In Her Shadow

by Kristin Miller

  “Who is it?” I call out, rising.

  “Rachael Martin.” The voice is kind. “I’m Travis’s wife. I—Travis and I—live next door. I wanted to stop by and introduce myself.”

  Oh, thank God. She’s normal. A thoughtful neighbor from right next door. Although the Point Reina vicinity boasts multimillion-dollar homes, each one impossibly lovelier than the one beside it, I can’t quite pull the Martins’ home from memory. I’d been so preoccupied with the scale of Ravenwood, I hadn’t taken time to scope out its neighbors.

  As I catch a glimpse of my face in the reflection of the window beside the door, I nearly jump. “Just a minute,” I call out.

  My face is gaunt and my color is off. I’m too pale, nearly translucent, and my cheeks look sunken. Our baby might be quite literally sucking the life out of me. I pinch my cheeks, smooth back my frizzy, chestnut-dyed hair, and adjust my sweater.

  As good as I’m going to get.

  “Good morning,” Rachael says when I open the door. She’s smiling brightly, expectantly. “You’re Michael’s new woman, right? Colleen?”

  New woman? “That’s me.”

  “It’s great to finally meet you.” She leans around me to peek inside. “Is Dean still around? I’ve been craving his apple cider beignets for ages. Don’t mind if I come in for a few, do you?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed Dean, but…”

  “Oh, that’s all right. We’ll have plenty to talk about without him. I live over there.” She waits for me to take a step onto the porch, and then points to the spectacle of architecture to the right of Ravenwood. “That’s us, Travis and me, just next door.”

  “The see-through one?”

  “That’s it.”

  It’s ultra-contemporary, built with more windows than walls. It’s one of those houses featured in magazines, where the residents give up their privacy for drop-dead-glorious views. Transparent architecture, that’s what they’re calling it, I think. I could never live somewhere like that, where everyone knows what’s happening inside my home.

  I’m still gawking when she walks into the house as if she’s been welcomed inside a thousand times before.

  “Did Michael mention I’d be coming by this morning?” she asks, circling the couch.

  “You know, I remember him saying something about it,” I lie. “My memory hasn’t been the best lately. I think the high doses of vitamins are getting to me.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She decides on a proper spot, plops down, and instantly arranges herself as if she’s posing for a photo shoot. Long legs tucked beneath her. Arm draped over the sofa back. Other hand placed delicately on her knee. Now this is the type of woman who belongs in this space.

  “I heard there were congratulations in order. A new relationship, and a new baby. Whew.” She blows out a soft stream of air between her bright red lips. “You’re biting off quite a lot.”

  She’s graceful and self-confident, one of those women who seem to effortlessly have everything together, and I hate her already.

  “Thank you.” I think. “Can I get you something? Coffee, tea, or—”

  “Espresso would be amazing.”

  “Sure.”

  Espresso? I haven’t the faintest idea what kind of coffee machines Michael owns. I’d wanted to explore more of the house this morning, but Dean put a damper on that agenda. Walking into the kitchen, I scan the counters.

  “If I were an espresso maker,” I mumble, “where would I be?”

  I open the cabinet to the left of the sink. Glasses and mugs. I pull one down for Rachael, open the next cabinet door and the one below that. Plates. Bowls. Spices and wine glasses. Beer steins. Salad sets. Pots and pans.

  “Here,” Rachael says, and I gasp. I hadn’t even realized she’d come up behind me. She opens the pantry door—a sliver of an opening compared to the wine cellar—leans inside, and emerges with a bulky machine. She goes to work plugging it in and setting it up next to the sink. “This kitchen is so well organized. Joanna had a hand in it, of course.”

  Joanna’s name rings through my brain and stiffens my spine. “I would’ve found it eventually.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to reorganize this home in your own way, in your own time.” She strides to the bar in the dining room, returns with a bottle of Irish cream, and sloshes a heavy drop into the bottom of her mug. Then she winks. “Though I do hope you keep some things in the same place.”

  After filling her cup, Rachael returns to the living room and strikes the same pose as before. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time she’s made her own spiked espresso and curled up on the couch this way. Unease tingles through me as I slouch into the chair across from her and start sifting through the box closest to me. It’s filled with knickknacks from my old apartment. I pull out a few of my favorite books by Agatha Christie and Stephen King and stack them on top of the other books decorating the center of the table.

  Rachael stares at the books for so long, I restack them, this time taking care to make sure the spines line up correctly. “Have you read all of those?” she asks.

  I brush my hand over the cover of Rebecca, my favorite Daphne du Maurier. “Most of them a few times over.”

  She chuckles tightly. “I’ll never understand why people keep books they’ve already read. If you know what’s going to happen, why would you want to read it again? Seems like an incredible waste of time and shelf space.”

