“This is lovely,” Amy said. “The whole property is. Did you grow up here?”
Grace nodded. “My parents have done a lot of renovations over the years, though. It doesn’t look exactly the way it did twenty years ago.”
“Well, it looks pretty amazing now.”
“You guys are RICH!” Noah shouted.
Amy’s face started burning up. She wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. “Noah,” she said, her jaw tight.
“What?”
“That isn’t polite.”
“But you said that in the car.”
Her mortification deepened. “No, sweetie. Daddy and I were talking about something else.”
“You did. You did say that.” He stomped his foot on the floor.
Shut up, shut up, shut up! Amy wanted to scream.
“Her parents are rich. It’s true.” Julian appeared at the bottom of a small staircase, which led upstairs.
“Julian . . .” Grace gave him a look.
“What? They are. No reason to make the kid feel bad about it. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the person who owns this property has money. And from what I understand”—he came over and nudged Noah in the side—“this kid might be a rocket scientist someday.”
Noah smiled sheepishly. Julian knew just how to stroke Noah’s ego.
“Anyway,” Grace said, clearly wanting to move the conversation along, “I ordered a pizza, which should be here any minute. Kara, I left you money, right?”
Amy looked over Julian’s shoulder and noticed the babysitter for the first time. She was sitting on the couch, trying to find a movie for the kids on the TV.
“Yep,” she said. “Ah! There it is! Guess what I found, boys?”
“What, what, what?” Ethan cried.
“I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an ‘M’ and rhymes with ‘zin-ions. ’”
“MINIONS!!!!” they shouted in unison. They started jumping up and down and speaking in high-pitched gibberish.
Grace shook her head. “Have fun, boys. And good luck, Kara. Call if you need us. We shouldn’t be late.”
“Take your time. We’ll be fine!”
“Yeah, I’m not sure who’ll be having more fun—them or us,” Julian joked.
Amy had to admit, she wasn’t sure either.
* * *
The restaurant was a comfortable Mediterranean BYOB only ten minutes from Grace’s parents’ house. Julian drove, which made sense from an environmental and logistical standpoint, but Amy also knew it was his self-created out from drinking that evening. Whatever it takes, she thought to herself.
The hostess seated them at a table in the back and offered them an ice bucket for the bottle of white Amy and Rob had brought. Grace had told Amy that not bringing wine would be more uncomfortable for Julian because he’d have to explain things he didn’t want to talk about. “It’s not like his problem was with booze,” she had said. “It’ll be fine.”
Amy sat next to Rob and across from Grace, and the four of them started making small talk: the kids, summer camp, the latest tweets from the president. Once the waitress had recited the specials, she got out a corkscrew and opened the bottle of wine.
“None for me,” Julian said, reaching his hand over the top of his wineglass before she could pour. “I’m driving.”
“Just three then?”
They nodded, and she filled up their glasses while they all scanned the menu.
“So how are you guys liking the house?” Julian asked once the waitress had taken their order.
“It’s great,” Rob said. “You guys took really good care of it.”
“Thanks,” Grace said. “We loved that place. Especially the neighborhood. But . . .” She shrugged. “Life, right?”
An awkward silence lingered. Amy knew the dinner could take an uncomfortable turn at some point, for myriad reasons, but she hadn’t expected it so early in the evening. Maybe coming out with them was a mistake. Rob, in particular, was loath to accept the Durants’ invitation, but Amy had convinced him it was the polite thing to do. He was still convinced they might be running some sort of credit card scam, but she did her best to disabuse him of his prejudice without betraying Grace’s trust.
“Have you run into the crazy cat lady?” Julian asked, puncturing the silence.
“I don’t think so . . . ? Does she live on Sycamore?”
“No, around the corner on Juniper. She has, like, eighteen cats or something, and she dresses them all up in different sweaters that she knits herself.”
“Just in the winter,” Grace added.
“Well, I mean, of course,” Julian said in a jocular voice. “Why would you dress your cat in a sweater in the summer?”
They all laughed. The mood of the table lifted—thanks to Julian, Amy noted. He did have a way about him. Magnetic wasn’t quite the right word, but it was close. He knew how to work a room.
“She sounds special,” Rob said. “I look forward to meeting her.”
“Oh, you will. If not before, then definitely on Halloween. She does up her house with a zillion tacky decorations and dresses her cats up in costumes. It’s really her moment to shine.”
“Ethan will really miss it this year,” Grace said. “He loved trick-or-treating at her house.”
Again, the tenor of the conversation darkened. What was up with Grace tonight? Amy knew the subject of the house could be sensitive, but they’d discussed it before, and it had been nearly two months now. Grace was also usually so positive, easygoing. Why the sudden change in mood?
“He’s welcome to come trick-or-treating with us,” Amy volunteered.
“That would be fun,” Julian said. “And anyway, it’s not like it’s a gated community. Parents from all over drive their kids into the neighborhood and take them around because it’s such a great place to visit on Halloween. I don’t know why Grace is being Debbie Downer over here.”
