Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Nope. And I don’t probe about those things. I give my kids privacy, and in turn I expect them to respect mine.”

  Rachel stepped up to the counter to order a decaf cap, glad for the conversation stopper. Ariel’s claims of privacy didn’t jibe with the way Rachel saw motherhood. That sort of removal had never worked for her with her boys. She was their mother first, their friend second. But who was she to judge? If the proof was in the results, then Ariel was doing a great job.

  As they moved to the next counter to pick up their drinks, Ariel shoved her sunglasses up on her head, pulled out her phone, and scowled. “Freakin’ Cassie. She just can’t leave well enough alone.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “She texts me all the time, criticizing the way I handle the kids. I’ll be glad when she has a bunch of her own kids to freak out over. That’ll teach her that there’s no mothering manual.” They settled at a small marble table, where Ariel rambled on, complaining about her oldest.

  As Rachel pretended to listen, she imagined Ariel as a girl herself, a toddler left abandoned in a playpen. It had been three or four days until someone had come for the little girl, who’d needed two days’ treatment for dehydration in a hospital. Although Ariel had no memory of the event, she had always told the story in a cavalier manner, pegging herself as a survivor.

  But you don’t understand the joys of being a mother, Rachel thought as she sipped her hot drink. Your parents robbed you of that.

  A few years ago when Ariel’s mother had passed away, it was no surprise that she didn’t return to Oklahoma for the funeral. Ariel downplayed it all, saying that she’d raised herself, but there was no denying the effects of neglect. Parents mattered.

  “Cassie must be getting ready for finals soon,” Rachel said when Ariel’s rant wound down. “I know KJ is almost done. Is she coming home for the summer?”

  “I sure hope not.” The sour tone was not very flattering. She popped two aspirins and washed them down with her latte.

  “KJ’s doing summer school. And I’m starting to think about empty nesting.” She met Ariel’s gaze, hesitant. “I texted Mike McCabe this morning.” Oh, God, she’d said it! An odd warmth suffused her cheeks. “That sounds so junior high.”

  Ariel grinned. “Rachel and the sheriff, sitting in a tree, k-i-ss-i-n-g. . .”

  “Thanks for that. It makes an awkward admission mortifying. And we’re just meeting for coffee.”

  “I’ve had coffee dates that ended up in the horizontal tango. Just be prepared. Shave and wax and all. And how’s your lingerie collection?”

  “Chez Target’s finest cotton briefs.”

  Ariel’s head lolled back. “Hopeless. I’m taking you shopping. Thongs and slinky camisoles are your friend. The tease is everything.”

  “I’m planning to get to know him first.” Just the thought of getting naked with a man made her palms sweat. “You know I like to take it slow.”

  “You moved at a pretty good pace when you met Jackson.”

  “That was different.” It seemed like ancient history, though it was only twelve years ago. “The first day he pulled up on his motorcycle to read our meter, I knew it was right.”

  “What a great line.” Ariel arched one brow. “Sweetheart, I’ve come to read your meter.”

  Rachel waved her off, but conceded with a smile. Those had been the glory days: falling in love, watching him engage her sons with kindness and patience. After that first meeting Jackson began to stop by the house while on his route. He showed KJ how to hold a football, he moved a fallen tree from the driveway, and he helped Rachel climb in through a window when she locked herself out. Back then, all the women in the neighborhood had looked longingly after Jackson Simmons as he pulled away on his bike, and Rachel had counted her blessings at the attraction that was so natural between them.

  Around the same time, Ariel had met Oliver while filming a commercial in LA. That had sweetened the experience. They had shared their lives as single moms, their dating secrets, and then their new marriages.

  “Remember how we used to joke about having a double wedding?” Ariel toasted with her paper cup. “That would have been a fiasco.”

  “Those were good times.” Rachel smiled, recalling the surge of love she had felt when she’d met Jackson, a man who’d been able to straighten out the things in her life that had been going sideways. Her kids, her finances, her home. Even her disposition. She’d been such a man-hater after the boys’ father had left her for another woman.

