The Best of Us

by Sarah Pekkanen

  Allie had abandoned the pan and then, despite the warning shrieking in her brain that she shouldn’t do it, that she’d forever regret it, she’d opened her laptop and begun searching the Internet.

  “No,” she’d whispered a moment later, just before she slammed her laptop shut. The death notices she’d found confirmed that Hank and his father had both died of ALS, an always fatal illness that causes complete paralysis before death.

  But that didn’t mean she had the same mutated gene, Allie reminded herself now, as she shifted Eva into a more comfortable position on her lap. Her birth father had never given her anything—not his name, not a college graduation card, not a single stinking phone call. He wouldn’t give her this legacy, either. She wouldn’t let him!

  She looked through the window and saw the sun begin its ascent. A beautiful day awaited them: It was a good omen. Allie leaned down to smell her daughter’s hair, remembering how small her soapy head had felt the previous night when Allie cradled it in her hands, massaging in baby shampoo. Eva was so little; she still believed in the Tooth Fairy.

  A sob formed in Allie’s throat, but she forced it down.

  The pendulum wouldn’t swing, not now. It couldn’t.

  * * *

  “So you’re a chef?” Savannah asked, crossing her legs and taking a gulp of her vodka tonic. She’d already forgotten the name of the guy seated across from her.

  He smiled, revealing more gums than seemed normal. “No. I own a courier company. You didn’t confuse me with someone else, did you?”

  “Of course not,” Savannah said, even as she thought: You’re on Match.com, asshole. You think yours is the only picture I looked at?

  And speaking of pictures, when was his taken? Probably ten years ago, when he was vaguely acquainted with the concept of a treadmill. Because the doughy-looking guy sitting on the stool across from hers bore no resemblance to that photo. She’d almost walked out of the bar after scanning it and seeing only a few losers watching TV and tossing back drinks. And then one of them had put down his draft beer and walked over to her, not hiding the fact that he was assessing her body and approving of it.

  Glad I’m good enough for you, Savannah had thought, already counting down the minutes until she could escape. One drink. That was her safety mechanism, the secret trapdoor designed to maneuver her out of situations exactly like this one. She never agreed to a meal or a movie with a guy she hadn’t seen in person, especially not after the six dates she’d gone on in the past three weeks. She regretted every single one of them. The worst was a fix-up from a fellow real estate agent who’d sent Savannah out with an oily-looking guy who sucked the salt off his fingers after eating a handful of bar nuts and checked out every woman who walked by. As if that was the best Savannah could hope for, just because most men in her age range were married. She’d lasted half a drink before walking out, and told off her friend—make that ex-friend—the next morning. She’d never be that desperate.

  “Interested in dinner after this?” the guy was asking. What was that smell? Savannah wondered. Eww—was it him? “I know a great little Italian place.”

  What, Domino’s Pizza? Savannah thought, hiding a smirk. She took another long sip of her vodka tonic before realizing he was looking at her, a question in his eyes. She mentally replayed the last bit of conversation and realized she hadn’t answered him.

  “Sorry, but I’m going out of town tomorrow,” she said. “Still haven’t packed.”

  “Sure,” the guy said. Savannah could see hurt flare in his dark eyes, but she didn’t care. He’d deceived her and wasted her time; he didn’t deserve kindness. His chinos were too short, revealing thick white athletic socks, and his face was moon-shaped. He kept staring at her cleavage. And that was definitely the scent of stale sweat coming off him. He was awful. Did he even own a courier company? That was probably another lie; he looked like the sort of man who lived with his mother.

  Two more big sips and she’d be done. She knew she should’ve stayed home tonight and taken a bubble bath and finished packing, especially since she had an eight a.m. flight from North Carolina to D.C., but she’d thought . . . well, she’d thought it would be easier to show up in Jamaica with the promise of a relationship back at home. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t told Allie or Tina about the separation yet. She’d meant to, but the timing was never right. Or maybe she just couldn’t figure out which words to choose. She’d told Pauline that Gary couldn’t come, but she hadn’t revealed the reason why.

