Linc and Tara clearly loved Willa. Brett wouldn’t be thrilled at this conversation; he’d urged her to be more yielding somehow. She’s helping us, he’d said. She’d run to Jaime, saw them kissing on his porch. Legs wrapped around his waist, his hands in her hair. It had seemed so passionate. When was the last time she’d felt that kind of reckless abandon? Even with Jaime, she had been restrained. The last reckless passion she’d felt had been with Jack. That one night. No, she could not think about that.
Lately all she could think about was the fire house. The Spires. Jack. All of them, flooding her in the middle of the night, her memories clamoring for attention. Even the smell of Willa’s perfume, wafting through the house, same as it ever was, hurtled her right back in time. Against any conscious wish.
Willa was shaking her head. “No, Penelope, you’re absolutely right. Two weeks is long enough. I will figure out a plan, okay? I promise. Give me a day or so.” She picked up her coffee cup and kissed Penelope’s cheek. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
Penelope started to protest, and Willa held up her hand. She sashayed out of the kitchen, tiny T-shirt nightgown swinging about her hips seductively.
When she was gone, Penelope exhaled, oddly bereft.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
February 24, 2020
Penelope left work at noon. Nora was out of the office, and Penelope couldn’t focus. Her mind was cluttered, handing her pictures, like a flip-book. Willa, her legs wrapped around Jaime’s waist. The Church House: a visceral memory of Jack cooking, whistling at the stove, his black hair flopping into his eyes. Brett, in early autumn, standing at the summit of the Lehigh Gap on the Appalachian Trail, the brisk breeze lifting his thick hair, the tufts of orange and yellow treetops below him. Tara, arms spread on stage, her makeup garish, in a white ruffled dress. Linc, his lacrosse stick swiping lethally, his powerful legs propelling him forward. Her loved ones, then and now.
She clicked out of office on her calendar, submitted the time-off request, and ducked out before anyone—namely childless, partnerless, free-to-devote-all-their-time-to-work Elias—could see her.
First, she drove around aimlessly. Riverwood was less a city and more a large town. Bustling center, a small block of moderate high-rises, a main street with boutiques that sold bath soaps and lotions, all-natural cruelty-free makeup, high-end clothes from New York City designers, overpriced antiques. A small café that was also a used bookstore, but also, a larger bookstore that hosted celebrities, athletes, politicians. President Obama was photographed buying books there—it had been in the Riverwood Gazette.
Penelope hadn’t loved her house, but she loved Riverwood. It had a liberal, hippie vibe. Diversity in business owners downtown and LOVE IS LOVE signs on most lawns. A functioning and booming LGBTQ community center right in the center of Main Street.
Brett had called it hippie central when they first moved there. He said it tongue in cheek, with a smile and kiss. Penelope had no idea how he felt now. Aside from that one Valentine’s Day night, they’d barely touched. Every conversation seemed fraught with undercurrent from everything that was still unsaid. His defense of Willa ate at her, clawing at her subconscious.
She maneuvered her car into a paid spot outside a French café whose seigle feuilleté she and Brett had fallen in love with years ago. It was a rye bread flavor with a croissant flakiness. Penelope hadn’t had one in months. It reminded of her of Brett, the way she’d meet him here for lunch and they’d talk and linger until finally, at the end of a long lunch hour, he’d kiss her on the lips, tasting of butter and salt, a kiss that would promise more later. He’d make his way across the street, back to his office building, his back a little straighter, his step a little lighter. She used to feel pleasure in knowing that she did that.
The outdoor patio was open, even in February, when it was warm enough. They’d had virtually no snow, so a few tables contained patrons. Penelope ordered her café americano, which was still better than her Starbucks coffee, and the feuilleté. On impulse, she snapped a photo of it and sent it to Brett with no caption. He could take it however he wanted; sometimes an olive branch was a french pastry. She was leaving the café with her coffee in one hand, a warm buttery bread in the other, and a mouthful of decadent flakiness when she spotted Willa, chatting animatedly with a small dark-haired woman at a table outside.
