That was nothing new. “Well, it isn’t Megan—it can’t possibly be Megan—I don’t want it to be Megan,” Graham declared. “Help me out here, Joe,” he pleaded. “Remind her I’m married to Amanda. If I’m going to have a baby, it’ll be Amanda’s. Hey, there’s my call waiting,” he lied, but he couldn’t keep this particular conversation going. “I’ll get back to you later.”
He disconnected without another word and drove on in brooding silence. This damned day was nearly done. He didn’t know why Amanda was keeping him in the dark. Even if she didn’t know anything yet, she could have called and told him that. She knew he was waiting.
Turning off the highway, he drove along roads that he knew now like the back of his hand, and there was some solace in that. He loved Woodley, loved the way the town roads twisted and climbed through forested hills. A map of the town was like a tree—a trunk that rose from the highway and forked way up at the crest of the hill, spilling off in two directions with limbs bearing town buildings, offices, and stores, branches off those limbs for houses, and, farther down the branches, neat cul-de-sacs like the one he and Amanda lived on.
No road in the town was barren. Each was bounded by white pine, beech, and hemlock, or maples, or birches, or oaks. Climbing into a curve now, he passed a meadow of red trillium. Farther on, he saw yellow trout lily, and beyond that, a dense stand of mountain laurel with its perfect white blossoms. A less-knowing passerby wouldn’t have picked out the jack-in-the-pulpit with its maroon hood from the shade at the side of the road, but Graham did. Likewise, at a glance, he could differentiate maidenhair fern from oak fern or bracken, or lichen from moss.
These woods had them all. Graham took pride in that. His own hometown, where much of his family still lived, lay only fifty minutes to the east, but the two towns were worlds apart. That one was a working-class enclave filled with good folk who dreamed of living here. For Graham, the dream had come true.
At least, one part of it had. They were still working on the other part, and if the news was good today, he would be doubly thankful he lived here. When it came to hospitable environments in which to raise kids, Woodley took the cake.
The town center was nestled around the fork in the road at the top of the hill. The three streets intersecting at its core were lined with beech trees, wood benches, and storefronts that were as inviting in winter white as they were now in May. The smells were as rich as the populace—hot sticky buns from the bakery, a dark roast blend from the café, chocolate from fresh dipped fruit at the candy store. Give or take, there were a dozen small restaurants on side streets to serve an upscale population of fourteen thousand, but the food staple was on the main drag, a chic little eatery that served breakfast, lunch, and dinner at wrought-iron tables in a glassed-in patio in winter and an open one in summer. Several doors down, past an art gallery and an antiques store, a bookshop was stocked to the eaves, and what parent in his or her right mind would go elsewhere when this one employed a full-time storyteller for kids? There were boutique-type clothing stores scattered around, a drugstore whose owner cared enough about his clients to advise them when medications clashed, a hardware store, a camera shop, and— the latest—a tea café.
Some of the stores took up the two floors that the town fathers had decreed would be the height limit, but those second-floor spaces also housed lawyers, doctors, interior designers, and the like. Graham’s office was over a housewares store that had sent more than one newcomer to Woodley his way.
He didn’t stop at the office now. Nor did he stop at Woodley Misc, the general store, though an SUV pulled from a spot right in front. Not so long ago, he would have swung in and run inside to buy an Almond Joy for Amanda. Amanda loved Almond Joys.
This day, though, he didn’t have the patience for chitchat, which was what one could count on getting at Woodley Misc. Besides, he was annoyed at Amanda for not calling, for not thinking about him for a change. He was annoyed at her for not being long since pregnant, period.
That thought stopped him cold. He knew it was unfair, but his mind didn’t take it back, which left him feeling more than a little guilty.
It was with a deliberate effort that he propped his left elbow on the open window, draped his right wrist over the back of the passenger’s seat, and made like all was well and that he was cool.
***
Amanda’s numbness wore off during the drive home from school, and the enormity of the situation sank in. There would be no baby. Again. No baby. She felt empty, barren—frustrated, bewildered, sad.
She and Graham had been so cautious this time, not daring to get carried away. Still, they had talked of hanging a stocking on Christmas Eve for the baby about to be born, and of having something new to toast this New Year’s Eve. They had talked about how much easier the O’Leary holiday bedlam would be if they were about to have a child of their own.
Pulling the tortoiseshell comb from her hair, she shook her head to spread out the curls and tried to relax with positive thoughts. She had plenty to be grateful for, plenty that others didn’t have. For starters, she had a beautiful house on a charming wooded cul-de-sac in an upscale neighborhood—a perfect place for kids.
Only she didn’t have the kids yet.
But she did have three neighbors, two of whom had become close friends. The third, Ben’s young widow, kept to herself, but the others more than compensated with front-yard visits in spring, backyard cookouts in summer, leaf-raking parties in fall, and Sunday-night pizzas in winter. More important, there were countless woman-to-woman talks on the phone, on porch steps, or by the Cotters’ pool.
She could use one of those talks now. Either woman would tell her how envious they were. Neither of them had the kind of career she did. Karen worked hard without benefit of either a paycheck or respect, and the trade-off for Georgia, who got a large paycheck indeed, was being out of town and away from her family several days a week.
