by Sarah Morgan
One teenage girl. How hard could it be to handle one teenage girl?
Lauren went upstairs to change and put on her makeup and tried not to think about the time Mack would have sat in the middle of the bed, watching her mother with hungry, admiring eyes.
It seemed that idolizing your mother had an expiration date.
Before leaving the bedroom she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.
The dress was new and flattered her slender frame. She was the same size she’d been at twenty. Four times a week without fail she went running. She also did yoga and Pilates and was careful what she ate.
It was important to always have a plan and stick to it. She wished Mack could see that.
She tried to ignore the voice in her head that reminded her what she’d been like at sixteen.
She needed to focus on the party.
Of course the one thing you did need at a party to celebrate a fortieth birthday was the person whose birthday it was, and by seven thirty there was still no sign of Edward.
“Told you.” Mack wandered past wearing a pair of skinny jeans that clung and a pair of heavy boots that Ed said made her look like a construction worker.
Don’t say a word, Lauren. Not a word.
“Dad probably got caught up at the office.” But as soon as Mack vanished into the den to watch a movie, Lauren pulled out her phone and sent Ed a quick text.
Are you on your way?
The doorbell rang and she felt a rush of relief. Maybe he’d forgotten his key.
But no, it was the string quartet arriving early.
She let them in, showed them where to set up and walked back to the kitchen, where the caterers seemed to have everything under control.
The champagne was chilling. The glasses were ready. The canapés were in the oven. Everything was perfect.
The door sounded again and this time when Lauren opened it she saw her mother-in-law standing there.
Maybe not completely perfect.
If there was one accessory she would never choose to have at a party, it was her mother-in-law, but how could she not invite her to her only son’s fortieth birthday party?
“Gwen! Wonderful to see you.” Lauren always overdid the greeting to compensate for her true feelings. On one occasion she’d leaned forward to kiss Gwen, but the other woman had turned her head sharply and Lauren had ended up pecking her on the neck like a drunken chicken.
Still, Gwen loved her son and that was a quality Lauren could respect.
Gwen was clutching a parcel. “Where’s my precious boy?”
He’s forty, Lauren thought. Not a boy.
“He’s on his way home.”
Gwen handed over her coat. “He’s still at work? On his birthday?”
Her tone stung like a jellyfish and Lauren felt her face burn.
Gwen seemed to hold Lauren personally responsible for the fact her son worked long hours. Not that she expressed her disapproval directly, but the pursed lips, sighs and eye rolls conveyed her message with perfect clarity.
Ed was fond of saying that his mother spoke fluent body language.
Privately Lauren had often wondered whether she would have married Ed had she met Gwen first.
“Come and talk to Mack, I know she’ll be thrilled to see you. She’s in the TV room.” Lauren took the stairs down to the TV room and Gwen followed.
“She’s watching American TV?” She said it in the same tone she might have said taking drugs and having sex?
Why couldn’t she find a single nice thing to say?
Nice dress, Lauren.
House is looking beautiful.
Did you arrange all this yourself?
My son is so lucky to be married to you.
“I don’t know what she’s watching.”
“She could be watching porn. I read that all teenagers watch porn.”
“She’s not watching porn, Gwen.” Ed, if you’re not home in the next five minutes, I’m going to kill you.
Mack appeared in the doorway. “Mom, that American porn film you suggested I watch is—” She broke off and gave a dazzling smile. “Hi, Nana, didn’t see you there.”
Gwen swayed and clutched at the wall to steady herself.
Lauren had an inconvenient urge to laugh. There had been a time when she definitely would have laughed, but she’d worked hard to suppress that side of herself. Unfortunately it seemed determined to make a reappearance.
She didn’t dare catch Mack’s eye, although since Gwen already thought she was the world’s worst parent, she probably couldn’t sink any lower in the approval ratings.
“Mack, can you come upstairs and help greet people?”
The way Mack sighed you would have thought Lauren had asked her to donate a kidney.
“Can’t you and Dad do it?”
“Dad isn’t home yet.” How could he be late tonight of all nights? As she kept listening for the sound of his key in the door, her irritation became tinged with anxiety. It wasn’t like him to be late when there was a reason to be home, and it wasn’t like him not to answer his phone, but so far he hadn’t responded to a single one of her texts. Maybe his battery had died. “I’d appreciate help.”
“Sure. That would be awesome, Mom.”
Lauren winced. Gwen hated mom, and her daughter knew it.
There was a gleam in Mack’s eyes and for a moment it felt like old times when they’d shared a joke.
And then the doorbell rang, announcing the first of their guests, and the moment was gone. Lauren opened the door to their neighbors who were armed with bottles of champagne and balloons with the number forty emblazoned in swirling writing.
The rest of the guests arrived in a steady stream. The string quartet fought valiantly to be heard above the sound of laughter and conversation. Champagne flutes clinked together and sparkled under the lights. The house hummed with celebration. Only one thing was missing.
