to suspect you.” Before coming over, she’d rehearsed in her mind ways to apologize that wouldn’t include admitting she’d thought Miles had abducted her son—ways to make it seem as though the police had misinterpreted what she’d told them or put words in her mouth. She hadn’t wanted to admit that about herself, but couldn’t deny Miles the direct apology he deserved. “I am so, so sorry.”
And Miles, like his father earlier, reached out, gently took her hand, and said, “It’s okay.” Then added, “If there was anything I could do to get Ian back for you, I would. And so would my dad.”
Cara nodded, feeling tears well in her eyes. Already standing close to Miles in the small kitchen, she hugged him. And Miles placed his arms around her in a very secure and confident way that made her feel more cared for than she had been in years. So much so that she didn’t want him to let go, but when Miles eased back, she nodded, sniffled, then turned to George and hugged him. “Thank you both so much.”
“Anytime,” George said, gently patting the center of her back the way her father used to do when she was a child. “Anything you need, just let us know.”
#
Just before midnight, the light behind the curtains in Cara Blakely’s bedroom went off and the house next door fell into darkness.
Miles, in his bed atop the sheets, closed his eyes.
His own bedroom window was open all the way. The outside temperature remained mild—unseasonably so, he’d overheard the weatherman report on TV from his father’s bedroom down the hall.
There weren’t any smoky smells in the air tonight, but aromas of cut grass and cooked garlic from the Korean family’s house behind them. Four generations lived in that house, where the woman Miles assumed was the grandmother was often in the yard, squatting by neat garden rows still lush with green vegetation while their neighbors’ flowerbeds had already gone mostly brown.
All those people in one house, supporting one another, helping each other. And to think that Cara Blakely was alone—more alone than Miles and his father could ever be.
Half an hour later, Miles was still awake, which wasn’t unusual. He didn’t sleep that much or that soundly any more. He checked Cara Blakely’s window—where the lights remained off—and thought about something Amanda once said to him about looking at windows: saying he was hoping to see some woman getting undressed or taking a shower, wasn’t he? Because “all boys think like that, don’t they?” And he’d laughed, because she made it easy to talk about anything, everything. And so he’d admitted to her, “Yeah, I guess.”
He tried his damnedest not to think about Amanda. How on those nights when they couldn’t be together he’d park his truck beyond the guarded entrance to the gated community where she lived, hop the fence, trot along the golf course cart path to the back of her house, then light a match to signal her he was there. And Amanda would turn on the lights in the huge walk-in closet that had an upstairs window, and slowly take off her clothes so he could see her beautiful naked body.
He missed Amanda. Not just because of those nights she’d undressed at the window for him. But because he loved her.
12.
Monday morning, Jennifer Gaines sat with her legs crossed in the front courtyard at school, waiting for Miles to arrive.
Her long blonde hair in a simple ponytail, Jennifer wore a rustic-chic blouse and white skinny jeans.
Bouncing her foot against the concrete patio, she scanned the parking lot from behind oversized sunglasses. She’d been thinking about Miles all weekend, worrying he knew she’d lied to him about getting her period—and would be seriously pissed about her leading him on. She should have just been honest, explained that the problem wasn’t the sex, but she’d gotten scared of him. Although she wasn’t scared now and wasn’t sure why she’d panicked Friday afternoon. So she had to talk. Come on, Miles, where are you, dude?
Two minutes later, she spotted him coming up from the student parking lot, talking with that kid from the soccer team he’d made friends with—Juan. She didn’t know Juan’s last name, but that his father owned a couple taco trucks around D.C. that supposedly offered really good food.
The two guys were laughing so it looked like Miles was in a good mood. Jennifer was glad about that. Only instead of coming to the main entrance, they went in the side doors at the auditorium.
Jennifer hustled into the building to intercept them. Hurrying down the hall, her Wallabee mocs squeaked against the polished tile floors.
She caught up with Miles, grabbing the long sleeve of his t-shirt. “Hey?”
He stopped and turned, happy to see her. “Hi.”
“Talk to you a minute?” Jennifer tugged him away from Juan, offering a quick, “Sorry.”
Miles grinned as Jennifer steered him toward the auditorium. “Where’re we going?” He sounded as if nothing was wrong. Maybe he hadn’t spent the weekend being angry at her as she’d feared—the situation was still making her a little crazy.