Amanda wasn’t paid a lot, but her career wasn’t about money. She simply loved the work—and talk about convenience? The school was ten minutes from her home. If she had a baby, she could exchange her full-time position there for one as a consulting psychologist. She would have as large or small a caseload as she wanted, and could see students right at the house. The office over the garage had its own entrance. If she had kids, it would be perfect for that.
She even had a car for kids, an SUV that was de rigueur in Woodley Granted, it was four years old and starting to show its age. In the past few months, they’d had to replace the fuel-injection system, the suspension, and the battery. They talked about getting a new car, but then month after month passed without her conceiving, and it seemed foolish.
The car purred happily enough now as she turned off the main road and drove through a gently winding stretch of wooded land. A final turn, and the cul-de-sac came into view.
Graham’s truck was not in the driveway.
Not quite sure how she felt about that, she opened both front windows and, with the flow of warm air through the car, let the circle soothe her. With May just days old, the landscaping around the four houses was coming to life. The grass had greened up and just been cut, leaving horizontal swathes and a lingering scent. Huge oaks ringing the dead end had leafed out into a soft lime shade; paper birches with curling white bark were dripping with buds. The crocuses had come and gone, as had the forsythia blossoms, but patches of yellow daffodils remained, and tulips were starting to bloom. Clusters of lilacs stood tall and fat at each porch rail; though still a week shy of full bloom, they were budded enough to perfume the air.
Turning into her driveway Amanda breathed it all in. Spring was her very favorite season. She had always loved the freshness, the cleanness, the sense of birth.
Sense of birth. Shifting into park, she stepped on the emergency brake and wondered why it always came back to that. Many people went through life without being parents. Some women she knew were actively choosing not to have kids, and they were perfectly satisfied with their l
ives. The thing was that she did want them, only it wasn’t happening, and she didn’t know why.
Was this her punishment for wanting a career of her own? For keeping her maiden name? For delaying parenthood? Yes, she would have had an easier time conceiving ten years before, but she hadn’t been ready to have a baby at twenty-five. She hadn’t even known Graham then. And he had been worth the wait. She still believed that.
Her mother believed otherwise. She believed that the genetic differences between them were simply too great for conception. Graham was tall, solid, and green-eyed; she was small, lean, and brown-eyed. He had straight dark hair; hers was curly and blond. He had seven siblings; she was a lonely only child. He was athletic; she was not.
As far as Amanda was concerned, her mother was a snob, and her theory was hogwash. But that didn’t lessen the pain she felt now. They’d had such high hopes this time. Graham was going to be upset.
She should have called him. Cell phones, like e-mail, were less intimidating than having to say some things face-to-face. She might have broken the news that way. Shared the sorrow. Confessed to failure.
She could still do it. But her courage failed her.
Disheartened about that failing on top of the other, she gathered up her briefcase and had straightened when a movement in the rear-view mirror caught her eye. It was the widow, Gretchen Tannenwald, wandering along her newly edged flower beds. She had spent long hours the fall before putting in bulbs, working with her back to the neighbors, keeping to herself even when others were out and about. Attempts at friendliness on their part were met with the briefest possible response. Even Amanda, who was supposedly good at it, had made a try or two, but Gretchen was no talker. Hard to believe that she had been married to the ever-genial Ben.
Then again, not hard to believe at all. Gretchen was barely half Ben’s age and the total antithesis of June, but he had needed a drastic change to pull him from his grief.
The neighborhood men were sympathetic. “You can see she idolizes him,” said Russ Lange, the romantic. “Any man would love that.”
Leland Cotter, the dot-com chief, was more blunt. “What’s not to love? She’s a looker.”
Graham suggested that Ben loved her energy. “She has him traveling and hiking and playing tennis. He and June led a quieter life. Gretchen opens new doors.”
The neighborhood women were less generous. As far as they were concerned, the Tannenwald marriage was about two things: sex for Ben and money for Gretchen.
Of course, that didn’t explain why Gretchen was hanging around without Ben. Amanda had thought she would sell the house, take the money, and run. But here she was, wearing a short, swingy dress that made her look even younger than thirty-two.
Actually, Amanda decided with a start, the dress made her look pregnant.
Unsettled by that, she twisted around to look out the rear window. It was a minute before the light caught Gretchen’s body in profile again, and there it was, something that did indeed look like a belly—which was a curious prospect. Ben had been gone a year, too long to be part of it, and Gretchen had been a virtual shut-in since his death. She didn’t date; surely they would have noticed. To Amanda’s knowledge, the only men who had been in the house for any period of time were the plumber, the carpenter, and the electrician—and, on one mission or another, Russ Lange, Lee Cotter, and Graham O’Leary
Chapter Two
Amanda was twisted around, looking out the back window of her car, when Graham’s green pickup came into view. Heart leaping, she forgot about Gretchen and climbed from the car.
He drove typically loose, with one hand on the steering wheel, the other out the window. When she had first met him, the car had been a Mustang convertible, and he had looked so cool with the wind in his hair that she had fallen hard for that, too. Watching him now, she felt a glimmer of the old excitement, the old yearning. Then she remembered what it was that she had to say.