Ed.
By nine o’clock irritation had given way to anxiety.
She’d left eight messages on Ed’s phone, each one more desperate. Their conversation of that morning kept going round in her head.
She’s not the problem.
Did the “problem” have something to do with the reason he was late?
An image inserted itself into her head. Ed, with his pants down, pumping into an unknown girl on his desk. Why did she have to think of that now? She pressed her fingers to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut to block it out.
She was wondering about the etiquette of cutting a birthday cake when the birthday boy wasn’t present, when the doorbell rang again.
All the guests had arrived, so it had to be Ed.
Weak with relief, she tugged open the door and saw two police officers standing there.
Now what?
There had been a spate of car vandalism in the street, and the Wright family, who lived four doors down, had been burgled the summer before, but generally this was a quiet, safe area of London loved by residents and tourists alike. She’d certainly never had anyone in uniform standing on her doorstep. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes.” Lauren smiled her best hostess smile. “How can I help?”
The younger of the two officers looked sick, as if he was suddenly wishing he’d picked any job except this one, and she knew then that this wasn’t about a neighborhood crime.
Her legs turned to liquid. “What has happened?”
The older policewoman took charge, her eyes kind. “Do you have somewhere quiet we can talk?”
Quiet? Lauren gave a hysterical laugh. “I have thirty guests in the house, all celebrating my husband’s birthday, so no, not really. I’m waiting for him to come home.”
One look at their faces told her everything she needed to know.
Ed wouldn’t be c
oming home tonight, or any other night. He wasn’t going to eat his cake, nor toast his birthday with champagne.
Ed wasn’t late.
He was gone.
6
Jenna
Envy: the desire to have for oneself
something possessed by another.
On her quest to make a romantic dinner, Jenna stopped at the store on her way home and bought food. While she was there, she paused by the magazines and glanced at the covers.
“How to Get a Bikini Body.”
“Beat Those Cravings.”
Judging from the covers, she wasn’t the only one with a problem.
She glanced over her shoulder to check no one was looking and dropped two magazines into her basket.
“Jenna? Jenna! I thought it was you.”
Jenna turned the magazines over. “Hi, Sylvia.”
She’d been at school with Sylvia, but their lives had diverged. Jenna had gone off to college and Sylvia had stayed on island and proceeded to pop out children as if she was on a personal mission to increase the number of year-rounders. Personally Jenna was relieved when the summer people left. The roads were clearer, the beaches were empty and you didn’t have to stand in line for ages at the bakery.
She put field greens, tomatoes and bell peppers into her basket. “How are the children?” Why had she asked that question? The Dentons had six kids. She could potentially be here for hours.
She only half listened as Sylvia talked about the stress of ferrying the children to and from piano lessons, swimming lessons, art class and football.
I’d like that type of stress, Jenna thought.
Sylvia was still talking. “And poor Kaley was in hospital with her asthma again. Your mom was so kind. Visited every day. She’s great with the kids. And she loves babies. Isn’t it about time you and Greg started a family?” The way Sylvia said it suggested that producing babies was something Jenna might have forgotten to do in the day-to-day pressure of living their lives.
Jenna fingered an overripe tomato, wondering whether the pleasure of pulping it against Sylvia’s perfect white shirt would outweigh the inevitable fallout.
Probably not.
She dropped the tomato into her basket and made a vague comment about being busy.
“I must get home.” She grabbed a bottle of wine. She probably shouldn’t be drinking, but she wasn’t pregnant, so why not? Greg wanted her to relax, didn’t he? She’d rather drink wine than go to yoga, and after her earlier encounter with her mother she needed it.
“My Alice loves those stories you read to them, Adventures with My Sister. Could you tell me the author? Is it a series? I’m going to buy those books for her birthday. Her favorite is the story about them freeing the lobsters.”
“They’re not published,” Jenna said. “I make them up. I used to tell stories to my niece when she was little and somehow I carried on doing it with my class.”
“No way! Really? Well you should be writing books, not teaching. Where do you get all those wonderful ideas? You must have quite the imagination.”
“Thank you.”
That and a colorful childhood to draw on for inspiration.
“If you wrote those stories down, the whole class would buy them, that’s for sure.”
Write the stories down.
Why hadn’t she ever thought of that?
Author: a person who composes a book, article or other written work.
“By the way—” Sylvia’s tone was casual “—I was driving through Edgartown half an hour ago and I happened to see a pickup truck parked outside your mother’s house. Guess who was driving it? Scott Rhodes.” She lowered her voice, as if the mere mention of that name might be enough to get her arrested. “He looked as bad and dangerous as ever. I swear the man never smiles. What is his problem? I didn’t know he knew your mom.”
She hadn’t known that either. Thoughts of a new life as an author flew from her head.
What was he doing calling on her mother? And if Sylvia had seen him half an hour ago then that meant Jenna must have missed him by minutes.
Scott Rhodes?