  “We used to have a lot of fun together. Playing hooky together, driving out to the coast, or sitting around watching soap operas. Too bad that ship sailed.” Ariel’s voice held an edge of criticism. “What happened to us?”

  “We got older,” Rachel said, “and we lost our husbands.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun.” Ariel’s stern gaze lit on Rachel, chastising.

  Tension crackled in the air between them; a good time to take a sip of cappuccino and hope that Ariel would calm down. No such luck.

  “You’re not going to answer me?” Ariel asked.

  Rachel lowered her drink. “What was the question? Can we still have fun? Sure. We do. But every day can’t be a holiday.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  “We both have jobs, thank God. So we’ve become respectable members of society. As boring as that may seem, it’s a good thing.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Ariel’s anger was palpable. “Responsibility is so boring. Every day I wake up to a day that’s the same as yesterday, stuck in the box of the calendar day. Same appointments, stuck in the studio. I might as well be in prison.”

  “Is it that bad? Oh, honey, I didn’t know—”

  “Stop. I don’t want your pity or your judgment. Don’t you see? I hate domestic bliss, but you like it. You’re doing your thing. You go to the shop and play judge, jury, and therapist to half the women in Timbergrove.”

  “I don’t judge my customers.” Rachel smiled to slough off the sting of the accusation, which held a grain of truth.

  “That’s all okay. You found your niche. But I’m . . .” Ariel’s train of thought seemed to melt away as she pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m so tired of this suburban crap. Just so tired.”

  Rachel was nodding sympathetically, though she was annoyed by the way Ariel had slipped into self-indulgence and, in the process, identified Rachel as part of the suburban army. But this was no time to defend herself, with Ariel falling apart. Sometimes you just had to cut your losses.

  “Let’s get you home,” Rachel said. “And I’m afraid I’ve got to get to work.” She’d been up since four and there was no time to nap. But was she complaining?

  Ariel didn’t realize how good she had it.

  Chapter 18

  By Thursday night, the tides had shifted for Ariel. Last night’s premiere of the Spring Showcase had bowled the audience over, and by Thursday noon the entire run of five performances had been sold out. Just like that, they had a smash hit on their hands, with “crisp, bright vocal performances worthy of a Broadway stage,” wrote the Oregonian. The review was nice, but the most powerful tool of suburbia was word of mouth, and the grapevine was abuzz with praise. Craig attributed the success to a “talented group of students,” but Ariel knew the truth. This show was all her. Working with these kids for months, some of them for years, she had drawn out their talents and polished them to a brilliant luster.

  Bravo, Ariel.

  The success reminded her that she still had it, even if her talents were currently cloaked in suburban ennui. And the actual performances filled her with the rush of adrenaline she had been missing in the past few years, reminding her that it was high time to rattle her agent’s cage and book a flight to Los Angeles for some auditions. This singing witch had a bit more magic up her sleeve. She could do commercial gigs to start. Then, if a show came along, she would hire a nanny for Trevor and Maisy, and commute home o
n the weekends. Hell, her kids were so independent, they’d barely miss her.

  For now, there was joy in flitting about backstage, checking the acoustics from the back of the auditorium, encouraging her students, and soaking up the praise of parents, who had lined up in the lobby to share hugs and thanks after last night’s performance.

  “Blake loves the country song you recommended,” Liz Luchter had raved. “What a great pick for him.”

  “Isn’t it fabulous?” Ariel had agreed. She’d had to find a song that Blake could talk his way through, but since his parents had bankrolled their son’s lessons for the past three years, it had been worth the effort.

  “That number with the four girls in their jammies is a hoot,” Deanne Little had said. “Malika’s got everyone in the house singing about the Sandman.”

  “Our Kristina never sounded so good,” Rich Lee had told her. “You’re a miracle worker.”

  True dat, Ariel had thought, responding only with a gracious smile as she recalled the grueling hours of squeezing water from a stone.

