by Jane Green
“You’ll have to think about how to tell Paige. It’s not my problem.” Kit’s shoulders sag with the drama.
“I’m sorry.” The door opens and Tory appears, now contrite. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I was rude and I’m sorry I took your clothes without asking.” Standing in underpants she hands Kit the yoga pants in a ball.
“Okay,” Kit takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry I shouted too.” She opens her arms and she and Tory hug.
“So I can still go to the Jonas Brothers, right? ”
Kit detaches and shakes her head. “No.”
“But I just said sorry,” Tory starts to wail again. “You said okay.”
“I did. And I accept your apology, but the consequence hasn’t changed.”
“Nooooooooooooooo!” The door is slammed again and Tory collapses in a sobbing mess on her bed.
Kit goes into the office, tired and upset, to find Buckley doing what he always does when his sister starts screaming: sitting coma-like in front of the computer playing Club Penguin.
Thank God, she thinks, I’m going to yoga. Thank God I’m doing something for myself. Putting the lilac pants in the washing machine, she gazes out of the window wondering when her life became so damned hard.
Kit manages to calm down by the time she walks into Namaste. There is something about the incense, the ambient music, the soft lighting, and her breathing changes, always, as soon as she steps through the door.
She takes her place in the yoga class, waiting for the teacher to arrive. In her usual yoga class there are just the same five women that show up every week, but here she knows no one. A different crowd, who clearly know one another, who just smile at Kit but don’t include her in the conversation.
The door opens and a stranger walks in, male, handsome. You can feel, instantly, the energy in the room shifting, and she knows this is the man Tracy was talking about.
He is impossible to miss.
Tracy isn’t taking this class—she tended to teach the Ashtanga yoga and this is Vinyasa—but after he rolls out his mat, Kit notices Tracy peeking in through the round glass window in the door, grinning and giving Kit a discreet thumbs-up.
Breathing in and out, in and out, absorbing the peace and calm in the room, Kit starts to forget about the stress and drama at home, starts to feel the tension leave her body. These episodes with Tory are so disconcerting, so upsetting, it can often throw her for an entire day.
She has tried to talk to Adam about it. Tried to explain the problems she is having, but Adam has only ever seen Tory as his little girl, refuses to believe that she could ever be rude, or difficult, and if there is a problem with Kit, surely it must be something to do with Kit.
Kit recognizes that she plays a part in this. Tory can behave however she chooses to behave, but every time Kit reacts to her behavior, she is making the situation somehow worse.
“This has nothing to do with me,” she tries to tell herself, during those moments when Tory flies off the handle. “These are her hormones. I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, I can’t cure it.”
And her other mantra: “Today I choose to be happy, irrespective of other people’s behavior.”
Life has been so much easier since she found yoga. Since she and Charlie now see one another several times a week because of these classes, since her burgeoning friendship with Tracy. So much easier since she discovered a place that’s all hers, a place where she isn’t a wife or ex-wife, a mother, an assistant, but Kit.
Just Kit.
She can’t help but sneak a peek at the stranger. He is, just as Tracy described, adorable. But more than adorable, the phrase that Tracy used recently comes to mind: tall, dark and dangerous.
He glances up from Downward Dog to find her looking at him, and she blushes furiously and looks away, not before he smiles at her. A sweet smile. Shy, almost. Embarrassed.
The lovely thing about yoga, Kit thinks, as the class ends and they bow their Namastes to one another, is that it forces you to switch your mind off for an hour and a half. It becomes more than exercise, it becomes a meditation; all you are able to do is concentrate on your poses, your breathing, being in the present.
She watches the stranger walk over to talk to the teacher, thank her, explain that he has had some problems with his knee and could some of the poses be modified. Kit rolls up her mat and leaves, wanting to strike up a conversation of some kind, but not having the slightest idea how to start.
She had met Adam so young, had been married so long, she never thought she’d be single at the age of forty, never thought she’d have to meet men, tell her stories, be vibrant and fun and interesting in a bid to attract someone who may or may not turn out to be her soul mate.
She sees others do it, put profiles up on Match.com, give their business cards out to men in bars. Business cards? Why would she have a business card? She has had a handful of dates, less perhaps, since the ending of her marriage, because she just doesn’t know how to do this whole dating thing.
She has been set up, from time to time, but that is usually awkward, and although she never expects them to be interested in her, they usually call her afterward, and she doesn’t know how to tell them she doesn’t want to see them again, so she procrastinates, or avoids picking up the phone, screening her calls until they get the message and go away.
“You’re gorgeous,” Charlie always says. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
But Kit doesn’t see gorgeous very often these days when she looks in the bathroom mirror. Mostly she sees tired. She sees gray in her hair and bags under her eyes. She sees washed-out sallow skin and a deadness to her face.
Sometimes she looks at the old pictures, from when she and Adam were married, and she barely recognizes the girl in them, not because much has changed—same hairstyle but more gray, same figure, just slightly more padded—but because the bloom of youth, already fading when she gave birth to Tory, disappeared swiftly and suddenly when she went through her divorce.