She led him down the hall that went backstage—one of those places in every school kids find to be alone—where she kissed him a long time, then said, “I’m really sorry.”
“About what?” Miles was smiling.
Jennifer took a breath and whispered: “I’m sorry I freaked out… Friday…” He remained puzzled so she lifted herself up on her toes and whispered to his ear: “I lied about my period…because I got scared.” She said that much of the truth, letting it seem like it was the sex she’d been scared of—not Miles himself.
He hugged her, running his hand slowly down her back. “My fault,” he said softly.
“I really like you, Miles. I really do.”
“I like you, too.”
“A lot,” she added.
“Yeah—me, too. I like you a lot, too.” He kept holding her, then said, “Come on.” Leading her back up the hall into the auditorium lobby, then out the doors to the parking lot.
Jennifer followed happily, thinking they were going to ditch. Only when he opened the passenger door to his truck he didn’t hold it for her to get in, but reached inside for a gift-wrapped box he handed her as the bell for home room rang.
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly tearing wrapping paper.
It was the scarf from the boutique in Georgetown—beautiful, colorful fabric she fanned in the air like a kite, then wrapped dramatically around her neck.
“I love it!”
#
Had Debra Vance been at school that morning to witness Miles give Jennifer the scarf, she may have found his actions as romantic as the girl did. But Debra Vance wasn’t at Kensington High. She was in the office of the County Attorney—Arnold Baylor’s boss—along with Elfin Arnold himself and her own lieutenant, Rod Marin, a tall, serious man of 42, who had a thick head of wavy brown hair and the broad chest and muscular arms of a weightlifter.
The meeting had been arranged with little notice and a sense of urgency. Because until sometime over the weekend, Baylor’s boss, Mary Schmidt, had been unaware of the arrangements Arnold had made with the police department to insert—a term Arnold liked because it sounded military and macho—Debra Vance into Kensington High as an undercover teacher’s aide.
“That’s what we’re calling it?” Schmidt inquired skeptically of Arnold, her use of the term “we” acknowledging her respondeat superior responsibility for his actions as her employee. “Undercover teacher’s aide?” She made it sound preposterous.
“Yes.” Undeterred, Arnold sat forward, his elbow on the corner of Schmidt’s large government-issue desk, a furnishing of composite wood scraps covered in glued-on veneer intended to resemble oak without actually having taken down a tree.
Vance didn’t think Arnold appeared at all intimidated; to the contrary, he seemed eager to argue his case. Her lieutenant, on the other hand, was grinding his jaw, having been under the distinct impression Mary Schmidt had approved her being assigned to a local high school. And Lt. Marin did not ta
ke kindly to being misled, let alone lied to.
“I’m going to say unprecedented just once,” Mary Schmidt informed Arnold, “but consider it included in my every statement until I note otherwise—understood?” Schmidt, a smart lawyer, didn’t have an especially kind bedside manner with her employees, who, given her lack of compassion for them, had little qualms referring to her—behind her back of course—as The Angry Bird. The name was due not just to Schmidt’s demeanor, but the unfortunate ornithological features of her face: hawk’s beak nose, beady eyes, almost non-existent chin, and hair she fashioned atop her head in a manner inescapably suggestive of a rooster. Her appearance would have almost been comical were she not so fierce and unafraid to fire anyone, once lighting a fire under her entire staff of lawyers by announcing that she wouldn’t hesitate to let them all go at once. And if they didn’t think she could handle the office’s entire caseload on her own, just try her.
“It appears,” Schmidt continued, eyes locked on Arnold, “that in your judgment, there is basis to believe Miles Peterson is a danger to the school population.”
“I don’t yet have sufficient evidence to support that he’s a danger,” Arnold admitted freely, “however I consider it likely I’ll be able to establish violations of the Student Code of Safety, Standards, and Behavior.”
“How so?”
This question set Arnold into such a semantic song and dance that Debra Vance was surprised Mary Schmidt didn’t cut him off after half a minute. But the County Solicitor let him rattle on. Perhaps, Vance thought, it was the old adage of giving someone enough rope to hang himself. But that turned out not to be the case.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 7
