That would be good, of course, because Cole would be happy.
During their sessions with Judy the mediator, they’d planned out holidays. Susan wanted Cole for Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day (though he would visit Randall for three hours in the middle of the day), so she’d conceded Thanksgiving. She hadn’t thought it would matter. Thanksgiving was about food and gratitude, and she could just skip both of those concepts and make it like any other night. But as she walked home from Kellie’s, her hands tucked deep in her pockets, her shoulders huddled, loneliness pierced her. Usually she could count on seeing other people out and about in the neighborhood in the late afternoons. Neighbors walked dogs, parents ran out to their cars to do the school pickup runs, nannies held the hands of toddlers as they made slow progress down the sidewalk.
But tonight the streets were silent.
She kept walking, past her house, knowing where she was going but helpless to stop herself, the way an addict keeps reaching for a cigarette. She hadn’t dressed warmly enough for such a long walk, but she continued on, her feet growing cold in her thin boots, her cheeks feeling pinched. She turned down Randall’s street and stopped. She wondered what the inside of the house looked like. She’d never seen it. She imagined he’d have Cole’s artwork displayed on the refrigerator, like she did. There would be photos of Cole on the mantel, and some of Randall and Daphne, too. She wondered if Daphne would get pregnancy photos done, with Randall standing behind her, his hands wrapped around her belly.
She leaned back against a tree and closed her eyes.
She’d never been good at confrontation. She’d seen people erupt into rages at the slightest provocation—say, someone cutting in front of them in line—but that wasn’t part of her emotional makeup. That’s why what had happened with Kellie the other night had been so shocking. She’d never blown up like that at a friend before. She tended to think first, react much later.
Her parents had been a lawyer and a doctor, and they were calm, patient, almost overly formal people. Susan had never seen her father in his pajamas—when she was growing up, he’d always gone straight from bed into the shower and come downstairs dressed in a suit, or on casual days, an Oxford shirt with a vest over it. Her mother had liked classical music and she was an anesthesiologist. Her job centered around keeping things steady—breathing, blood pressure, vital signs. Over dinner they discussed current events and Susan’s schoolwork and activities. She’d never had a sibling to squabble with; she’d never learned to fight.
Maybe if she and Randall had seen a counselor to talk about their differences before he’d met Daphne they would’ve stayed together. But the issue didn’t seem to have any gray area. Randall wanted more kids. She didn’t. She’d hoped that he’d come around, that he’d see her point of view. He’d hoped just as fervently for the opposite. And the truth was, she was so busy with work and with Cole that it became easier to push the issue aside, to ignore it and hope it would dissolve. To let their cold war stretch out, pretend it was just an ordinary marital dispute, like a squabble over their preferred settings on the thermostat.
She tilted her head back and felt two tears trickle down her cheeks. She knew she should get away from this place, she understood that what she was doing was intensifying her pain, but she was so tired. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, though, and she didn’t want to go into her empty house and watch television until it was time to go to bed.
She opened her eyes and noticed Randall had already strung up white Christmas lights in the trees, and the lamp mounted over his front door cast a golden glow across the porch. The house looked snug and cozy. Susan was glad she’d never been inside, because that would make the images in her head more vivid.
She hoped Randall had given Cole a drumstick, and let him pull the wishbone, and served him a big piece of apple pie that was still warm. Randall probably had done all of those things and more. He was a wonderful father, after all. And he’d been such a good husband, too.
When she was so cold she could think of nothing else but her discomfort, she turned, shivering, and made her slow way back home.
• • •
“Green beans?” Tessa asked, holding up a spoonful.
“Sure,” said Addison. He was her good eater, the kid who never met a casserole or quesadilla he didn’t like.
Tessa ladled some onto his plate. She knew better than to ask Bree if she wanted a portion. Bree was still a prickly child. She hated the little lines that ran across the tops of socks, so Tessa had to special order ones without seams. She didn’t like mushy foods. She startled easily at loud noises, and she was afraid of the dark. But she’d mellowed out considerably since her early, colicky months.
Tessa had decided to fly her family to her hometown in Colorado for the holiday. The past few months had been so draining that when her sister had called and said, “So what’s the plan for Thanksgiving?” Tessa had immediately responded, “We’d love to come to see you all.”
Claire had sounded taken aback, but she’d recovered quickly. “That would be great,” she’d said. “I’ll set up the guest room for you and Harry. Do you guys still prefer firm pillows?”
Only Claire would ask for the pillow preference of her guests. She’d also make their mother’s green bean casserole with fried onions on top, because that was tradition, and she’d light candles with the holders that had been in their family for three generations. She’d assign everyone seats, too, and make sure they all knew how much work she’d put into the meal, but suddenly, Tessa didn’t mind. Her older sister was bossy but loving, and sometimes Tessa focused too much on the former instead of the latter.
“I can’t wait,” Tessa said, and was surprised to find herself meaning it, and not just because Colorado seemed like another escape.
They’d been crammed onto an overly full plane on the runway for ninety minutes before they took off, and a cold snap had overtaken Colorado, causing them to lament not bringing warmer clothes, but it was good to see her family again, Tessa realized. Bree and Addison had spent the day playing with their cousins, and Harry had watched football with Claire’s husband, their feet up on the coffee table, cans of beer in hand.