  If she doesn’t understand it by now, she never will. Books are my oasis, my home, and always have been. I didn’t have the best childhood. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen, and I bounced around from one foster home to another for the next few years. When most kids were playing Barbie, I was curled up somewhere, lost in a novel, using the characters to keep me company. Deep in the pages of Rebecca, I strolled through Manderley’s magnificent halls and breathed in the sweet hydrangeas that lined its drive. These books were my friends, my refuge, and the first thing I packed for my new adventure with Michael.

  “Have you met Samara yet?” Rachael asks. “Oh, duh, she comes today, right? How’d you take to her?”

  How’d I take to her? Like I’m some sort of fungus. “Good, I guess. I only ran into her this morning.”

  Rachael makes a humming sound of acknowledgment. “She loves Joanna, you know. Dean loves her, too. They simply adore her.”

  No wonder my welcome has been frosty. I’m the second-tier replacement.

  “How far along are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Rachael asks cheerfully. “You’re so slim, I can barely tell you’re pregnant at all.”

  “Five months,” I say, pulling out a few candles and setting them on the table.

  “Past the halfway mark. Good for you.” Leaning back, she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Did you have morning sickness?”

  “Only once.”

  “Lucky.” She eyes me over the rim of her mug. “Your first, I’m assuming?”

  “It is.”

  “Such a blessed time for you both, I’m sure.”

  “Do you have any children?” I fire back.

  She chokes on her drink, and then covers her lips with her hand before going on. “Do you know how you look at some couples and you just know they’re going to be amazing parents? They’re going to travel the world with their kids, provide everything they could possibly want and need? And you know unequivocally, from their demeanor alone, that they’ll be patient and loving and selfless in the way that children deserve?” She drops her hand and grins wickedly. “No one looks at me and Travis that way. And if they do, they’re delusional.”

  I can’t help but laugh, too. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Oh, it is, believe me. Know thyself, right? Isn’t that what they say? We’re happy, T
ravis and I, just the way we are. Not everyone is cut out to be a parent,” she says definitively, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

  Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be sporting a big freaking rock on my finger just like Rachael’s. That thing’s huge—a solitaire, three-carat minimum. Michael and I haven’t talked about marriage yet. I don’t want to push him to file for divorce so he can marry me, but we are having a child together, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if I had the same last name as our baby? After we’ve been here a few months and the timing feels right, I’ll drop the hint.

  “What does Travis do?” I ask, dragging my gaze from the sparkling diamond on her left hand. Instead, I focus on unpacking the next box, pulling out more books, journals, a few framed black-and-white photographs of the city.

  “You don’t know?” Rachael leans back, relaxing as she sips her spiked espresso. “I thought for sure you would, working there yourself and all. He’s the head of marketing for Michael’s company.”

  A deep red blush heats my cheeks. I should’ve at least recognized his name. And now I’ve insulted her.

  “I started at the end of July, and I worked as Michael’s personal assistant for most of that time. I didn’t get to meet everyone.”

  “Whoa, back up.” She arches a thinly plucked eyebrow. “You said you’re five months along.”

  “That’s right.”

  And I know exactly where this is going.

  “Didn’t take you long working at the company to land the boss. Talk about climbing the ladder.”

  My jaw tightens as I digest her tone. It’s playful, without a hint of maliciousness, and when she buries her smile with another sip, I repress the urge to ask her to leave. Rachael and her husband are Michael’s neighbors, I remind myself. Our neighbors. I need to be on my best behavior.

  “That wasn’t my plan,” I offer, watching her carefully. “It just happened.”

  “That’s what they all say. Didn’t you feel bad about sleeping with the boss so soon after his wife dumped him? You don’t have to answer—no pressure or anything—I’m just curious. You’d have to feel bad, wouldn’t you? Even a little bit?”

  “Umm…I guess.” How do I answer? If I say I felt bad, I’ll be showing weakness. If I say I didn’t, that makes me callous. “I was cautious, but when I’m with Michael it feels natural. Like I’ve known him for years.”

  “Have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Known him for years?”

  “No, I’d never met him before he hired me. What about you?” I ask, determined to refocus the questioning on her. “Do you work outside the home?”

  Footsteps sound from somewhere upstairs, followed by the slamming of a door. Samara is on the move.

  “I’m a real estate agent for a firm in the Marina district. I handle business space, mostly. I enjoy it, though sometimes the hours are long, which means I don’t have much time for charity work. Joanna volunteered at a healthcare foundation and served on the board for so many charities. I would be doing that too, if my career weren’t so demanding. She used to say it was the most rewarding job in the world. Do you volunteer anywhere?”

  “Not yet.” I shake my head. “But maybe someday.”

  “Everyone I know pushes it off to ‘someday.’ Everyone except Joanna.” Rachael takes another long sip, then turns her attention to a twenty-something dog walker struggling with four boxers across the street. “Anyway, Point Reina is our little gem, hidden away from the rest of the world. The pace is slower here because no one really knows about it. It’s the perfect place to raise a family, or at least that’s what I hear. Travis mentioned you needed rest and relaxation for the pregnancy, so I can understand why Michael suggested it, but honestly—and I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Colleen—I’m surprised you agreed to it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She leans forward as if she’s divulging a juicy secret. “Aren’t you afraid, even just a little, that everyone’s going to compare you to her? If you’re living in a different space, it’s not a big deal, but Ravenwood was their home. You know Joanna’s still here, even if her things aren’t.”