  Tonight everyone was in high spirits. With opening night jitters behind them, the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves, in the groove. Everywhere Ariel turned, students still asked for advice and pointers, wanting that last-minute boost before going onstage. The audience lapped up every performance, applauding wildly over the a cappella performance of “Blackbird,” roaring in laughter over the boys’ coconut-bra choir of “Kokomo.”

  Ariel moved past a group of stagehands to the wings to get a bead on Sage Sherer in the spotlight at center stage. This gem of an audience even seemed to buy into Sage’s performance of “On My Own.” Sage usually managed to make the lovely song pedantic, but tonight she had tapped into a vein of emotion that even struck a chord in Ariel. The song of a woman pining for her man reminded Ariel of Oliver, who had taken her to see Les Mis in Los Angeles.

  Suddenly, Ariel was bumped from behind and would have fallen forward if hands had not snaked around to catch her, landing squarely on her breasts.

  “What the hell?” She tried to wriggle loose, turning her head to see Graham Oyama.

  His square teeth gleamed. “Don’t worry, Ariel. I got you.” So damned confident and strong. Every female swooned when he came near, but he wanted her. That fired her up in the best ways.

  “Apparently so.” She placed her hands over his, pausing a moment to savor the warmth of him, the fullness of her breasts against his palms. Arousal radiated from his fingertips straight to her core, tempting her to go for it here and now. The chances of getting caught were fairly high, but the risk factor heightened the excitement.

  “Come on, now.” His breath was warm against her ear. “You know you want it.”

  She did. But she could see the stage from here, and countless people could probably see them from the lighting booth, the catwalks, the wings.

  “Not here. Not now.” She moved his hands down to her waist, hating the fact that she had to be the responsible one here. “How many times have I told you? We can’t do this anymore.”

  “Nobody can see.”

  “Just the stagehands.”

  “They don’t care.”

  “You naughty boy. All it takes is one person seeing us together to set tongues wagging.” She stepped away from him, her voice low and sultry. This was killing her. “Now stay away.”

  “Killjoy.” The hunger in his dark eyes was hard to resist.

  “You need to learn to keep your hands to yourself in public.” Ariel had to scrape together all her resolve to fix him with a stern look. “Go get ready for the group number. It’s coming up. Get the hell out of here. And if you’re lucky, I’ll see you later.”

  She pretended to ignore the tantalizing hand that trailed down her back and cupped her butt as he pulled away. He always did like to have last licks. With a deep breath, Ariel straightened her black dress, making sure her bra straps weren’t showing. Onstage, Sage finished with a crescendo, just as Ariel had taught her. Nicely done. She clapped, checking around her. The stagehands wheeling out a tall table and bar stools for the next number were preoccupied for now.

  Just as Ariel turned away, she caught the gaze of someone in the wings across the stage. A woman. Had she been watching? In the flurry of movement onstage, the contact was broken. Well. Ariel would need to come up with an explanation, just in case.

  In the large dressing room backstage, Rachel was still humming “Singin’ in the Rain” as she did a few last-minute comb-outs for the Part One finale. Although she remained backstage to help out the kids through most of the show, each night she had stolen into the wings to watch Jared and Remy perform their musical duet, and the joy that bubbled up inside her at the sight of those two always left her feeling a little lighter on her tired feet. The recruiter for Winchester College was going to be bowled over when they did that number at the state competition.

  “You’re done.” Rachel was sending one out of her chair and ushering the waiting girl in when Angela Harrell strode in from the stage area, twitching mad.

  “It’s not right. I’m telling Craig. Or no, not him. I’m going to the top. The principal,” Angela told Nora Delfatti, who motioned Angela toward the girls’ dressing area, just a few feet beyond the lighted vanity mirrors. “Is Dr. Balducci here tonight? She needs to know about this.”

  “Are you sure of what you saw?” Nora lifted the white privacy sheet and waited for Angela to step through. “I know you don’t want to start a rumor that might get people in trouble.”

  Pretending to focus on combing out Sunshine’s hair, Rachel listened intently to the two women who had disappeared behind the sheet. Apparently, they thought that since they were out of sight, they were out of earshot.