She remembered the summer she’d first seen him. He’d been stripped to the waist and across the powerful bulk of his shoulders she’d seen the unmistakable mark of a tattoo. That tattoo had fascinated her. Her mother wouldn’t even allow her to have her ears pierced.
Scott didn’t seem to care what other people thought and that, to Jenna, had been the coolest thing of all.
She was aware that she cared far too much. She was a people pleaser, but in a small island community that ran on goodwill, she didn’t know how to be any other way.
Scott Rhodes, on the other hand, answered to no one but himself and she envied that. Even looking at him made her feel as if she was doing something she shouldn’t, as if by stepping into his space you made a statement about yourself and who you were. Danger by association. She expected to feel her mother’s hand close over her shoulder any moment.
Not that she’d been that interested. She was in love with Greg. Greg, who she knew so well he almost seemed like an extension of her. Greg, who smiled almost all the time.
Scott Rhodes rarely smiled. It was as if he and life were on opposing sides.
She’d been studying his muscles and deeply tanned chest with rapt attention when he glanced up and caught her looking. There was no smile, no wink, no suggestive gaze. Nothing. His face was inscrutable.
Scott worked at the boatyard and did the occasional carpentry job for people. He slept on his boat, anchored offshore, as if ready to sail away at a moment’s notice.
Why would Scott Rhodes be visiting her mother?
Hi, Mom, I hear you had the devil on your doorstep...
Aware that Sylvia was waiting for a response, Jenna shrugged. “My mother knows everyone. And she still plays a role in the yachting community. Scott knows boats.”
Sylvia nodded. “That’s probably it.” It was obvious that she didn’t think that was the reason at all, and neither did Jenna.
It nagged at her as she drove the short distance home, enjoying the last of the weak daylight.
The cottage she shared with Greg between Chilmark and the fishing village of Menemsha had a view of the sea from the upstairs windows and a little garden that frothed with blooms in the summer months.
It was, in her opinion, the perfect place to raise a family.
Of course, she didn’t have a family to raise.
Maybe they ought to get a dog.
She pushed that thought aside, along with all the questions she had about Scott Rhodes, and parked her car.
In the summer this part of the island teemed with tourists, but in the winter months you were more likely to see eiders congregating near the jetties, riding the current and sheltering behind fishing boats. The sky was cold and threatening and the wind managed to find any gaps in clothing.
She loved the place whatever the season, whether she was wrapped up in layers in the winter, or eating a warm lobster roll on the beach in the summer watching the sun go down.
Today there was no sun.
Jenna fumbled her way into the house, grateful for the warmth.
She lit the wood-burning stove in the living room, unpacked the shopping and made a casserole. Beef was Greg’s favorite, but she’d read somewhere that red meat reduced fertility, so she used chicken.
While the casserole simmered in the oven, she chopped vegetables.
Then she tidied the cottage, took a shower and changed into a wool dress she’d bought to wear at Christmas two years before. It had looked good on her then. Now, it clung in places it wasn’t supposed to cling. She picked up one of the magazines she’d bought and stared gloomily at the slim, toned blonde dressed in leggings and a crop top.
“You are so airbrushed.” She flung the magazi
ne to one side and picked up the other one.
This one recommended a diet of raw food interspersed with long periods of fasting.
“If I fast, I faint.” What she really needed was the Comfort Eater’s Diet. Or the Stressed While Trying for a Baby Diet.
In the meantime she needed to order control underwear.
She stuffed both magazines under the sofa and noticed the notepad on the coffee table that Greg had been using to make a shopping list.
Maybe she should write down some of her stories. Why not?
She tore out a clean page and sketched two little girls with a goat, but the goat ended up looking like a pig.
She tapped its bloated stomach. “What you need is a bikini diet.”
Throwing down the pen, she slid the paper under the sofa along with the magazines. Maybe she’d think about it another time. Or maybe her stories were better told round a campfire than written down.
Her dress felt uncomfortably tight, so she walked to the bedroom to choose something else.
She pulled on her favorite pair of stretchy jeans and a sweater Greg had bought for her birthday. It was a pretty shade of blue, shot through with silvery thread, and it fell soft and loose to the top of her thighs, concealing all evidence of her dietary transgressions.
She was checking the casserole when she heard the sound of his key in the door.
“Something smells good.” Greg walked into the house and dropped his keys on the table. “How’s my green-eyed mermaid?”
He’d called her that since the summer she turned eight years old when she’d barely left the sea.
“Mermaids don’t have curly hair and freckles.” She smiled as he came up behind her and kissed her on the neck.
“You shouldn’t stereotype mermaids. You look gorgeous. Is that sweater new?”
“You bought it for me.”
“I have great taste. How was your mother? Are you in need of therapy?” He slid his arms round her and she sucked in her stomach to make herself thinner. She liked the fact that he kissed her before he even hung up his coat. Andrea was right—she was lucky to have Greg. So why didn’t that feel like enough?
What was wrong with her?