“Tessa?” Claire was asking. “More stuffing?”
“I’m good, but thanks,” Tessa said.
“Are you sure? You look so thin!” Claire said. “You and Harry both. Is your new town a secret dieting destination?”
Tessa laughed it off. “We do a lot of biking and walking, because the weather’s better,” she said. “It’s easier to stay active.”
“Well, that’s one good reason for moving there,” Tessa’s mother said.
“Although it seemed so sudden,” Claire added.
Tessa had prepared for this. It was the first time she’d seen her family since the move, and she knew they’d have questions.
“It was,” Tessa agreed. She’d said all this before, in phone conversations, of course. “We drove down there on a whim—we just felt like getting out of town—and we saw this house for sale in the perfect neighborhood. Everything fell into place.”
“You’ll have to come visit,” Harry said.
Tessa nodded, wanting to kick him under the table. The last thing she wanted was for her family to come to their new town. She could see Claire going for a walk and bumping into neighbors and chatting. Claire was careful to avoid mentioning Danny Briggs around the children, but she might let something slip about his death to another adult, and then Tessa would have to face the very sorts of questions she’d fled.
“I miss my friends, though,” Addison said.
“Oh, sweetie,” Tessa said. “But you’ve made lots of new friends, haven’t you? Noah, and Cole . . .”
“What about you, Bree? Do you miss your friends, too?” Claire asked.
“Sometimes,” Bree said. “But we still Skype and stuff.”
“She has a comp
uter?” Tessa’s mother asked. She held the firm position that kids today were exposed to far too many electronics, and that they should be running around outside, playing kick the can.
“We have a family computer the kids can use,” Harry said. This was his turf, since he was the electronics expert in the house. “Bree and Addison are allowed to use the computer with reasonable limits. I wouldn’t let them get into a car at sixteen without any instruction and hand over the keys, and I’m certainly not going to let them go off to college without some training on responsible use of electronics . . .”
Tessa tuned out.
It wasn’t until much later, when she and Claire were doing the dishes together, that Claire asked the question Tessa had been dreading.
“The children,” Claire had whispered, glancing toward the doorway to make sure they weren’t coming. “Are they exhibiting any . . . ill effects from Danny’s death?”
Tessa shook her head swiftly. “None at all,” she said. It was important that they do this quickly, like pulling a tooth. She had to be firm and clear with Claire and tackle this head-on.
“The kids are doing wonderfully,” she said, glad she could speak the words honestly. “It’s like nothing ever happened.”
“Good,” Claire said. She squirted dish liquid into a roasting pan and added water. “Was that part of why you moved? A clean slate?”
“Yes,” Tessa said, grateful that Claire understood. She couldn’t understand all of it, of course—no one could except for her and Harry, because they were the only two who knew everything—but this made it easier.
Bree popped into the kitchen. “Mom, can we watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas?” she asked.
“Thanksgiving isn’t even over, and they’re showing Christmas specials,” Claire sighed.
“Sure,” Tessa said. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with Aunt Claire.”
“Fine, fine,” Claire said.
When Bree left, Claire lowered her voice again. “Is Harry sick?” she asked. “You would tell me if he was sick, wouldn’t you?”
“He’s fine,” Tessa said. “Just work has been stressful. And he’s turned into a runner. I think he might be training for a marathon, but he’s keeping it quiet.”
“That’s all it is?” Claire asked.
“I promise,” Tessa said.
What harm would a few more lies do, given all the ones she’d already told?
• • •
Melanie had a crush on Zach.
Her neater hair, her friendlier attitude, her new clothing style—Gigi’s suspicions solidified when Zach asked Melanie to pass the gravy. Maybe no one else noticed, but Gigi was so attuned to searching for clues about Melanie’s emotional state that she zeroed in on the shift in her daughter immediately. The slight pink in Melanie’s cheeks. The way she giggled when Zach’s fingers brushed hers as she handed over the gravy boat.
Gigi turned to consider Zach. He was a clean-cut, ambitious, hardworking guy. On the surface, he was everything a mother might want for her daughter, except for the fact that at twenty-two, he was too old for Melanie.
Yet he was too perfect, too polished. He said all the right things. He was exceptionally polite without being the slightest bit warm. Couldn’t Joe see that?
Joe felt guilty that Zach was working for him for free to get experience, but Gigi suspected Zach was the one using Joe, that he’d get the better end of the bargain. She didn’t trust the young man. How candid was Joe with him on their long road trips, when they were driving in the darkness, sharing a sense of weary compatibility? She needed to warn her husband to be circumspect.
“This was delicious, Mrs. Kennedy,” Zach said after the last slice of pie had been eaten. “May I clear the table?”
“Thank you,” Gigi said.
Joe jumped up. “I’ll help,” he said. “I need to work some of that off before we head to the shelter. Hey, Melanie, Julia—do you guys want to come with?”
“Sure,” Julia said.
Melanie smiled. “I’ll come, too,” she said.
“That’s my girl,” Joe said. He gave Gigi a look: Wow—she’s in a good mood.