“Sorry. I’m just—it’s been a long week. My parents are driving me crazy. I’m really ready to be out of there, which is probably why I’m all nostalgic for the old place.”
“Remind me what happened with the other house you guys were supposed to buy?” Rob asked.
Amy felt her shoulders stiffen. It was a reasonable question. As far as he knew, the story the Durants had originally given was the truth. And she wasn’t even supposed to know the real reason they needed to sell the house. If anything, Rob’s question underscored his ignorance, which extended to her by default. But Grace was obviously in a funk, and Amy wondered how she would handle it in front of their husbands.
“It fell through,” Grace replied quickly. “Long story. Too many problems after the inspection—mold in the basement, stuff like that.”
“Got it,” Rob said. “And no other prospects?”
“Not yet. We’ve talked to a builder about building a new place, but most of the land is so far outside the city. I like being a quick train ride from downtown.”
“It’s not that quick,” Julian said.
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“On a good day.”
“I’ve had pretty good luck with SEPTA,” Rob offered, obviously trying to cut the tension. You have no idea the can of worms you’ve opened, Amy thought.
“Where’s your office?” Julian asked.
“Sixteenth and JFK. I just hop on at Jenkintown and get off at Suburban Station. I can catch multiple lines, so for me, it’s usually about twenty-five to thirty minutes.”
“See?” Grace said, her eyebrow raised.
Julian groaned. “Sorry, I forgot: The wife is always right.”
“How could you forget?” Rob joked.
The wives elbowed their husbands simultaneously.
“Anyway,” Julian said, as the waitress placed their appetizers in front of them, “tell me more about your job. You work in telecom, right?”
“For MediaCom, yeah. I’m in their digital marketing department.”
“That’s awesome. I had a fr
iend who worked over there. Grant Abrams?”
Rob shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He might not be there anymore. We sort of lost touch.”
“It’s a huge company, so there’s a good chance he’s still there and I just haven’t met him.”
“So, hey, does your department ever deal with sponsorships and cross-promotion?”
“Not directly. I mean, we support all departments when it comes to promotion, whether it’s an internal launch or something else. But I don’t deal with sponsorships at all.”
“I only ask because my nonprofit, Food Fight, is looking for sponsors for our fall benefit. I realize when you hear food access you don’t necessarily think telecom, but MediaCom is one of the biggest companies in Philly, so I figured it was worth a shot.”
“Well, I know the company is big on corporate social responsibility, and food access is a major issue in Philly. I’m sure I can put you in touch with the right person.”
“Really? That would be awesome. We’ve partnered with a bunch of local community groups, so the money we raise will go toward increased programming and support for them. If you want, I can shoot you some materials about who we are and what we do. Not that I expect you to pitch someone at the company—that’s my job. It just might grease the wheels for when I actually give a call.”
“Sure, that would be great. I’d love to learn more about what you do anyway.”
There was a touch of suspicion in Rob’s voice, though Amy knew she was the only one who heard it. But she knew her husband. He thought Food Fight was a money-laundering front or some other shady venture. Amy was actually curious how far Rob had let his imagination run. Human trafficking? Arms deals? Rob was a very practical guy who tended not to get ahead of himself—as their conversations about her career had demonstrated. But he also loved a good psychological thriller, and she wondered if he’d used his latest read as a model for the Durants’ behavior. She knew she’d been sworn to secrecy, but now she was going to have to tell him the truth about Julian, if only so that he’d stop suspecting him of something far worse.
* * *
“So that was a little awkward, huh?” Rob said on the car ride home. Noah was out cold in his car seat.
“A little. But mostly fine. Even fun at times.”
“I guess. But the tension between the two of them . . . yikes.”
“You think? I mean, I know it got awkward about the house, but otherwise?”
“I don’t know. I got a weird vibe. She seemed kind of pissed off with him all night.”
“Well, maybe he did something to piss her off. Husbands do that sometimes, you know.”
“Wives, too, from what I’ve heard.” He grinned. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But then all that stuff about Food Fight. Like, ‘Oh, sure, recipient of much sketchy mail that I have accidentally received. Why don’t I help my company sponsor your big event?’”
“You’re not going to put him in touch with the people at MediaCom?”
“I probably will. It’s just . . . all those letters. Something isn’t right.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“What isn’t what I think?”
“The ‘not right’ thing. It isn’t money laundering or a credit card scam or something.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because Grace told me.”
Rob gave her a sideways glance. “Told you what, exactly?”
“Why they’ve had . . . money troubles.”
“And what did she say?”
“Well, she sort of told me in confidence.”
Rob huffed. “Okay . . . So, is this supposed to make me feel more comfortable about asking my company to sponsor his?”
“You aren’t asking. He’s asking.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
Amy thought for a long while, then sighed. “Okay. I’ll tell you. But you can’t say anything to anyone, do you understand?”
“Shouldn’t I have a say in whether or not it’s relevant when my employer is involved?”