On instinct, Penelope stopped, stood with her back against the wall of tacked bulletins—apartments for rent, babysitters needed, lost dogs—and took another bite. Who was she talking to? Penelope could see the table through the slit in the curtains.
The woman tossed her hair and laughed, and Willa grabbed her arm, playful. It looked like they were friends. As far as she knew, Willa knew no one in the area, had no friends. That had been the appeal of Riverwood, right? So she’d said. It’s hard to get along when you’re an island.
The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Penelope couldn’t place her. She was tiny, long dark hair with streaks of auburn, and a straight, pointed nose. Her teeth were white against the even tan of her skin, her fingernails shining a deep berry. She looked like every upper-class working woman in Riverwood. Highly maintained and Botoxed smooth.
Finally, Willa stood, paid the tab, and left. Penelope stayed still and watched the brunette stand, move out of her view from the narrow window opening. Penelope skirted outside and walked, head down as though distracted by her phone, toward Willa’s table. She didn’t know what she wanted, exactly, but felt compelled to at least look.
The woman turned quickly, aimed her phone in the direction of her old table, and framed a photo. She seemed oblivious to Penelope, who watched her snap a picture and then, presumably, text it to someone, a small half smile playing on her lips.
After the woman left, Penelope looked down at the table. Willa’s plate was clean, but the woman’s contained a half-eaten seigle feuilleté.
Willa’s car was not parked outside the house. But the inside air smelled like her: that faint musk that always followed Willa everywhere. There was something else too. The flooring in the house was entirely hardwood, even the bedrooms, and now, in the bright afternoon light, they gleamed. The smell of the familiar floor polish gave her stomach a lurch. It smelled just like the Church House—that sweet chemical tang of solvent. She took a deep breath, trying to pin it down but failing. On second breath, it smelled like Murphy’s Oil Soap. Willa had cleaned the floors, and perhaps her imagination was running away with her.
Penelope quietly ascended the stairs, sticking to the wall side so they wouldn’t squeak, and checked the bedrooms—Linc’s neat as a pin, Tara’s a hurricane aftermath. Penelope and Brett’s bed neatly made, the corners pulled tight. Brett was a stickler for hospital corners—when he actually made the bed. Willa’s bedroom door was closed, and Penelope knocked a little beat on the doorjamb with her knuckle and received no answer. She pushed the door open a crack. The room was empty.
“Willa!” She called. No answer.
Penelope quickly looked around the room: the nightstand, the closet, the small dresser that had previously held spare towels and sheets that Penelope had emptied right after Willa came to stay. The drawers were still empty.
Penelope pulled open all the desk drawers and saw only what she had left in there—unused journals, a pack of pens, a small box of old photo books from when the kids were young.
Willa’s duffel bag sat, zipped shut, on the floor next to her bed. It was all she’d ever brought with her. She hadn’t hung her clothes, hadn’t left a thing in the guest bathroom. Penelope lifted the duffel bag and set it on the white matelassé quilt.
She quickly stepped into the hall and listened. There was no noise aside from the periodic passing car. Anyone coming to the door would pop on Penelope’s SafeZone front-door video camera. She quickly checked her phone—notifications on. Good.
She opened the duffel bag and gingerly pawed through the contents. A few blouses and jeans. A dress that looked familiar, two pairs
of shoes, a pair of sneakers. A hooded sweatshirt.
A black cell phone—no brand. A burner phone.
And buried at the bottom, a kitchen knife. It was heavy, expensive, and Penelope picked it up, her heart pounding. She studied the Zwilling logo, the pair of men that looked like they were dancing, the edge straight and sharp, the handle almost warm in her hand. This was a very fine kitchen knife, professional even, not a weapon of any kind. She let her hand go slack, felt the heavy weight of it. A thin brown line smeared the handle, and Penelope took it to the window to see it in the daylight.
She couldn’t be sure, but it looked an awful lot like dried blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Then: Someone New
He chose a day when Penelope hadn’t had a shift at the bookstore and brought her home for dinner.
