by Tish Cohen
Her hands went to the balled suede in her pockets and she considered what she might do. Cass’s driveway was empty, Matt was inside, and Elise needed to lose the evidence of her staggeringly pathetic midlife crisis brought on by the hottie next door. She ducked beneath the trees dividing the properties and draped the bikini back over Cass’s clothesline.
Matt and Paulie were peering inside the cupboard when she returned.
“Yup, you’ve got yourselves a raccoon,” Paulie said. He turned to the tackle box and popped open a can of tuna, then surveyed the room. “Here’s how we’ll do this. We’ll bag up any food in and around the kitchen. We want to make our trap the only game in town, so to speak. And the traps are totally safe. Spring-loaded door only slams down once the animal is fully inside. So no one’s gonna get harmed in the process.” He reached into the cage and set the tuna on a platform at the end.
“Could there be babies?” asked Matt.
“If we trap their mama, we’re gonna know pretty quick. They’ll be climbing over the cage to get to her.”
“And what about us—being in the house and all that?” said Elise.
“Huge hassle, and I totally get how inconvenient it is, but we need you guys to stay out so we have a nice quiet cabin, the perfect meal, everything but candlelight and poetry to woo him. Or her.”
“And assuming we’re successful,” Matt said. “Where do you take raccoons? Do you have a sanctuary?”
“That’s where things get a bit tricky. The state requires a permit for raccoon removal. I can take him out of your house, but I can’t take him away . . .”
Elise’s eyes traveled to the sink as Paulie chattered on. The mess of dried egg was still there, but the wineglasses were gone. She wandered over to the glasses cupboard to find them washed and put away. Somehow that was more damning than their presence in the first place.
“What do you do with him, then?” Matt said.
“Take him for a ride. Drop him off somewhere nearby.”
“How nearby?” asked Elise.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Someplace closer to town, maybe? Lots of trash cans behind the restaurants, no need to break into anyone’s cabin,” Matt pointed out.
“You guys are smart. Your roof is being repaired already, so you’ll be locked up nice and tight. He’ll go off in search of somewhere simpler to break in.” Paulie took a container of baby powder and sprinkled all the counters. “This is so we can watch for footprints. There’s a good chance he’s long gone now. If not, hopefully we’ll catch him tonight. But it could take a week. Depends how hungry he is.”
“What’s the average?” Elise asked. “I mean, if you had to guess.”
“We’re probably looking at a few days.”
Elise looked at Matt. “Where are we going to stay?”
“Cass’s place has an apartment above the boathouse. I’ll ask.” When Elise said nothing, Matt added, “She won’t mind at all.”
Precisely what had Elise worried—especially now that she had to leave her husband and daughter up here alone.
“We don’t have much of a choice, babe.” He waited while Paulie packed up his toolbox and started for the door.
“Like I said, if he’s still inside, our best chance for a speedy capture is a quiet house.”
Their voices faded as they stepped outside and through the front porch. Elise reached for one of the glasses again. The rim was still ghosted with vermilion.
The Woodstock Girl’s lips had staying power.
Later, after Elise had settled Gracie and River on the back porch with pencils and paper so they could sketch the stuffed dog, she stood in the office doorway and watched Matt sort through the contents of Nate’s desk. Sunlight bathed the entire scene in a certain honeyed nostalgia too serene to interrupt. Her husband hadn’t noticed her yet, busy as he was stacking some files in a Rubbermaid container and sending others sailing like Frisbees into a trash can. She examined him as if seeing him for the first time—that wide jawline and strong brow, cheekbones so sharp they might cut through his flesh. Funny: his look was so unique, but what she loved most about him, what turned her on, was his forearms. They had a might to them that always caught her off guard. Reminded her he was male.
He looked up when she came in. “This Kostick guy is going to hit us with a hefty New York City premium, I can tell. We’re going to get totally soaked.” He flipped through a blue file folder and tossed it in the garbage.
Elise went around behind his chair and hung her arms around his neck. He smelled of Hermès.
