“Do the others know about this?” Penelope followed Bree into the hallway, which widened to accommodate a set of stone stairs.
Bree shook her head. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s just for us.”
Why? Penelope wanted to ask but did not. It was Bree; she might not even get an answer.
They crept silently up the stairs, and Bree counted thirty steps before the stairwell narrowed to a landing. The landing held nothing but an old wooden ladder. Effortlessly, Bree climbed the five ladder rungs and pushed up on the ceiling above their heads.
She disappeared up through the trapdoor, and Penelope followed her, her heart wild and aching with anticipation. She placed her feet carefully on each rung, which wiggled a little with age and lack of use.
When Penelope finally emerged through the ceiling, she found herself standing in a long, narrow bedroom, the open trapdoor barely noticeable in the floor. Bree jumped a little, clapping her hands together silently. “Look where we are!” Breathless with excitement.
“Do you think he even knows this exists?” Penelope asked.
Bree shook her head, her eyes wide. “Don’t tell him, okay? Promise?”
Penelope looked around—the familiar dark-blue bedspread, an acoustic guitar in the corner, a standing closet, open and filled with men’s shirts pressed neatly together. Before she could stop herself, Penelope reached out, ran her hand along the clothes, the hangers making a musical trill as they clinked together.
Jack’s bedroom.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
February 18, 2020
Penelope had always thought she’d be the kind of wife who never left her husband’s hospital bed. Who brought him water and ice chips and red Jell-O when he wanted it. As it turned out, she was not that kind of wife.
The hospital stay ended up being rather uneventful—which was a good thing, Penelope stressed to herself as she commuted from the hospital to work. Brett needed a transfusion, which was a standard treatment for a moderate hemolytic crisis. “No dialysis!” said the hematologist proudly, and Penelope almost choked on her dry bagel. Dialysis! God, had they come that close?
Brett assured her that he was fine, and it was surprising to Penelope how little convincing it took for her to leave him.
She popped home after work on Tuesday to make sure Tara and Linc were okay. She took a half day, was home by three. She had told Nora that Brett was in the hospital, and surprisingly Nora waved her off impatiently: Why are you even here? As though calling out during an audit would have been remotely tolerated.
Linc was in the kitchen, leaning over the island looking at a magazine over Willa’s shoulder, and they were laughing softly. Her baby boy, his blond hair curled prettily over his forehead, his red full lips pursed as he read, his index finger and thumb massaging the hollow of his throat, like he always did in deep thought.
Linc and Tara had taken to Willa—she was Mom’s fun friend, the one with the expensive makeup and bawdy mouth. They watched her comfort Penelope and flirt with Brett, and the ease with which she’d made herself at home, her arms flinging around any of them for any reason—so different from Penelope, who had never been naturally physical—fascinated and thrilled them.
Willa watched Linc, not the magazine, her eyes narrowed with intensity, and Penelope felt all the hair on her arms rise. The way she was looking at him felt predatory.
Or maybe she was being ridiculous.
Linc was a beautiful child, she knew this. Everyone looked at him this way, like they wanted to take a bite out of him, like his cheek might taste like vanilla custard or lemon meringue. His arms were long and graceful, his skin bronzed, even in February, his hair always clipped precisely, his nails trimmed straight. Nothing about him was boyish. She often wondered if he would grow into his manhood, or would he always be so dainty?
Willa turned then and gave Penelope a big, easy smile, and all the hair on Penelope’s arms settled back down to its rightful place. She was being ridiculous. Willa handed Penelope a steaming cup of tea—chamomile, with the perfect amount of sugar and just a dash of milk—and Penelope drank it gratefully.
“Look.” Linc shoved the local Wexford magazine in her direction. Tara’s big toothy smile grinned back from the stage, her arms flung around her costar, a long-legged girl with blonde curling ribbons of hair. It was from last year’s play, The Music Man, and Tara had been Ulele McKechnie Shinn, while the other girl had landed the role of Marion, the librarian. Tara hadn’t batted an eye, Penelope remembered.
The article was about the thriving theater community in Wexford, with interviews from the parents whose kids were regularly in the county plays as well as high school teachers. Tara’s name was mentioned three times, but Penelope’s was not. Many of the other theater moms did not work—they trailed in at the end of rehearsal, sometimes bringing pizzas for dinner. Penelope smiled and pushed the magazine back in Linc’s direction.
“That’s great!” Penelope said with forced enthusiasm. “Has Tara seen it?”
“I showed her last night,” Willa offered. “I picked her up from play practice.”
“Linc!” Penelope interrupted. “Don’t you have lacrosse tonight?”
“It’s our day off, Ma.” He grinned at her helpfully, then added as a prompt. “Remember?”
And Penelope did not. In fact, she couldn’t quite remember either of their schedules at the moment. Was Tara coming home tonight? Was she up in her room? She felt too uncertain to ask. She was used to being so in control. This wild feeling was new, unsettling, and made her feel as though she was failing. At what, she couldn’t have pinpointed. With Brett in the hospital, she hadn’t so much as glanced at the family calendar. All her organization, the combined schedules, churned somehow just the same—with or without her.
“Can you take me to the meeting tonight, though? Just the monthly,” Linc asked hopefully.
“Of course,” Penelope said automatically.
“I can, if you want to get back to the hospital,” Willa offered.
Penelope had spent a lot of time wishing for freedom—freedom of movement, of thought, of love, of priorities—and for once, she had it. Willa allowed her that by taking care of the things in her life that Penelope had been confined by—the schedules and the structure. In her darker moments, she used to think that if she could break free from the shackles of family life, maybe she’d be free enough to love her family as much as she was supposed to. No, that wasn’t true. She loved them entirely, wholly. She sometimes struggled to find it through the litany of daily tasks. Didn’t every mother wonder if she was doing enough? If she loved enough?
“No, it’s fine. I’ll take you.” Penelope gave Linc a bright smile.
Linc blinked at her, sweet and fresh. “Are you all right, Ma?”
He called her Ma when he really, really loved her. When she brought him soup loaded up with crumbled crackers when he was sick. When she showed up to lacrosse practice with his mouth guard, left at home by accident. When she came home late, dead tired, and he rubbed her shoulders.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.” She almost never called him sweetheart.
Willa cocked her head, studied her friend. “You don’t seem all right.”
“I’m tired. I hardly slept last night.”
“Worried about Brett?” She clucked sympathetically.
Penelope murmured noncommittally.
When the doorbell rang, Penelope went in a fog to answer it. The lack of sleep was really starting to get to her.
“Where have you been?” Jaime stood on the doorstep, his hair gorgeously messed, his jeans fitted to his hips in a way that made Penelope feel electric. She hadn’t expected him, had barely thought about him in the past few days, but now that he was standing here in front of her, she felt herself, bit by bit, start to unspool.
“Brett is in the hospital, my friend from college showed up out of nowhere . . . oh God, things have gone haywire.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, and before she knew it, she was finally
crying. It seemed to be her default with Jaime, to just start indiscriminately sobbing. So humiliating, so wildly out of her control.
He pulled her to him, his shirt smelling like sweat and sawdust and musk, her nose pressed right against the warm skin of his neck. He was wider than Brett through the shoulders, bigger all around, his arms thicker; the length of him against her felt like a blanket, the dull thud of his heart against hers, the splay of his fingers hot against her spine, and for a moment, she let herself go to pieces for the plain fact that someone was there to pick them up.
She felt, then, his deep intake of breath, a soft rumble in his throat, a noise made from both comfort and desire, and she was unable to parse one from the other, and she briefly wondered how it was that comfort often became desire like the lighting of a match. She reached up and without thought, traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, and he muttered, “Jesus Christ, Pen,” and she was so close to lifting up on her tiptoes just to feel the heat of that tender spot on her lips, the rough stubble against her mouth, and she imagined how he would taste, her tongue curling against the salt of his skin.
“Jaime?” Willa said from behind them, and Penelope jumped back as though burned.
From behind her, Jaime cleared his throat.
“Willa, hi,” he said, his face breaking out into a smile that Penelope couldn’t read. If he was flustered by the moment, she couldn’t tell. He must have been, at least a little, shaken. She could still feel the warmth of his skin under her index fingertip.
“You two know each other?” Penelope asked, keeping her voice even, amiable. “Jaime is my neighbor. I don’t know why when I saw him, I just started crying. I . . . haven’t slept much. I’m sorry,” she half turned, apologized to Jaime, and he waved her away.
“We’re old friends.” He smoothed over it, his arm slipping around her shoulder as though they’d been caught in a simple comforting hug. Penelope could feel the heat blazing on her cheeks. “So, Willa . . . is your friend from college?”
“We were roommates,” Penelope and Willa said together, then laughed.
“How do you and Willa know each other?” Penelope asked, pasting a bright smile on her face. Her heart raced to keep up. Her Jaime? Was he hers? She was both mortified to be caught midembrace and unsettlingly jealous that they’d already met. She glanced up at him; his smile was still frozen, but there was something lurking beneath it. He was pleased to see Willa.
“Ah, we met at Beans a few days ago.” The small coffee stand a few blocks over.
“I bumped into him and spilled his coffee, so I bought him a new cup,” Willa finished, her voice coy. Penelope looked from Willa to Jaime, whose attention had shifted from Penelope to Willa. His arm slid neatly off her shoulder, and he hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets, adopting a casual, flirty stance.
“We’ve met every day since.” Willa laughed. “Accidentally—absolutely not on purpose.” Her voice was teasing, and she leaned backward, her hips swaying.
“Not on purpose at all.” Jaime laughed, then looked at Penelope and coughed again. The silence between them settled, and Jaime and Willa exchanged a glance. About her? Penelope had no idea, and she felt her eye begin to twitch. The look between them had felt intimate and personal. “I didn’t see you today! I was surprised.”
“Well, Pip came home, and with Brett in the hospital, I felt like I should . . .”
“No, absolutely, you should go! Get coffee. Your daily coffee. How cute.” Penelope was babbling, and she knew it.
“Are you okay?” Jaime asked her, and Penelope felt her blood pressure spike.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” She laughed, but it was shrill, cutting through the thick embarrassment. That’s what she was, an embarrassment. How close she had come to kissing Jaime! God. And he’d been meeting Willa every day. So what? She was married. She had no claim on him; she knew that. He should be able to date. And Willa was single! They both deserved some kind of happiness, right? That was only fair.
God, she was so damn tired.
“You don’t mind?” Willa asked, and Penelope waved her away, opening the door and practically shooing them together for their daily coffee date; the whole time, her stomach churned, her mouth cottony, her head a swirling cloud of confusing emotions, the most pervasive of which was piercing, all-consuming jealousy.
Willa’s hips swayed as she walked down their sidewalk, and Jaime’s hands stayed in his jeans pockets, his head bent toward her as she talked and motioned with her hands, and then they both threw their heads back and laughed. Willa punched him on the arm, a high-pitched Oh God, stop it right now, as he ducked away from her. They were unsettlingly cozy.
Penelope had no right to Jaime. She touched a finger to her lips, still tingling with the radiant heat of his skin. She could still feel his arms, the warmth of his fingertips through her thin blouse, his strangled Jesus Christ, Pen.
She was starting to come undone. Her feelings for Jaime were bubbling over, and the guilt clenched her stomach. Brett was in the hospital. What kind of wife battled attraction to another man with her husband in the hospital? A terrible one.
Everything felt like it was starting to unspool. Or maybe she just needed to sleep.
She ascended the steps in a fog and fell into her bed, kicking her pumps off until she heard them thump to the floor. The sleep felt immediate and deep, her unconscious pulling her under into heavenly oblivion. She didn’t wake up until almost six hours later, confused, in the darkness of her bedroom. She blinked at the digital clock that read 10:11 p.m.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
February 19, 2020
All in all, Brett was in the hospital for two nights and came home on the third day.
They helped him up to the guest bedroom, made a big deal about him, which he pretended not to love. Tara ran between the kitchen and the bedroom, fetching water and chicken broth. Brett claimed he wasn’t hungry, but ever since his health kick started, his eating had become sporadic anyway. Had he been taking in enough calories? Maybe that’s how his body ended up in acute anemia. Then the beans tipped the whole thing over the edge.
“It’s better in here,” Willa insisted. “I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs. This way Penelope can go to work and won’t wake you up!” She clapped her hands, and everyone snapped to attention. “Don’t worry, I did all the laundry, washed the sheets and blankets. It’s like your own little haven here.”
Penelope felt the shiver up her spine. It did seem like it was boundary pushing—having someone around who was so helpful. Like the horror movie live-in nanny. But still. She was so tired all the time lately—and trying to keep up with their life while having Brett at the hospital. She also appreciated it. Could you appreciate something, even while acknowledging that it probably wasn’t exactly right? Yes, until you couldn’t. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d talk to Willa—ask her about her future. Her plans. Brett had wanted her to do that—only a few days ago.
Linc busied himself setting up the TV and streaming device in the guest room—they didn’t typically watch television in their own bedroom, much to their kids’ incredulity. But with nothing for Brett to do but rest, he’d need the distraction, Linc insisted.
“I really think I could just hang in my own bedroom,” Brett said. “The doctor said a day or two of rest should do it. This seems like overkill.”
“Dad, you needed a transfusion, for God’s sake.” Linc was exasperated.
“That’s not as big a deal as it seems.” But Brett seemed happy to have his pillows fluffed and meals delivered, just the same. “This all seems silly—like we’re setting up a triage here.”
“This way, Mom can come and go. Shower for work, fold laundry, and not bother you if you’re sleeping.” Tara, pragmatic to a fault. “Mom, unless you want him in the bedroom?” She held the remote control in her hand and paused in her pillow-fluffing endeavors.
“Whatever your father wants,” Penelope said, waving her hand in Brett’s direction. He smiled at
her, trying to hold her gaze, but she looked away, feeling oddly disconnected from the whole scene.
Willa clucked around him, apologizing over and over and over again, her voice breaking and thin until finally Brett took her hand and said, slowly and seriously, “Willa, please stop. You didn’t know, I didn’t know. It was an accident. You beating yourself up helps no one. I’m fine, we’re all fine, here.” And Willa burst into tears.
Penelope felt a stab of tenderness for Brett and his kind little speech, so unlike his typical utilitarianism. Willa perched herself on the edge of his bed, announcing, “I’ll just have to be your servant twenty-four seven. Whatever you need. Okay?” She looked from Penelope to Brett and back again. “Penelope can go to work, do her thing. I’ll be here making sure everyone keeps trucking. I owe y’all that much, I really do.” Her Louisiana accent was coming through thick. Penelope remembered that from Deer Run—emotion made her twang come out. She swiped a thumb under both eyes. In the sunlight, the pink knot of scar shimmered. She looked older than her forty-two years, her eyes red rimmed, lines formed around her mouth.
Willa hadn’t let go of Brett’s hand. Penelope stared at their entwined fingers and began to feel cold all over.
“You’ll want some chicken soup. Lots of chicken, lots of veggies, okay? No supplements,” Penelope scolded her husband. “And rest. Lots of sleep for the next few days.”
Brett grinned at her. “How do you know this?”
“I googled it, okay?” Penelope struck a pose, hip jutted out. “I’ll go pick up some things at the store. Tara, Linc”—she pointed at Brett—“whatever your father needs.”
She was in the car, her forehead against the steering wheel, breathing deeply—in and out—in minutes. What was wrong with her?
She angled the car down Pine Street and without thinking hooked the wheel right onto Middletree Lane. She parked in front of the soft yellow bungalow with the wide front porch, the house that she’d loved almost more than her own. She felt all the more guilty for that considering it had been Kiera who had decorated it over ten years ago before she died, swift and painful. Nothing had changed.
The Spires Page 8