“This is Grace,” Jack announced to the stunned kitchen. Stunned because while Jack, of all of them, was most likely to have outside friends (Penelope being the least likely), they had yet to bring anyone home. The church was their commune, insular, a fortress against the outside world. Whatever happened during the day—and for some of them it was precious little—the house was a little haven, a bunker. The five of them, used to solitude for various reasons, felt their hackles rise when confronted with someone new.
Willa had been chopping onions for a soup. It was her turn to cook, and Flynn had been bemoaning it for over twenty minutes because he knew it would contain some kind of tofu or “soy sponge,” as he called any kind of meat alternative. He always ate everything—Willa was learning to cook more than pasta. They were all developing into budding chefs.
“I hope there’s enough. A little notice?” Willa raised her eyebrows at Jack, her whole face pinched. He laughed and kissed her cheek and pulled the new girl in front of him.
“This,” he said, “is Grace.”
Penelope felt a sick rise and fall of her stomach with the way he said it: reverent and a little breathless, like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. Everyone murmured a hello, watching her with interest.
She was blonde—Jack had a type—with soft curls around her face. The cheerful, guileless face of a cheerleader and a straight white smile. Big round blue eyes, framed with long lashes. A hint of makeup but nothing like the stage face that Willa put on every day. Grace laughed nervously and glanced at Jack, who touched her shoulder lightly.
Penelope watched the interaction—Jack’s expression could only be described as luminous—and saw, with sickening clarity, that no one else in the room existed for him.
They hadn’t talked about their night together. Penelope felt awful about it every single day. She walked the Church House moony and lovesick, her stomach in a perpetual cramp. Since that night, she’d barely seen Jack. He came and went with a dogged determination, avoiding her.
When they did see each other, he was steadfastly the same as always. Joking, laughing. Even making it a point to sling his arm around her shoulders. See, nothing’s changed, right? His body language said more than any words could: their night together didn’t change anything between them. Penelope had begun skipping the after-dinner parties—the games and the drinking.
Flynn had built them a small fire pit in the garden, and they took their drinks outside at night—Bree stoking the embers with a stick, feeding wood to the licking flames, Jack strumming his guitar absently, Flynn taking his turn as bartender. Penelope sat with them the first night, hunched over and desolate, until she eventually mumbled something about coming down with something and found her way into her own dark bedroom.
Willa had followed her, opened her bedroom door without even knocking.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” she’d demanded. Penelope shook her head, mute. If she talked, she’d blurt it out, the whole story. Jack, her delusional belief that they’d be together. Her devastation that Jack seemed unwilling to change anything about their relationship. “Seriously. You walk around here all sallow faced. You barely speak. You look like you’re going to cry over everything. Flynn dropped an egg in the kitchen the other day, and you screamed like he murdered a kitten.”
Penelope opened her mouth to speak but instead cleared her throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m fine. I just don’t feel great. I’ve had a migraine for days.”
“You don’t get migraines,” Willa snapped.
“How do you know?” Penelope countered, a slow burning fury working its way up, squeezing her lungs.
“Because I know everything about you,” Willa said. “You bite your pinkie nail when you’re really nervous. You observe a hell of a lot more than you let on. You have a calendar that you mark off all your days on, just an x over each one right before you go to bed, like you’re counting down the days to something, except you’re not, it’s just an x. And it doesn’t mean anything, although I’ll say it’s pretty fucking weird. You won’t eat peas cooked, but you love them raw from Bree’s garden. You hate, hate, Christmas movies because you never had a Christmas like anyone in them. You would never admit it, but your favorite holiday is Valentine’s Day, even though you say it’s just a scam to buy cards and candy.”
Penelope stared at Willa in shock.
Willa continued, “So I know. I fucking know. Don’t give me any bullshit, Penelope Louise Ritter.”
Penelope swallowed. She’d never had anyone in her whole life run through her litany of quirks, preferences, secrets the way Willa could. It gave her a full-body chill to know she’d let this much of herself out to anyone.