  She dreaded having to explain; the thought of it made Savannah itchy. She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted to move on—but first she needed to move away from this loser.

  “This has been great,” she lied, not bothering to inject enthusiasm into her tone. “But I need to get going.”

  “Mind if I catch a ride with you?” the guy asked. “I’m only a mile away.”

  Savannah put her empty glass on the bar and turned to look at him. “You don’t have a car?” she asked. This dude just got more and more desirable.

  “It’s in the shop,” he said. “I’ve been cabbing it, but it’s raining out and I’ll probably have to wait awhile . . .”

  “Kind of funny that you own a courier service and don’t have a ride,” she said.

  “Bike couriers,” he said, shrugging. “I can’t exactly hop on the back of one of those.”

  Uh-huh. Savannah picked up her purse. “Sorry, but I need to run a few errands and I’m heading out of town really early in the morning.”

  “No worries,” he said. “I wouldn’t let a stranger in my car, either.”

  So why’d you ask? she thought, but all she said was “Bye.”

  She stood up, smoothing her skirt and walking away. She stopped in the bathroom to pee and checked her watch while she was washing her hands; it was only seven-thirty. She could still take that bubble bath after all, she thought as she pulled open the heavy wooden back door, unfurled her umbrella, and walked through the parking lot. In the backseat of her Miata were two shopping bags filled with new clothes she’d bought for the trip: a coral strapless sundress, two bikinis, cutoff jean shorts to toss on over her bathing suits, a tight white T-shirt, and a black sheath with a slit up the leg in case she felt like dressing for dinner one night. Maybe she’d make a quick stop at the bookstore to pick up a few novels for the beach, she thought as she clicked the button on her key chain to unlock the car.

  Someone grabbed her arm.

  She spun around, a scream rising in her throat, knowing it was him before she saw the round moon face.

  “You bitch. You think you’re too good for me?”

  What was wrong with her voice? She couldn’t yell, couldn’t make a sound. Her fingers searched for the panic button on her keys, but they slipped out of her grasp and clattered on the asphalt.

  “You didn’t even pay for your drink,” he said. Rain streamed down, flattening his hair against his face. His eyes were so dark she couldn’t see his pupils. “You come in with your tits hanging out like a whore and I still treated you nice. And you don’t appreciate it.”

  He was insane. He was so close she could feel his hot breath on her face. Why couldn’t she scream? She made herself look into his eyes and tried to smile, but her lips felt frozen.

  “Wait,” she whispered. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  Kick him in the balls, she thought. But her legs refused to obey, and anyway, he was too close.

  “Bitch!” he hissed again. His grip on her arm tightened, his fingers biting into her flesh. He pressed his body up against hers. She couldn’t move back; the car trapped her from behind. “Don’t try to be all fake now. You think I’m stupid?”

  She’d always imagined she’d fight in a situation like this—yell and kick and claw her attacker’s eyes. But every bit of strength seemed to have drained out of her body. Any second now, he was going to pull out a shining butcher’s knife and slide it into her, and she’d be left to die here, her blood mingling with the rain in
the parking lot of this crappy little bar.

  “Hey, lady, are you okay?”

  Savannah looked over her attacker’s shoulder and saw the bartender, holding a full bag of trash. He dropped the bag and stepped out from under the awning, toward them.

  The guy didn’t say another word; he just let go of Savannah’s arm and walked away, toward the street.

  Her knees gave way, and she slid down the side of her Miata, not caring that she landed on her bottom in a muddy puddle. She couldn’t stop shaking—deep, violent shudders that felt like convulsions.

  “Do you want me to call the cops?” the bartender asked. He picked up her umbrella and knelt beside her, covering her with it.

  She shook her head. Her throat was so constricted that she still couldn’t speak.

  “Are you sure? My cell phone is inside,” he said. He stood up again and scanned their surroundings, turning around a full 360 degrees. “He’s gone. I could run and get it.”