“You won’t believe how well he’s doing,” Matt continued. “Bought himself a chunk of land just up the lake. Started a fishing lodge. Which makes me think—why the hell did I take the LSAT three times? I should’ve bought myself some steel-toed boots and a pallet of shingles.” He stopped, held her arm when she rested her chin on his shoulder. Then guided her around to the front of the chair and onto his lap. “What’s going on? You’re so quiet.”
“I don’t know . . .”
He pulled her into the curve of his neck. “If you’re thinking of leaving me for Kostick now, forget it. He doesn’t want a wife. No kin of any kind. I asked for you.”
She sat up, the corner of her mouth twitching. “What about his assistant? Did you ask him? Because he’s pretty hot.”
“Lyman? I can’t compete with that guy. He looks like someone you’d see on the cover of Vanity Fair. And he’s well read.”
“Good to know . . .”
“If he even looks your way, I’m done. Throwing in the towel.”
“I made a to-do list, babe.”
“Ugh, I hate lists.”
“Empty closets and cupboards. Quick sweep out—no real need to scrub because no one’s buying this place to move in as is . . .”
“Why not?”
“Because. People are fancy these days.”
“This place is fancy.”
“It’s old.”
“It’s nostalgic.”
“It’s falling down.”
“Falling down with love.”
She grimaced at him. “Seriously. We take everything into the garage and make three piles like they do on these hoarder shows.”
“What hoarder shows? Who’s a hoarder?”
“A keep pile, a toss pile, and a sell or donate pile.”
His arms tightened around her. “What say maybe next weekend we could take a day off from making useless piles and take Gracie over to Saranac or someplace we haven’t been. Find a nice public beach. Or we drive up one of the mountains. Have a picnic lunch at the top.” He spun the chair side to side, sunlight sliding over their knees then dropping to the floor.
“This is the part you’re not going to like.”
The rocking stopped.
“I feel so awful, I can’t even be happy about it—but it really is a big deal.”
They’d all be home on July 5th—five days before the Pan Ams started. That was the plan as it stood. But, she’d realized, the team would ship to Toronto days before that to get the horses used to the grounds. “I’m going to the Pan Ams. Mademoiselle Secretary pulled a tendon. Tamara had to drop from the team. I’m the new traveling reserve.” She watched as his face went from neutral to pained. “And the games are in—”
“Toronto,” he said.
She nodded.
“And you have to not only go, but go early.”
“To acclimatize him, yes. Games start the tenth.”
“Got it.” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then pushed his hand through his hair as he realized the larger implication. “Which means you can’t stay up here like we planned. You need to go back early to train.”
“Ronnie wanted me back in New Jersey on Wednesday to get us ready. I’ve pushed him to Friday.”
Matt dropped his head back as he absorbed the weight of this news. “And . . . will you be bringing Lyman?”
She looked at him a moment, confused, then understood. T
hey were back to teasing each other. The tension had passed. She stood. Grinned. “Doesn’t sound like you’re going to kick up a fuss anyway, so I might as well ask him.”
He got up to hoist a container brimming with files onto Nate’s sofa and forced the lid to click into place. “Don’t worry, okay? Gracie and I, we get it. We get you. It’s the Pan Ams—how many people get there in their lives?”
“I was thinking—let’s go for dinner in town, the three of us.”
“I forgot to tell you. Cass invited us all over for a barbecue. I figured we couldn’t say no if she’s putting us up in the boathouse. A few other people are going as well.” He tied up a garbage bag and tossed it into the hall. “Sound good?”
No. It really didn’t. Life was changing fast, and she just wanted time with her daughter and husband. The last place she wanted to go was Cass’s backyard party.
She forced a smile. “Yes. Of course. Sounds perfect.”
Chapter 12
The screen door closed with a bang as Elise stepped down onto the stone path carrying a huge wooden bowl, plastic tongs resting atop the quickie salad she’d thrown together as a gesture of goodwill. If Cass Urquhart was willing to feed them and put them up for a few nights, at least they weren’t coming empty-handed.