Willa waited patiently. In the dark room, Penelope could see her jaw working, the whites of her eyes flashing as she blinked, the brightness of her teeth as she opened and closed her mouth, waiting. When Penelope said nothing, Willa turned and left, closing the door softly behind her. That had been a mere two days ago.
Now, in the kitchen with them all staring at Grace, Jack’s mystery date, Bree was the first to speak (even Flynn had been speechless, a rare occurrence). “Welcome, Grace. Hope you like mystery meat!” She said it gaily, her cheeks flushed and full while she laughed, and it broke the tension.
“No one likes mystery meat,” said Flynn.
“You do,” Bree said, and Penelope almost laughed through her misery. She couldn’t stop staring at Jack, who couldn’t stop staring at the new girl.
“Grace works at the coffee shop,” he said, beaming as though he’d said Grace won the Nobel Prize.
Willa snorted and said meanly, “Where you write your novel?” But her mouth curled up, and Jack simply shot her a look. He reached over and plucked a grape from the charcuterie tray that Bree had assembled, then poured two glasses of white wine and handed one to his new friend. She took it, hesitating, as she curiously watched them rib each other. They spoke in riddles—half sentences, private jokes, exchanged looks. Whole conversations flowed beneath the surface of their actual words, and Penelope loved them like this. Where Shut up before you wake up on a sailboat could send them into peals of laughter.
She loved their private languages, the small, nuanced way a shoulder nudge could mean Did you pick up bananas like I asked you to?
A flat-mouthed grimace: I forgot; I’m sorry.
An exaggerated eye roll: Of course you did.
A blown kiss: I’m sorry; I owe you one.
A stuck-out tongue: What else is new?
Bree was talking about her garden: the fall lettuce was coming in thick, and they should be eating salad for weeks starting next week. Jack made a retching sound, and Willa said, “You won’t see old age with as few greens as you eat, you know. Does Grace know that about you? That you’re going to die young, probably of scurvy?”
The new girl shook her head, mute, watching them all bump, cajole, tease each other, and with each passing moment seemed to shrink farther back into her chair.
Good, Penelope thought, unkindly. She hoped Grace would tell Jack later, I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work. Or, even less dramatic, a slow withdrawal, text
s coming with less frequency, until they became acquaintances at the coffee shop again. Why not? That’s how most casual relationships ended, not with a bang but a wisp.
Was it casual? Jack barely looked elsewhere the entire dinner. Certainly not at Penelope, who could still feel his fingertip on her cheek, her thighs, the soft sensitive skin of her stomach, whirling circles around her belly button. She hadn’t known then to imprint the feeling, that it wouldn’t happen again and again. She’d thought, stupidly at the time, that it would be a beginning.
And now, with Willa’s spicy, wonderful soup tasting like hot water in her mouth, the crusty bread she’d baked from scratch might as well have been made of chalk. Penelope watched Jack watch Grace and knew, down to her bones, that this was it for him. That while he liked the four of them just fine, loved them even, he was head over heels for the little blonde sitting quietly next to him, ripping a hunk of bread into pieces nervously.
Willa and Bree took turns ribbing Jack, asking, “Does Grace know this about you?” Exposing all his shortcomings and flaws, and all he did was grin widely, dimples showing, and laugh. He was a lady-killer, a bit of a man whore, irresponsible to a fault, couldn’t trust him with a secret, never, ever remembered a birthday.
“It’s all true,” Jack said to Grace conspiratorially, and she’d laughed, her shoulders loosening. “BUT! I’m thoughtful, right? Willa, I always bring you a muffin from the coffee shop. Bree, just the other day, I brought you home a new pair of gardening gloves because yours were so awful.”
“This is true!” Willa exclaimed. “He’s thoughtful.” She studied him. “And kind. And hilarious.” Sigh. “And so much fun.”
Penelope couldn’t bring herself to say a word. He’s actually incredibly attentive in bed? She wouldn’t think that Grace would want that kind of stamp of approval.
The Spires Page 17