“I’m going to change,” Melanie said and headed upstairs. Gigi followed Joe into the kitchen.
“Honey,” she began, but then she saw Zach at the sink.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’ve got an old coat you can take to the shelter to donate,” she said instead. She went upstairs to retrieve it, but she couldn’t immediately find it in her closet. Finally she remembered it was in the attic. By the time she came back down, Melanie and Joe and Zach were preparing to head out. Gigi did a double take when she saw that Melanie was wearing lip gloss. The color was wrong for her; it was too red against Melanie’s pale skin, but Gigi knew better than to offer a gentle suggestion that Melanie try a softer pink shade.
Gigi didn’t have an opportunity to pull Joe aside. She wasn’t even exactly sure what she’d say to him. Watch our daughter, maybe.
She stood on the doorstep, waving, as they headed down the walk. When they reached the car, Zach pulled open the front passenger’s door and gestured for Melanie to step inside.
Like a date, Gigi thought, watching Melanie smile up at Zach as he gently closed her door.
No, she didn’t trust Zach for a minute.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
* * *
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Remove me from listserv?
Hi, I moved away from Newport Cove a year ago and still receive these emails. Can someone remove me from this listserv? Thanks! —Abigail Donohue, formerly of Blossom Street
*Maternity clothes—free!
Lots of casual clothes, well-worn but clean. Yours for the asking as I will definitely not be needing them again. —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way
*Re: Remove me from listserv?
Abigail, simply hit the “unsubscribe” button at the bottom of your listserv digest and you should be taken off the list. —Tally White, Iris Lane
*Re: Remove me from listserv?
There’s an unsubscribe link somewhere near the bottom in every digest, just click and that should do it. —Bob Welsh, Magnolia Street
*A cheery reminder!
When replying to an individual’s question on the listserv, there’s no need to hit “reply all” if the question doesn’t relate to the community at large. You can simply respond to the individual by clicking on their email address, which is embedded in their message, so that the entire listserv doesn’t get multiple messages with duplicate information. —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager
*Re: Remove me from listserv?
Just hit “unsubscribe” at the bottom of the digest and you’ll be taken off. —Margaret Grainger, Crabtree Lane
• • •
You have 22 new matches! the headline of her email proclaimed.
Twenty-two sounded overwhelming, but it was better than none, Susan thought as she took a sip of her latte and clicked the button that would lead her to the dating website. She’d signed up for it the day after Thanksgiving, making her perhaps the only forty-year-old woman on the planet who wanted to begin dating to improve the emotional health of her son.
Maybe she’d meet a few guys for drinks. Maybe one of them would even be nice. Or just have all of his own teeth and speak passable English—she shouldn’t set her expectations too high.
She navigated to the photo of her first match, whose ID was TheMan4U. His photo looked surprisingly normal. He was of Japanese descent, a triathlete, and an accountant. Nope, Susan thought. She was doing this to forget Randall, not to be reminded of him by a man with the same occupation.
She scrolled over to the next photo. This guy—BeachBum39—was extremely handsome. He was posing shirtless on a beach, a golden retriever by his
feet. Susan began to read his bio: Note: My true age is 46, but I was getting contacted by too many women in their forties and fifties so I’ve changed my age to 39 in my profile. Be assured I look and act much younger than my real age!
You act like a baby, that’s for sure, Susan thought as she instantly deleted the guy’s face from her screen. So he wanted to date younger women—but he was dismissive of women who wanted to date younger men? On behalf of womankind, Susan felt like reaching through her computer, grabbing the Frisbee in his hand, and bashing it into his face.
By the time she’d gone through all twenty-two matches, she’d eliminated every contender except for two. And she wasn’t all that excited by those guys. It was like reaching into a bin of reduced-for-quick-sale apples and choosing the two that were the least bruised. But maybe she should be more open-minded. Lots of people had trouble expressing themselves in writing, so she shouldn’t jump to conclusions about Searching4Luv and his scant three-sentence bio. I love to be outdoors and all water sports. I have a big family, a steady job, and a ferret named Bo. You never know where chemistry will turn up so let’s meet and see if there is a spark . . .
She’d send him a quick email, suggesting a drink. She’d make one of her friends come along with her and sit at a nearby table, just in case Searching4Luv was really Searching4AHostage.
Hi, she wrote. I love to be outdoors as well . . . Her fingers hovered above her keyboard as she tried to think of what else to say. Bo sounds nifty? Are ferrets in the weasel family?
She dropped her head into her hands. She hated this. She hated every humiliating moment.
Gigi had urged her to try online dating. “C’mon, everyone’s doing it,” she’d said. “Quality people are on dating sites because they’re too busy to go out to bars and try to meet people like in the old days.”
Susan scrolled down to the “Interests” section and discovered that Searching4Luv had been, in the last year alone, sailing in the Caribbean and mountain climbing. He’d done a Tough Mudder 10K and had the mud-splattered photo to prove it. He loved outdoor concerts and had been to see U2, Imagine Dragons, and Taylor Swift (that was my 10-year-old daughter’s birthday present, he’d written).
The Perfect Neighbors Page 18