Other things disappeared just as swiftly and suddenly. The ten pounds she had been wanting to lose ever since she gave birth to Tory, fell off her frame. She still has no idea how she did it, doesn’t remember not eating, or dieting, but the stress seemed to make it melt away.
Occasionally, she can make herself look like the girl of old, the glamour girl she used to be when she was married to Adam. Like when she goes out with Tracy and Charlie, when she makes an effort, straightens her hair, brushes on blush and lip gloss, concealer on the shadows under her eyes, spray-tan to give her body a healthy glow she doesn’t usually feel. But most of the time she can’t be bothered; she runs around town with hair shoved back in a ponytail, practical and no-nonsense, certainly not wanting to be mistaken for one of the glamorous, scary mothers at school who look down their noses at Kit (or at least did, until they discovered she works for Robert McClore).
Today, for yoga, she may not have managed the lilac pants—they weren’t dry in time—but she wore the chocolate brown ones that are pretty nice, with a sky-blue tight vest. She washed her hair and blew it dry, then decided it was too over-the-top for a yoga class, so drew it back in a tight, swinging ponytail.
Adam always loved her hair back in a ponytail like this. He said she looked both elegant and young, and with her hair off her face you could actually see how pretty she is, how high her cheekbones, how full her lips.
But he hadn’t noticed her, the stranger. Or at least, not enough to come and talk to her. Tracy is not at the desk when she walks out, and because this is not her usual yoga class, she does not know the women who are there and feels awkward about going to the smoothie bar by herself.
She is heading out of the door and toward her car, when she hears footsteps behind her, and turns to see the stranger following her out. Is he following her? Surely not. Why on earth would he be following her? But he flashes a big smile at her and she falters, awkward, giving a half-smile in return, not sure if he wants her to stop or not.
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He approaches her. “Hi, I’m Steve. This is my first yoga class here, I wanted to know whether there are any others you recommend.”
“Oh. Sure.”
“Do you have a name?” He peers at her, squinting in the sunlight.
She laughs. “I’m Kit.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He takes her hand in his and she is shocked at how warm and masculine it feels, shocked at how she had forgotten what a man’s hand feels like, looks like; she feels a thrill run up her spine.
“Um, are you still here? ”
“Oh God!” Kit shakes her head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about something.”
“No, I’m sorry. You’re obviously busy. I just thought you looked like someone who could tell me about the town. I just moved here.”
“You did? Where are you from? ”
“Originally, I’m from upstate New York, then I spent some time in California, and now I’m back.”
“Tracy’s from California too. Did you meet Tracy? ”
“The owner? Sure. I came in earlier. She’s from LA, though, and I’m from just outside San Francisco. They may as well be different continents.”
“So what brought you to Highfield? ”
“Business. What else? I just sold a big computer game company and there is a software company in Fairfield I’ve been involved with for a while, just as a shareholder and consultant, and now I’ve taken it over.”
“I know nothing about computers.” Kit smiles. “But I have an eight-year-old boy who would probably know all about your computer games.”
“Any other kids? ”
“Yes. A thirteen-year-old girl whom I’m trying to forget about right now.”
“Ah yes. Thirteen. The fun years.”
“You have kids? ”
“No. Unfortunately. I’ve never been married.”
Kit wants to ask if he has a girlfriend, but she can’t.
“So . . . is there a husband to go with those kids? ”
“An ex-husband.”
“Boyfriend? ”
She blushes. Shakes her head.
“I’m surprised,” he says, but not in a lascivious way, in a sweet way. “I know this may be a little soon, but I really don’t know anyone here. Would you, perhaps, have, I don’t know, a drink, or dinner with me? ”
“Now? ” Kit panics, thinking of getting back to the kids.
“Well, no,” he gestures to his shorts and T-shirt, “now probably isn’t the best time—I’m not exactly dressed for dinner. Maybe I could call you? ”
“That would be lovely,” Kit says, rustling around in her handbag for a pad and pen. Is she supposed to give her number out to a stranger? Probably not. She doesn’t know the rules anymore, but how else could he get in touch with her? And he seems above-board. Sounds successful. Looks successful. And as she waves good-bye and gets into her Volvo, the car she bought soon after the divorce was finalized, she notices him walk over to a shiny black convertible, and climb into the driver’s seat.
Oh my, she thinks to herself as she pulls down the mirror and checks that she is looking okay—although she must be looking okay or he would never have asked her out on a date. A date! A date! I have a date! And he’s cute! Soooo cute! My ship may be coming in after all!
Chapter Seven
“So who is this young man again?” Edie looks at her suspiciously as Kit dashes around the bedroom looking for her new gold hoop earrings.
“I told you,” Kit says. “His name is Steve and he’s involved with some computer company in Fairfield.”
“Why isn’t he coming to the house to pick you up? ” Edie says. “I don’t like all this modern stuff. When a young man takes you out to dinner he ought to come to the door and collect you.”
“Oh Edie. Not anymore. Anyway, this is safer. As you keep pointing out, I don’t know anything about him, so the last thing I’m going to do is give him my home address.”
“Didn’t you Google him? ” Edie says.
“How do you know about Google? ” Kit starts to laugh.