She ducked beneath ragged pine boughs to follow the sound of voices and a crackling bonfire, pausing to watch Matt and his ex-girlfriend move around the patio area as River and Gracie giggled on a mossy log. To anyone passing by, they could be a family. The handsome father stood at the barbecue, long spatula in hand, wearing a spattered apron that didn’t belong to him. Then the voluptuous goddess of a mother in a long khaki tank dress. She could be Aphrodite herself, with that sprig of ivy tucked into untamable russet curls.
Another woman—late sixties maybe, with fluffy gray hair and a no-nonsense expression on her face—sat in a lounge chair. A local most likely. Dressed in Patagonia and navy Crocs, she was the woodsy Adirondack grandma.
A man somewhere in his mid- to late forties tipped back a beer bottle. Flashy, with his bright pink linen shirt and oversized watch. Overdressed. From the way his focus rested just over people’s shoulders, it seemed like he knew about a better party somewhere else. Elise tried to sort out where he’d fit in with this make-believe family. The grandma’s feckless son, maybe. The one who sneaks into her wallet whenever she’s napping.
Elise’s reverie was brought to a halt when her New York City–lawyer husband threw his head back and howled like a coyote, adding in three quick yelps at the end. A moment of silence, then what sounded like actual coyotes yipped back from across the water.
Elise stepped out of the trees with her salad. “Holy coyote, Gracie. Who knew Daddy had mad animal-calling skills?”
“The rest of us have always known Matty’s half-werewolf.” Cass headed straight toward her. “Good to see you again.” The hug that followed was awkward, complicated by the salad bowl that tipped against Elise’s top and nudged Cass’s shoulder strap down her arm. Now one of the Woodstock Girl’s breasts was threatening to shake off its confines and join the party. This woman’s body just did its own thing. Cass stood there oozing sex, while Elise stood oozing Trader Joe’s balsamic vinegar.
“Let’s fix you up.” Elise reached out to adjust the wayward strap. “By the way, being half-werewolf is a minimum requirement in the city. You want to get hired at one of the big firms, you need an aggressive wolf call.”
Chuckles around the fire, and Cass invited Elise to pour herself a glass of red wine. The woman in Patagonia was introduced not as Cass’s mother, Ruth—who hadn’t been feeling well and had gone home—but as Jeannie Robbins, Ruth’s lifelong friend who ran the local day camp River attended. The man with better things to do wasn’t feckless at all. He was Cass’s boyfriend, Garth Zima, a hotshot Realtor in the area.
“Your salad looks gorgeous, Elise. So colorful.” Cass took the bowl from her and set it on the gingham-covered picnic table loaded with stacks of plastic plates, condiments, and jaunty striped napkins.
“Yeah, Cass’s salads are more the ripped-open-bag-of-iceberg-lettuce-and-bottle-of-expired-dressing variety,” said Garth, ducking when Cass balled up a napkin and threw it.
“Gracie.” Elise waved to her daughter, playing army guys with River closer to the fire. “Come sit with me. I’ve barely seen you all day.”
With hair stuck to her flushed cheeks, Gracie came to sit next to her mother. Only now could Elise see that the child had a sprig of ivy to match Cass’s tucked into her tangled ponytail.
Gracie grimaced. “You smell of bug spray.”
“You know me. I’ll be a swollen mess of histamines by night’s end.”
“Nothing wrong with being juicy to blackflies. It’s a sign you’re brimming with health.” Jeannie rose to help set the table.
“Hey, are you part of that horse show in town?” Garth asked Elise. “Every year, I forget it exists and then all the trailers start pulling in.”
“Such a pain, that,” Cass said. “The days before it starts and when it ends, traffic’s a nightmare. Good for businesses, though, I suppose.”