  To keep Rachael from seeing my hands tremble, I empty the box at my feet. “I think it’s going to be a transition for all of us. It’ll take time to feel natural.” I reach for another box, laying everything out on the coffee table so it can be sorted later. “But Michael and I are a team. If he thinks this is best, I’m all in, no matter what that means.”

  “Michael is the most thoughtful partner, isn’t he?”

  It’s not until Rachael’s blabbering on about her husband’s position and late nights in the city that the realization sets in. She’s never known Michael and me as a couple, never once seen us together. She couldn’t possibly know how he treats me, whether he’s thoughtful or rude.

  But that’s just it.

  He was a thoughtful partner. Not with me, but with her.

  The mistress of this immaculate home.

  “He’s amazing.” I go still, my fingers clutching a framed picture of a selfie Michael took of us on our first date at the Rose Garden in Oakland. Shifting my weight carefully, I slide to the edge of the chair and lean on the armrests to help myself up. The bookshelf nearest the hallway has an empty space, and I suddenly feel the need to place the photo there. I can feel Rachael’s eyes on my back as I arrange the picture of Michael and me. “I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

  “Oh, I bet you could think of something.”

  At that, I turn around, but I can’t read her expression. It’s flat, almost blank, but there’s a steeliness in her eyes that surely wasn’t there before. Her gaze flickers to my stomach.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but…” She pauses, a tight smile drawing the corners of her mouth up. “How’d you do it?”

  I’m confused. “How’d I do what, exactly?”

  There she goes again, twirling that giant rock around her finger with her thumb. “Get Michael to snap out of his funk? He was torn up after Joanna for weeks, threw himself into his work—it wasn’t healthy, let me tell you, and we were all terribly worried that he was depressed—but then suddenly there you were, like a light in the dark, saving him. How’d you do it?”

  Like a light in the dark.

  I like that, though I never knew about his depression.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly, flashing back to the time spent in his office, working beside him through the night, “but he must’ve been ready for another relationship. Because he approached me, not the other way around.”

  “Really? I can’t see it.” She yelps. “Oh, why can’t I just keep my trap shut? That was rude. I shouldn’t have brought up anything about them in the first place—”

  “No, it’s fine.” Now’s my chance. “I know about Joanna and the way she left him.”

  “He told you?”

  I nod and push the empty boxes aside. “Are you and Joanna close?”

  “For years, we were the best of friends,” Rachael says, rising to her feet and crossing to the wall of windows. “With our husbands working so closely, it was hard not to be drawn together. When they moved here, we were pretty much inseparable, but then I started working, and things…changed. To be perfectly honest, we suddenly had different ideas, Joanna and I, and different priorities that led to a few arguments. And then she was gone. We were never as close as I thought we were.”

  She pauses, staring beyond the garden to the cypress grove across the street, and I get the feeling there’s more to the story than Rachael is letting on.

  “Have you kept in touch with Joanna since she left?” There I go, pushing too far, asking one too many questions. “Never mind. Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, picking at so
mething beneath her glossy thumbnail. “I haven’t talked to her since last summer. I’m glad she dropped off the face of the earth, to be honest.” She shrugs, and then flicks whatever she found beneath her nail onto the floor. I crouch to open another box; this one’s full of dishware. Before I can decide where to unpack it, Rachael points toward the dining room. “You’ll probably want to store them in there. That’s where she used to keep her dishes.”

  Biting my tongue, I excuse myself to the dining room, and open the china cabinet. Every shelf is bare. I can’t help but wonder what Joanna’s dishes looked like, and how they compared to mine.

  “She had the most exquisite china set,” Rachael says over my shoulder, startling me again. Her voice seems even more insistent in here than in the living room. Must be the acoustics of the cathedral-like ceiling. “It was gorgeous. The pattern was simple and dainty, and I’m sure each dish cost a small fortune. Looks like she took everything with her. I don’t blame her though, do you? One day, we come over, Travis and I, and—poof. We didn’t even see the moving van.”

  “What’s she like?” I retreat into the living room, trying to keep my voice casual. “I’ve been curious, but haven’t wanted to ask Michael.”

  “Oh, Joanna is poised and graceful and unbelievably beautiful. You can’t stop staring, no matter how hard you try. Without doing it on purpose, your eyes naturally search for any kind of flaw in her, because you simply can’t believe you’re standing there, talking with someone so perfect. You look for an indention in her chin, maybe, an unseemly mole, or one ear that’s higher than the other, but there’s not one part of her that’s blemished. Everyone loves her, naturally, and because of that, some part of you hates her.” She turns toward me suddenly, setting down her espresso, a smile fixed on her face, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m glad you’re with Michael now.” And then she’s turning on her heel, heading for the door. “Thanks for the drink, Colleen. See you tomorrow.”