  “I’m okay,” she croaked. “Just . . . stay here for a minute?”

  She leaned her head back against her car, letting the tears finally come. What would that psycho have done to her if the bartender hadn’t appeared? Thirty seconds later and he could have had her in her car in the darkness, his hands around her throat, her skirt hiked up . . . She sobbed harder, not caring that the bartender was watching.

  She’d never kidded herself that she and Gary had a perfect marriage: They fought over her sloppiness and his rigidity, and they didn’t share the kinds of inside jokes that other couples seemed to. But they’d wanted the exact same things in life. They both liked nice cars, traveling, fine restaurants, and good wine. Savannah had remained attracted to him throughout the seven years of their marriage, probably because they led somewhat independent lives, not feeling as though they had to check in incessantly with phone calls and e-mails. When Gary was on call, he’d sleep at the hospital and she wouldn’t see him for thirty-six hours, or even longer. She’d go out for dinner with her girlfriends, get a massage, hit her favorite shops—and she thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it.

  She and Gary were partners, not soul mates, and that had suited her just fine.

  So why, when she’d thought she was about to be raped and killed, had one word stuck in her throat like a cork, preventing any sounds from escaping?

  Gary. When she’d desperately needed rescuing, his was the name she’d tried to yell.

  * * *

  “Fabulous job.” Delores Debonis swept across the room and leaned forward, kissing each of Pauline’s cheeks in turn. “The flowers are to die for!”

  “Oh, but the appetizers are exquisite,” Pauline said. “That caviar . . . and I can’t stop eating the goat cheese crostinis!”

  That was only a half lie, she told herself. She’d heard the goat cheese was good, but she’d never been able to abide the sour taste of it, personally.

  “Cheers,” Delores said, clinking her champagne glass against Pauline’s and emitting a schoolgirl’s giggle that was at odds with her matronly figure. “We pulled it off!”

  Pauline glanced around the room. In one corner a string quartet played Bach, and waiters circled with trays of wine and champagne. The flowers Pauline had selected—elegant purple orchids—adorned the two dozen large round tables, which were all about to be filled by well-heeled guests. In a few moments the auctioneer would stand up and press people to buy the donated prizes: a spin around a racetrack with Danica Patrick, a helicopter tour of New York followed by four backstage passes to a Broadway show of the winner’s choice, a luxury trip to Thailand . . .

  They’d raise a nice amount for the hospital—at least six figures—but it didn’t escape Pauline’s notice that it would’ve been much easier for her and the other board members to each write a check directly to the hospital. They were the ones donating prizes—Dwight and Pauline had given the trip to Thailand—and their friends were the ones filling the tables. It was like the old three-card monte game, with the money being shuffled around until its original origin was camouflaged. What was the point, really?

  Delores gave a squeal and hurried off to greet another board member. “Are you okay, darling?” Pauline asked Dwight. “Can I get you another Coke? Or maybe a glass of wine?”

  “N-no, I’m good,” he said. Dwight sometimes stuttered when he got nervous, and large gatherings like this one made him anxious. Pauline placed a hand on his arm and smiled at him.

  He gave a little tug to his bow tie, and she moved to straighten it, wishing it could cover his prominent Adam’s apple. Still, she loved seeing her husband in a tuxedo with his hair gelled back. When they’d first met, Dwight had dressed like a much older man—one who lacked even a passing acquaintanceship with fashion. There had also been an unfortunate incident—Pauline still shuddered to think of it—involving an afternoon pool party, Dwight, and a Speedo. Right after they married, Pauline had begun shopping for him, replacing his plaid shorts, leather sandals, and sweater vests with clothing that straddled the line between classic and hip: perfectly plain black T-shirts made of the finest cotton, gray pants that fit his trim hips correctly, and—her crowning achievement—bathing suits that almost reached his knees.

  “You look so handsome,” she said and was rewarded with a smile. “I see former Senator Dodd across the room. Remember, you met him in the Hamptons last summer. He’s the CEO of the Motion Picture Association now. We should go say hello.”

  Dwight nodded, and they began to weave their way toward him, Pauline leading slightly and casting bright smiles at acquaintances she passed.

  “What time do you think this will wrap up?” Dwight asked. She started to cringe but reflexively hid it. His question had been loud enough for those around them to hear.

  “Surely by ten,” she said, her voice low and concerned. She stopped walking. “Are you tired? Because you could go on ahead, and send the car back for me . . .”

  He squeezed her hand. “Of course not. Just wanted to make sure we’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

  “It’s a big day,” Pauline said, smiling at him.

  “M-maybe I should check the weather again,” Dwight said, pulling out his iPhone. “The long-range forecast shows a storm heading that way . . .”

  “Sweetie, everything’s going to be wonderful. It’s supposed to be bright and sunny for the first part of the week, and if it rains one day, there will be lots to do. Remember, I can set up a wine tasting. And the house is stocked with books and movies and games. Plus I’ve got a few other surprises up my sleeve. So I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Your friends are going to have the time of their lives, and so will we.”

  Pauline could see gratitude fill his eyes. How strange—especially since he didn’t see them regularly—that Dwight cared more about what these old college friends thought than about networking at the event tonight. He was so brilliant about some things, and so clueless about others.

  Pauline still couldn’t quite believe this trip was going to happen, even if it had been her idea. At least they had Caleb to ease the burden of traveling. He would walk and feed their two Irish setters, collect and sort the mail, and answer the phone. He’d make sure that the maids came in on time, and that the gardens were watered. Any unexpected emergency—say, a broken pipe—would be dealt with swiftly and expertly. The refrigerator would be stocked the afternoon of their return, and their suitcases would be whisked away moments after they stepped through the front door, so the contents could be laundered and dry-cleaned.

  Still, she couldn’t help wishing the seven days were already behind them. She resumed walking toward Senator Dodd and thought back to how it had all started, when an invitation had arrived at their home a few months earlier. She’d turned over the envelope, reading the return address, then opened it as she walked into Dwight’s study.

  “Who’s Allie?” she’d asked.

  Dwight was tapping away on one of his three computers. “Hmmm . . . What? Why?”

  “She just invited us to
her thirty-fifth birthday,” Pauline had said, handing him the card. It was one of those preprinted ones with open spaces to write in the date and time of the event.

  “An old friend from college,” Dwight had said, grinning as he looked at the invitation. “You’ve met her a few times . . . she came to our wedding.”

  Pauline had nodded, even though that day had been a blur of other people’s faces, her mother’s happy tears, and her own nerves.

  “I’ll let her know we’re coming,” Dwight had continued, putting the card down next to his keyboard and turning back to his work.

  Pauline had been too surprised to say anything other than “Okay.” She and Dwight received a lot of invitations, but there was always a catch—someone wanting money or access. This Allie—who, come to think of it, Pauline did vaguely recall; she was a peppy, smiling sort—had written “Absolutely no gifts!” at the bottom of the invitation and underlined it twice. She truly just wanted their company?

  Pauline had guessed correctly to dress in jeans and leather boots and a thin-knit sweater, and when she’d walked into Allie’s house, she’d noticed the sweet-sharp smell of chili bubbling on the stove, the sound of laughter, and the trays of corn bread spread out on kitchen counters to cool. It was a pleasant, modern home, with one room spilling into the next, all connected by gleaming blond wood floors and high ceilings. Kids’ artwork decorated the walls, but the scribbles and streaks of paint were displayed in creative, whimsical frames that actually made them look interesting.

  Allie had spotted Dwight and run across the room to give him a hug, then she’d turned to Pauline to do the same. After a surprised moment, Pauline had patted Allie’s back twice.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Allie had cried. Her face was open and lightly freckled, and smile lines creased the skin around her eyes. “Pauline, I’ve heard so much about you, but we’ve never had a chance to talk.”