The Lake Placid Horse Show took place at the North Elba Show Grounds just on the edge of town and ran for about three weeks, beginning in late June, each year. Almost a thousand horses had been trailered in from all over the state; a city of striped tents had already been erected to shelter the temporary loose boxes for horses and tack rooms that would be home to hopeful contenders. It wasn’t a place Elise had ever competed, as the showgrounds were strictly hunter jumper, but during an Olympic year, the names that would have competed here were some of the biggest around.
“I ride dressage,” Elise said. “That show is for jumpers.”
“And Matt tells us you’re Olympic-bound,” said Jeannie.
“Well,” Elise said. “We’ll see.”
“Elise is being modest. No one works harder, believe me.” As Matt moved buns from grill to platter, Cass passed behind and patted his shoulder in thanks.
“I have a superstar husband.” And he’s mine, all mine, she would have loved to say out loud.
Garth had grown interested in Matt now. He tilted forward in his chair, elbows on knees, as if he just might decide to stay. “So, you do all the kid stuff when your wife’s away?”
As Matt detailed his routine of getting Gracie to Funducational, then hopping on the train into the city, then reversing the pattern in the evening—all to Garth’s impressed exclamations—Jeannie leaned in to Elise to murmur, “If he were a woman, would we even be having this conversation?”
They shared a private smile.
“I couldn’t do it,” was Garth’s eventual declaration. He got up to help Matt ferry charred burgers and hot dogs from grill to table. “But at least the marriage doesn’t get boring.”
“And you’re leaving again?” Jeannie asked Elise.
“Friday.”
“All that time apart.” Cass bent down to the grass to pick up a broken cracker. As she stood to flick it into the fire, she said, under her breath but loud enough for Elise to hear, “Kiss. Of. Death.”
Elise froze, watched Cass sashay back to the table.
“Come everyone,” she called. “Eat. Drink. Be merry.” The last to sit down, Cass lowered herself into the space between the kids and kissed each on the cheek. “Two little angels to fuss over tonight. I love it.”
Elise tried not to wither as Gracie basked in Cass’s glow. It was what little girls did. They heroine-worshipped attractive women. Elise could remember once when Gracie was five, she refused to come out of her room when the babysitter arrived, because she wasn’t “pretty enough.”
Matt held a scoop of lettuce over her plate. “Earth to Elise?”
“Yes, thanks.” Her fixation with Cass was ridiculous. Elise turned to Jeannie. “So, your camp. Is it sleepover or day camp?”
“Bit of both,” the woman said, smoothing her napkin on her lap. “I get city kids from far-off places: M
ontreal, Boston, LA—Beijing, even.”
“I want to go to camp,” Gracie said.
Matt doled out burgers to the adults and said, “Jeannie, you were part of the team who secured the eighties bid, am I right? With my grandfather?”
“I was. Nate worked unbelievably hard. To win was truly gratifying.” She pierced a cherry tomato with her plastic fork. “I’d love to see us secure a third Winter Games.”
“How did you come to start a camp?” Elise asked.
“Years ago, my husband and I started to wonder, with all the families flocking to the resorts, if someone shouldn’t offer a drop-off day camp program so the parents could catch a bit of a break. The hotels have kid programs—some of them, anyway. But not where kids get that real summer camp experience. It’s more glorified child-minding. I thought, these parents go online to check out a resort. They see the beautiful photos promising luscious beds, lazy-morning coffees over a misty lake where they reconnect as a couple. But the reality is, their kids wake up and want to go for a swim, and the parents never really get to be that relaxed couple who pad out to the end of their dock in robes, lattes in hand. And then, when Brice died last year, I sold the house back to Cass, renovated a little cabin on the campgrounds, and bought a camp bus to expand our enrollment. Had the staff go to town painting it.”
“Brice died?” Matt said. “He was such a nice guy.”
The best.” Jeannie nodded.
“You should see how cute the bus is.” Cass pushed a strand of hair off her face. “Covered in flowers and smiley faces. Total hippie-mobile.”
“It means the parents really do get to be the couple in the brochure; they don’t even have to drop the kids off. We come to them. And we’re flexible. Kids might come three days in a row, then hang with their parents. Families can strike whatever balance feels right.”