He slowed as he approached and raised his left hand in greeting to Gretchen, who turned briefly. Then he pulled into the driveway beside Amanda.
Leaving her car door open, she walked around to his truck. His eyes held hers the whole way, asking, then knowing. Visibly deflated, he sank against the back of the seat.
“You got your period.”
She was grateful not to have to say the damning words herself. “Half an hour ago.”
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s just spotting.”
She shook her head. What was going on wasn’t spotting. Besides, the cramps in her belly had a familiar feel.
“Maybe you should try a test.”
“I’d have to miss my period for a test to work.”
He hung his head. Then he dropped it back, sighed wearily, and opened the door of the truck. Eyes filling with tears, Amanda turned away and went for her things. By the time she had closed the car door and gone up the flagstone walk to the breezeway between the house and garage, Graham was already there, slouched against a pillar, looking out at the backyard. He hadn’t only designed the landscape here, he had done the planting himself, right down to the very last shrub, and the care showed. Even this early in the season, the yard was a dozen different shades of green.
Their yard was the envy of the neighbors—actually the envy of the whole town—but Amanda suspected he saw none of it now. His voice held defeat. “I thought it would take this time. I thought for sure it would.”
Amanda leaned against another of the pillars. “So did I. So did the doctor. We had the timing down pat.”
“What is the problem?” he asked in frustration.
Clenching her arms to her chest, she said, “I don’t know. There were eight eggs. That’s two more than last month. It’s seven more than most women produce.” Her own frustration caught up with her. “I’d have thought at least one of the eight would be fertilized. My God, it’s our turn.”
Still staring at the yard, Graham muttered a bleak, “Seems like our turn came and went.” His head came around, beautiful green eyes challenging. “What’s not working?”
Amanda was heartsick. She hated their being adversaries. She needed Graham with her in this. “I don’t know, Gray. They don’t know. As many as fifteen percent of infertility problems are unexplained. You’ve heard Emily.”
“Yeah, and she says that as many as sixty percent of those couples will conceive on their own within three years, so what’s our problem?”
Amanda didn’t know. “I’m doing everything they tell me. You see me taking my temperature, keeping my charts, taking my Clomid. I even had an ultrasound this time to make sure we did the insemination on just the right day.”
“Then why aren’t you pregnant?”
She told herself that he was upset with the situation, not with her. Still, she felt she was being attacked. “I don’t know.”
“We waited too long,” he decided. “You were thirty when we got married. We should have started right away.”
“And a year would have made the difference? Come on, Graham. That’s unfair.”
“The older you get, the harder it is. They’ve told us that.”
“Uh-huh, a million times. What they said, to be exact, was that fertility rates drop dramatically at thirty, then again at thirty-five, and again at forty, so since we got married when I was thirty, maybe it was already too late. And if we’re making accusations, I want to know why you waited so long. Where were you when I was twenty-three?”
“I was in the Pacific Northwest learning my trade.”
It was an evasive answer. She knew about those years and pressed on, having a dire need to share the blame. “You were on the rebound from Megan. You were twenty-nine and playing the field. You didn’t want to be tied down. You were off climbing mountains and rushing rapids, having a grand old time with your buddies. Sure, it would have been better if we’d started earlier, but if you and I had met back then, you wouldn’t have been interested in getting married, much less having a baby.”
He didn’t reply at firs
t. Her argument seemed to have calmed him a little, which was reassuring. One of the first things she had loved about Graham—after the way he looked in that Mustang—was his ability to be reasonable. He could listen and hear. For someone in her profession, that was a must in a mate.
Reasonably indeed, he said, “We don’t know what would have been if we’d met back then.”
“Exactly.” She rubbed a burning spot between her breasts, a pain that, were she more of a romantic, she might think was a crack in her heart. “So please don’t say it’s all my fault. This hasn’t been easy for me. There are times when I feel like I’m doing all the work and you’re the one who wants the baby.”
“Whoa.” He held up a hand. “Are you saying you don’t want one?”
“You know I do. I want a baby more than anything, but you were the one who was up for it from the day we were married, and I understand that.” How could she not? Graham had grown up thirty miles away. Most of his family still lived in the same town. They got together often. “You have seven siblings, who now have twenty-seven children between them.”
“I love children,” he said.
“So do I, but I’m not a brood mare.”
“Obviously,” he remarked, and suddenly the space between them felt like a chasm.
“What does that mean?” she cried, and, to his credit, he gentled.
Bowing his head, he rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes were tired when they met hers again. “This is going nowhere. I don’t want us to fight.”
Neither did Amanda. She hated that chasm, hated feeling alone. She hated the pressure she felt and the toll it was taking. Mostly, she hated feeling like she was wholly responsible for their failure to conceive. She hated feeling that this was her fault, her problem, her body gone bad.
Close to tears again, she waited a minute before speaking. But the tears remained, and her thoughts spilled out. “I just need you to understand what I’m feeling. I’m doing everything I can, everything Emily tells me to do. So maybe she’s the problem—”
The Woman Next Door Page 4