The Other Mrs. Miller

by Allison Dickson

  Phoebe frowns at the house, which she does notice looks a little vacant. The lawn is somewhat overgrown, the front flower beds weedy, the trees just this side of untrimmed. It probably hasn’t been too long since someone last tended things, a couple weeks maybe, but around here that’s bordering on decrepit. “I didn’t even realize that place was for sale.”

  He shrugs with a grin. “Well, it’s empty and we’re moving in, so I guess it must have been.”

  Phoebe does recall the former residents appearing to be roughly her father’s age, and the stooped, delicate way the wife walked to and from the mailbox. Sadly, that’s all she really knew about them. