The Spires

by Moretti, Kate

  “God, you’re pretentious,” Penelope said. “Why don’t we have a television?”

  Bree laughed. “I’ve never had a TV.”

  “Oh my God, never?” Penelope couldn’t envision such a thing. As a child, television was her friend, confidante, babysitter. Her aunt had been on the young side but acted elderly and rarely left the house. They had a living room and a den, and when Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy were playing, Penelope would find her way to the small den in the back of the house. No air-conditioning and overflowing with a desk and paperwork, a pile of books on every flat surface, a small square television perched on the end table where Penelope would find reruns of old black-and-white shows: The Munsters or The Addams Family, Leave It to Beaver.

  They agreed that perhaps tomorrow they should seek out a television. For sanity’s sake, stressed Bree.

  “I can’t just sit here and drink wine and talk to you people all night and day,” Flynn said, his voice light, but Penelope suspected the sentiment was sincere. It felt decadent, the ease of their friendship. But it also felt pressurized. They had to be witty, funny, cheerful. Come up with on-the-spot limericks, know the ins and outs of Greek mythology. Sometimes, the dazzle of them all exhausted her.

  The pauses between sentences had become longer and longer as the night grew later, until Penelope felt herself dozing. She woke with a start at the sound of the door. Willa let herself in, late. After midnight. Jack stood up to greet her, whispered, “Are you okay?”

  Penelope wondered why she wouldn’t be and only glanced at the mascara on her cheeks before Willa waved him away and hustled downstairs to her bedroom, her heels clicking on the wooden plank floor.

  “Is she okay?” Penelope whispered, careful not to wake Bree, who had fallen asleep on Flynn’s shoulder, her arm linked through his.

  “She’s fine. She’s coming down from a high.” Jack shrugged when he said it, and Penelope felt her stomach give an oily turn. She hadn’t known Willa to do drugs other than weed. “She always cries. At the end.” He gave her a sardonic smile. “It depletes your serotonin, you know?”

  “High on what?” Penelope’s voice was sharp.

  “Ecstasy. She did it on dates sometimes. In college.” Jack touched her arm, shook his head. “I hate that we don’t know who she was with. She can’t do that shit—we don’t even know anyone here.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him, Has she ever done it with you? The furious jealous streak lighting up down her spine. She’d never done Ecstasy, but she knew what it did. She’d seen the same movies, heard the same music. She could envision Willa’s strong thighs wrapped around Jack’s narrow hips.

  “See?” He whispered gently, his hand thrillingly resting on the small of Penelope’s back, a whisper of warm breath against her ear as he stepped closer. He nodded in the direction of Bree and Flynn. “They make such a gorgeous couple.”

  Penelope nodded, only half agreeing with him in practicality. He wasn’t wrong—they looked like a painting.

  “That’s all I was trying to say earlier,” he continued. “That they’re just both so beautiful.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  February 19, 2020

  Penelope took the time at the store to compose herself. She did not want to mourn Jaime and take care of her husband at the same time. She was ashamed, angry with herself for kissing him. For being driven by passion. The most passionate thing you’ve ever felt in years? a little voice inside asked, and she pushed it down, buried it. It was all irrelevant. The taboo nature of their friendship created the passion. They weren’t Romeo and Juliet, for God’s sake. She was just a regular suburban housewife in a floundering marriage. She was a daytime talk show cliché, wrapped in an advice column letter.

  If she and Brett decided in the future to not stay married, that would be one thing (she did not think about that even a little, would not allow herself to latch on to a shard of hope as dismal as that), but as long as she was with Brett, she was with him.

  All up and down the frozen foods aisle, she thought about Brett. The way he fit between her thighs, how he knew exactly what to do to her in bed to make her cry out, white knuckled and panting. The way he used to stop at the store on the way home from work, pick up bread and cheese—memories of their honeymoon in Aruba—french bread and gruyere cheese, cut into soft wedges. The way he used to make sure her tires were rotated because her commute was longer. The way he’d sometimes lay out her clothes before they’d go out on a dinner date. Not a demand, just a gesture. If she didn’t wear what he suggested, he’d kiss her, whisper, This is better. The way he meant that.

  The thing was, all that had stopped the year before. With his job loss. Is that all Jaime was to her? A way to fill the void? What had she done to make their marriage better in the past year? What things did she “used to do” that she no longer did that Brett missed?

  There was lingerie in her drawer, long buried. She definitely used to buy him mini cards—the kind you picked up at the impulse counter of grocery stores—and wrote little notes in them. Sometimes silly, sometimes functional. Sometimes just red hearts. If she was at the grocery store and saw a syrah on sale, she’d pick it up. It was his favorite wine, which he’d never admit to anyone.

  By the time Penelope had gotten home with bags of groceries—fresh vegetables and fruits and broths and greens, lots of vitamin C: ways to boost the immune system, the hematologist had told them—she had worked herself into a state.

  She stored everything away and made a quick tea—one of his herbal varieties with actual boiled water (Who microwaves water? he’d asked her once)—and carefully climbed the steps back up to their bedroom.

  She could see them from the hallway: Willa perched on the edge of the bed, her hair splayed over his prostrate form, his arm extended as she inspected the bandage on his arm where his transfusion had taken place. They’d said it would be more tender than a simple IV, but nothing to worry about.

  Willa’s finger trailed down his forearm, seemingly to pull on the taped edge. Brett’s other hand came across the bed and gripped her wrist. He whispered something inaudible to her. There was a small feminine sound. A cry? A coo?

  Penelope took a step back, behind the hallway wall, meaning to get her bearings.

  “I won’t tell her if you won’t.” Brett’s voice was barely above a whisper. Penelope’s heart raced, and she felt the flush of rage creep up her cheeks. Tell her what? The conversation was strangely intimate. She wondered, fleetingly, Are they sleeping together?

  Her heel kicked something that skittered backward down the hall, clattering against the hardwood. She turned to see what it was: one of Tara’s claw hair clips. By the time Penelope looked up, Brett and Willa had put at least a foot of distance between them, and they smiled at the doorway, calm and expectant.

  Penelope paused in her confusion, trying to find the vestiges of what she’d seen on their faces, and came up empty. What had she seen? Had it been innocent? If she’d let them continue, she thought almost academically, how far might it have gone? Won’t tell what, exactly?

  “We’re so glad you’re back!” Willa said mildly, but her voice to Penelope’s ears sounded brittle.

  Her hand remained on Brett’s arm. She did not get off the bed.

  Penelope left her family—and Willa—in the guest room watching a sitcom and found quiet in her bedroom. The laundry had been done, folded in a basket on her bed. Her sheets and duvet had been laundered; the lamp at her bedside glowed softly. A glass filled with cold water sat condensing on her nightstand. The book she’d been reading propped against her pillows. She felt both unsettled and grateful. The room did look peaceful, and she longed to crawl under the covers, read her book, fall blissfully asleep.

  Instead, Penelope began to put away the folded laundry and opened her closet doors to hang one of her work sheaths. Her closet gleamed before her, entirely rearranged. Her clothes prior to this had been a haphazard array of color, texture, and design. To find anythi
ng, Penelope often had to sift through racks of dresses, only to find blouses and even slacks mixed in. She wasn’t naturally organized, and lately she’d been so tired that even hanging things up had been a hurdle. She was embarrassed to admit that she’d slept in her work clothes more than once.

  But this. This was beautiful.

  Dresses, blouses, slacks. Grouped together, organized by color. Her shoes, matched and aligned on her shoe racks. Above her, bins had been added to store various bags, scarves, boots, winter gear. Clear, all matching. Her closet looked like it belonged in a magazine.

  Penelope closed the door, pinched the bridge of her nose. She felt simultaneously grateful and outraged, an emotional combination she hadn’t known possible.

  This was her house.