“Of course. But it’s a personal issue that I think the Durants would like to keep that way.”
“Does he have gambling problem or something?”
“No, but funny you should say that. Grace says that’s what her parents think.”
Rob thought for a second. “Is he an alcoholic? I noticed he didn’t drink at dinner.”
“No, but you’re getting closer.”
Rob furrowed his brow and looked over at her. “Drugs? Seriously?”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Amy said. “I promised Grace I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Jesus. What kind?”
“Pills. I don’t know how bad it got, but . . . obviously you and I know it led to some financial troubles. But he’s clean now. Grace said he’s in therapy and is throwing himself into work to keep busy. I’m sure that’s part of the reason he’s planning a benefit dinner. Those things create a lot of busy work, which it sounds like he needs right now.”
“They also generate a fair amount of money. . . .”
“Yeah, but not for him. It sounds like most of the money will go to the community groups. Listen, if you’d feel better about it, you could always vet some of those recipients yourself. He said he’d send you some materials. Call around to some of the places he supports and see what they think.”
“Oh, sure, with all that free time I have.”
“I’m happy to help. I just . . . I guess I’ve watched my brother go through so much, and I wonder if things would have been different if someone had helped him start fresh the first time he got clean. Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”
“Of course they do. But your brother is on, what, chance number five?”
“That’s my point. Maybe if he’d had something meaningful to occupy his time, he wouldn’t be on chance number five. But he didn’t. And look where he is.”
“Mommy?” Noah croaked from the back seat. Amy had woken him up. She didn’t realize how loudly she had been speaking.
“Almost home, sweetie,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” He yawned and closed his eyes.
Rob sighed. “I’ll take a look when he sends me the materials and will let you know what I think. Okay?”
“Thank you,” Amy said, as if he were doing her a favor, even though none of this had anything to do with her.
Chapter 10
As promised, the next week Julian sent Rob an e-mail with information about the fall Food Fight benefit. Rob passed the information along to Amy, who took it upon herself to do a little sleuthing about the organization. She knew her time would be better spent writing up marketing materials for her new client, or even drumming up new work, but ever since dinner the previous weekend, she felt obliged to vet Julian’s nonprofit. She barely knew him, but at this point she knew his wife and son fairly well, and she wanted stability for them.
From what little investigation she was able to do, Food Fight seemed not only legitimate, but also quite respectable. They’d worked for many years to improve access to fresh food in several North and West Philadelphia neighborhoods and had the accolades to prove it—stories in the Philadelphia Inquirer and Philadelphia Magazine, reviews on Yelp, and even mentions online in discussion forums, where other nonprofits and community groups heaped praise on the organization for the good work it was doing. It was only a cursory review, and Amy knew that, but there was nothing to suggest untoward behavior of any kind.
Amy wrote a quick reply to Rob’s e-mail:
Looks legit. I can call around to a few of these places later, but even just a quick skim online shows they are a known quantity doing good work. Check out the profile in Philly Mag that I linked to below—lots of quotes from community orgs that have worked with Food Fight. Pretty open and honest about the relationship and what they’ve done. Doesn’t seem shady to me.
Amy shot off the e-m
ail just as her phone started ringing. She didn’t recognize the number. She considered ignoring it, but it was a 215 number. What if it was Noah’s camp and something had happened?
She grabbed her phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Amy?”
“Yes?”
“This is Emily. Jake’s mom? We met the other day at Be Well Café?”
“Oh, right—sorry, I didn’t recognize the number.”
“Did I not text you after you gave me yours?”
“I don’t think so? I don’t remember seeing one.”
“I could have sworn I did, but I am so ridiculously sleep deprived at the moment. Anything is possible. Anyway, I was calling to see if Noah wanted to come play this weekend.”
“Oh. Sure. That would be fun.” Amy tried not to sound too surprised. After their run-in at the café, she knew Jake and Noah got along at camp, but she was still getting used to her son having a bustling social life. “What day were you thinking?” she asked.
“Either would work. Want to say Sunday? Around lunchtime?”
“Sure, that works. What can we bring?”
“We have a pool, so he should bring a bathing suit. Assuming he likes swimming.”
“Well . . . he . . . um . . .”
The truth was, Noah was still terrified of the water. They’d tried numerous techniques, including private swim lessons last winter at a swim club in DC and then enrollment at his current day camp, which provided swim instruction, but by all accounts Noah had spent the entire session in both experiences sitting at the edge of the pool, refusing to get in. Surely Jake must already know about Noah’s water fears if they went to camp together. Maybe he hadn’t told his mom. Or maybe Noah had suddenly made progress in the pool and just hadn’t mentioned it? Amy somehow doubted this was the case. Noah was notoriously bad at providing details about his daily activities, but he probably would have mentioned something as monumental as getting in the pool.
“He doesn’t . . . love the water,” Amy finally said.
“Oh. Well, that’s okay. We have plenty of other stuff. Would he do a sprinkler? Or a Slip’N Slide?”
The Last House on Sycamore Street Page 12