  “I saw Dr. B last night,” Nora said in a level voice. She was maintaining calm, Rachel could tell. “Not sure if she’s here tonight.”

  “Well, there must be a way to reach her.” Angela’s tone grated on Rachel’s nerves. “An emergency number.”

  “But is this really an emergency?” Nora asked.

  “She’s their voice coach. She’s spending time alone with all those innocent boys.”

  Ariel. They were talking about Ariel.

  “We’ve entrusted our sons and daughters to her care,” Angela went on, “and she’s abusing them.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “There’s definitely something going on between her and Graham. Have you seen the way he touches her? Right in front of God and everyone.”

  So other people had noticed Graham’s familiarity with Ariel. It could be a huge problem for Ariel. Huge. Angela Harrell was not one to back down. She had nearly knocked the anthropology curriculum out of the high school based on her family’s religious beliefs that dinosaurs had never roamed the earth because they were not mentioned in the Bible.

  “I did notice that he was kind of hands-on, but maybe that’s his style.”

  “It’s inappropriate. Immoral. Illegal.”

  “Even if something was going on between them, they’re not breaking the law. Graham is eighteen.”

  “Well, there ought to be a law. It’s appalling, even the way those boys look at her. The other day I heard Blake Luchter make a comment that scalded my ears. It’s creating a very unhealthy environment for our kids.”

  There was a grain of truth in the complaint. Much as Rachel hated to side with Angela Harrell, she couldn’t deny the discomfiture that made her look away when Ariel mixed with the male students. It wasn’t just the way that Ariel jumped into their groups like a hot girl at a fraternity party. The ease with which they touched her suggested a visceral familiarity with her body. That was Ariel’s gift and curse, as she always said; when you had a body that rang of sexuality, men thought the bell was tolling for them.

  As Rachel tied Sunshine’s hair into low pigtails, she stole a glance around the room to see who else might be listening. Except for essential helpers, parents were out in the audience. The girls at the vanity were having th
eir own discussion about false eyelashes, and the bulk of the students waiting for the Part One finale were outside sitting at tables in the adjoining cafeteria, which was the only way to contain the noise of the kids’ chatter. No one else seemed to be listening.

  At least, containment was still possible.

  But with Angela now going on a tirade about other boys Ariel might have “touched,” Rachel wasn’t sure if she should make a move. Knowing that she was best friends with Ariel, Angela was likely to amplify her protest if Rachel intervened.

  “I would start by talking to Craig about it,” Nora advised.

  “At least. If I had a son, I wouldn’t leave him alone with her. I shudder to think of what’s going on behind closed doors.” From Angela’s dramatic pitch, Rachel suspected she was deriving some perverse pleasure from this. She heard it all the time from clients who told stories of someone else’s “outrageous” scandal that got their own juices flowing.

  “There’s got to be another teacher in this town who can give voice lessons,” Angela went on. “Maybe someone in West Green or Mirror Lake.”

  “I doubt there’s anyone as experienced as Ariel.” Nora’s tone was calm, just the right amount of indifference to diffuse the situation. Or so Rachel hoped.

  As soon as she finished with Sunshine’s hair she swept up her cell from the counter and shot off a text to Ariel: Angela Harrell talking trash about you and Gleetime boys. Wants to go to the principal.

  For now, it was all she could do. Hoping that Ariel would come swinging through the door to nip this thing in the bud, she put her phone down and helped Armand Ahari adjust his hippie headband.

  It was amazing how quickly Ariel defused the situation. When she came backstage during the intermission, with Craig at her side, they tracked Angela Harrell like a gossip-seeking missile and escorted her out, down the hall toward the band and choir rooms.

  That night, Rachel got a text from Ariel saying that they’d corrected the situation. It wasn’t until Friday morning, while shopping at the mall with Ariel, that Rachel got the full story. Craig had taken charge of the situation, sitting down in his office off the choir room with Ariel and Angela and cutting to the heart of the matter.