  When had she started to feel like a guest in her own home? Why did she feel more comfortable alone in her bedroom, listening through the wall to her family huddled in the guest room together with Willa, laughing uproariously at a sitcom family? When had she lost complete control of her life? Had she really lost control? At least she knew where her lucky shirt was now.

  She looked around and realized that her bedroom had been cleaned. The dust that had collected on her bureau top had been removed, and the cherrywood gleamed from beneath her jewelry box.

  When Brett was laid off last year, he convinced her to get rid of the cleaning service. I can clean, he insisted. His cleaning had been sporadic and often did not include dusting their bedrooms. Penelope had learned to live with a fine layer of dust on everything until she hit her limit and dusted the bedrooms herself, typically on Sundays.

  She had to talk to Willa. They had to have a plan moving forward. She could not stay indefinitely. If she needed more time, that was fine.

  “Willa!” She called down the hall. “Can you come here a sec?” She kept her voice light, casual.

  Willa appeared in the doorway in seconds. “What’s up?”

  Penelope took a deep breath. She didn’t thrive on confrontation, but she’d never been afraid of it. “Look, this is beautiful. I appreciate it.” Penelope gestured toward the closet. “But this is my space. My house. I feel like this is . . . overstepping some boundaries.”

  Willa’s face crumpled, her eyes filling immediately. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Pip. Truly. I was only trying to help, I promise you. You’ve been so stressed, and with Brett . . . I just felt horrible about the whole thing. Like it was my fault! I know you said you don’t blame me, but I blame me! You were talking about how you couldn’t find your shirt. I started just putting some laundry away and then . . . I like organizing. I’ve done it for friends.” Her voice broke, faltered. “Back home. Before I left, I mean. I’m honestly really sorry. I didn’t even think it would upset you so much!”

  Penelope absorbed all this, the steady stream of Willa’s words, her immediate apology, the look on her face, pleading and sorry, and felt terrible. Of course it was in good faith. Penelope and Willa had always had a fairly boundless relationship—at least twenty years ago. Bedroom doors open, no question off limits. Although, Penelope imagined that Willa had that relationship with almost everyone.

  “No. I’m sorry,” Penelope said quickly. “I’m just tired. I feel like . . . nothing about my life is my own right now. Brett needs me. The kids need me . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she looked around the room.

  “Which is why I thought it might be nice to have something done for you!” Willa touched her arm. “When was the last time anyone did anything for you? Who was the last person to make you feel appreciated?”

  Probably Linc. Linc always appreciated his mother. Tara, sometimes. Brett, rarely, but it had been known to happen. Penelope gave her a thin smile. Pacified, mostly convinced, but still. Something unsettled her.

  She reached out and touched Willa’s collarbone. A thin silver chain, a simple flat ring resting prettily above her dipping neckline. Without looking, she knew what it said.

  “Oh! You like that? Jaime gave it to me. He said it was something he liked to say to himself. Said it reminded him of me.” She pulled it away from her skin, ran a painted nail over the letters, wistful. “He’s so sensitive, you know?”

  Penelope did know. She put a hand to her forehead to steady herself. Remind herself to breathe. She almost laughed at that, she felt that on edge. He gave them both the same necklace?

  “Are we okay?” Willa asked, still fiddling with the necklace, fingertip still sliding over the carved letters.

  Penelope nodded, not trusting her voice. Willa turned then, back to her pseudo family, back to her sitcom. Penelope stood motionless in the center of the room, listening to her hum as she walked down the hallway. The distant rumble of a laugh track.

  The television woke her—from what felt like a dream sequence. She crossed the room, lifted the lid of her jewelry box, and absently flicked through a small selection of earrings, necklaces, bracelets. She wasn’t a big jewelry person—some pieces from her mother, some fun chunky costume pieces, a few antiques, a Bakelite bangle from her aunt.

  And one missing piece: a silver necklace, a ring carved with the word Breathe.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Willa, present

  God, he was cute. If she were Penelope, she’d be in love with Jaime over Brett any day. He was broad, dark haired, blue eyed like her own little Dylan McDermott.