“I’m eighty-three.” Edie sniffs. “Not dead.”
“Okay, okay. Yes, I Googled him and I found a Steve Macin tire who works in computers, but there are no pictures so I have no idea if it’s the same one.”
“Just make sure you know something about him,” Edie says cautiously.
“I will. Promise. Buckley? ” Kit dashes into the office, looking at her watch and hoping she isn’t going to be late. “Buckley? Have you seen my earrings? ”
Buckley, glued to the computer screen from which beeps, peeps and crashes are emanating, doesn’t move.
“Buckley! That computer’s going off in two minutes. I asked you a question.”
“What? ” Buckley stirs.
“Have you seen my hoop earrings? ”
“Nah.” He shrugs, without turning round.
“Tory? ” Kit goes into the family room where Tory is lying on the sofa, talking animatedly on the phone. “Tory? Did you take my new hoop earrings? ”
“Hang on,” Tory says into the mouthpiece. “No, Mom. You were wearing them this morning, though.”
“I was? Oh God, I was. Thank you, darling,” and she leans down and plants a soft kiss on Tory’s forehead before checking her watch. Does she have time to run to Dune Road and pick up the earrings?
She was wearing them this morning. Now she remembers. Robert had been so pleased with the local event, he had said he wouldn’t mind doing a small book tour. Kit spent the day on the phone with his publishers, putting together a small tour of important venues—town halls, libraries, places that could easily bring together the few hundred people that would undoubtedly turn out to hear Robert McClore.
Her earrings were annoying the hell out of her. They were clanking on the phone so she took them off, and can see them clearly now, sitting neatly on the table next to the phone, exactly where she left them.
Of course she has other earrings, but she has a vision of what she wants to look like, and that vision includes those earrings. It just won’t be the same with another pair.
She checks her watch again. If she leaves right now, she can head over and reach Dune Road within ten minutes. She might be a few minutes late to meet Steve, but isn’t it better to be a few minutes late anyway?
She hasn’t played these dating games for years, doesn’t know the rules any more, but she knows it is probably better to be slightly late than to appear too eager by showing up early.
“Edie, you have my cell phone number? ”
“Of course. Off you go. Don’t worry about a thing and have a lovely time.”
Kit kisses the children, neither of them looking up from their respective computer and phone call, and dashes out to the car.
When you turn onto Dune Road, you think you might have made a wrong turn, finding yourself on a narrow, sandy dirt track which doesn’t appear to lead anywhere, but then you turn a corner and find yourself staring at those magnificent gates leading to Robert McClore’s house.
Kit has tried calling to let him know she’ll be coming. She doesn’t want to disturb him, but then again, she won’t be long, has all the codes to the house; he will probably not even notice that she has been there. She has left a message. There is nothing more she can do.
The house is, as expected, quiet. She rings the doorbell, hears a soft padding and the locks are opened.
“Miss Kit! ” It is Maria, the housekeeper, a beaming smile on her face.
“Oh Maria! I’m so sorry to bother you but I left my earrings here this morning. They’re on the desk in the office and I’m going out. Would you mind if I just got them? ”
“Ah,” Maria nods approvingly as she notices Kit’s outfit. “You look lovely, Miss Kit. Of course you can go and get them. Mr. McClore is just doing a class.”
“A class?” Kit starts to follow Maria through the house. “What sort of class? ”
“You know! ” Maria laughs. “A yoga cl
ass. With your friend.”
“What?” Kit has no idea why she stops suddenly, but she does.
“Yes!” Maria nods enthusiastically. “They are in the living room. I am trying not to disturb them. Ssssh.”
“Is this—” Kit knows she shouldn’t be asking, but it is so weird, that Tracy hasn’t said anything. It feels . . . covert, secretive, like she has just stumbled upon something she isn’t supposed to know. “Is this his first one? ”
She feels intrusive asking, and it is only a yoga class. But why on earth would Tracy not have said anything about it? She saw her earlier today. Is it possible this was organized some time in the last two hours? But wait, Tracy had called while Kit was getting ready, to see what she was wearing, to share her nerves and excitement about the date that Tracy had, effectively, organized.
That was only forty minutes ago. How had she not said anything? She must have just been leaving to come here. That’s just . . . more than weird. It felt horrible. Wrong. And deeply unsettling.
They walk past the living-room door, which is closed, and Kit glances through the glass and sees Robert sitting on the floor, cross-legged, breathing deeply. Tracy sits opposite him, doing the same. Both of them have their eyes closed.
It is a scene of absolute innocence. I am being ridiculous, she tells herself, as she goes to the office, grabs her earrings and, thanking Maria, leaves. Obviously they just forgot to mention it. Why would there be anything strange about it? It all looked completely fine. Normal.
But why does she still feel so odd?
By the time she reaches the Greenhouse, she is starting to feel better. She called Charlie on the way over there and told her what happened.
“So? ” Charlie said. “She obviously forgot.”
“But how do you forget something like that? She was desperate to get to know him and suddenly she’s at his house giving him a private yoga lesson and she doesn’t say anything when I’m not just a close friend, but I’m his assistant? I’m the reason she even knows him, for God’s sake.”