  He smiled at her, wide and white, from the counter at Beans. “Willa.” People who said her name like it was a greeting charmed her, always. He had gray flecked around the dark hair of his temples, and his dark stubble contained flecks of gray. She loved that—men always looked great as they aged. Nature was such a cunning little bitch.

  “Hey, you.” She grinned and took a paper cup from his outstretched hand. There were four outdoor tables on a concrete slab, topped with umbrellas and surrounded by a handful of potted ferns. The morning was cold, but not brittle, and it hadn’t snowed more than a dusting all winter.

  She took a big breath—a gulp of air, the chill hitting her lungs like a shot of caffeine. Jaime’s nose was red, a skullcap pulled low over his ears.

  “How’s Pen?” It rankled her, only a little, that it was the first question he asked. She didn’t show it and instead tried to think of the best strategy.

  “She’s . . . okay, I think. It’s a lot, you know?” She cocked her head to the side, sympathetic and clucking, and Jaime’s face was pure concern: deep eyebrows, a slight frown, a warm flush in his cheeks.

  “She has definitely dealt with a lot, especially this past year, but she’ll be okay. She’s one of the strongest people I know.”

  “She is. But . . . do you think maybe . . . ?” she started to say and then stopped. Toyed with her coffee cup, picked up and then put down the spoon.

  Jaime touched her hand. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like . . . she’s definitely not the Pip I know. She’s brittle and angry or something. She’s been saying things that . . . don’t make sense. Last night, she accused me of stealing her necklace, something about breathing? I don’t know, it didn’t make sense. But I didn’t have it, I swear I didn’t! Why would I steal from her? I did her laundry, and she flipped out—she said I overstepped a boundary. But I accidentally put her husband in the hospital! I’ve felt horrible. I’m just trying to make it up to her. Her laundry was piling up. I can tell she’s not used to being disorganized.”

  Jaime leaned back in his chair, massaged his jaw, thinking. Then, softly, “No. I mean, she’s not obsessive or type A, but she keeps lists and keeps herself on track. She’s not usually messy.”

  “There’s another thing. She’s forgetting the kids. Like all the time. They call me now. The other night she was supposed to take Linc to a meeting for lacrosse and she went to her room, fell asleep for hours, and forgot about him entirely. I took him, but I could tell he was upset about it.”

  “She never forgets the kids,” Jaime said, his brows pulling together. Then, “Well, you’re there to
help her, right?”

  She didn’t correct him. Of course she was there to help. Nothing a little chamomile tea and a Benadryl couldn’t cure. She was so sleep deprived, you know? And while she slept, Willa could do things. For her old friend Pip.

  “Yes, but it’s just so unlike her, you know?”

  Jaime nodded, and she could see he definitely knew.

  “A necklace, you said?” He was frowning, and she nodded encouragingly.

  “You’re such a good friend to her,” he said and reached out, covered her hand with his own. She kept her eyes down, studying the wooden picnic table between them.

  Then, because why the hell not, “How long have you been in love with her?” Her voice was a whisper, but his head jerked up as though it had been a shout.

  Jaime’s face went slack, white. She covered his hand with hers and held tight, not letting him pull away. “It was a guess, don’t panic. I’m just a perceptive person,” she said.

  “I didn’t think it was that obvious. At least, I’d hoped not.” Jaime ran his finger around the lip of his coffee cup, staring at the tabletop, avoiding her gaze. “I’m trying not to be. It’s not a healthy friendship—for any of us. I can’t imagine my life without Pen and Brett. Brett was my friend first, you know? Then he kinda went off the rails, and none of us knew what to do with him.” He paused. “It’s been a weird year.”

  “And your girls are friends,” she prompted.

  “God yeah. The closest. Like sisters. I don’t even think they fight.” Jaime grinned as he said it and then looked a little crestfallen. “If our families fought, or even stopped speaking, it would kill them both.”

  “Strong words.” She raised her eyebrows flirtatiously and took a sip of coffee. Leaned back in her chair.

  “It was a metaphor.” His gaze flicked down to her décolletage and back up to her eyes again.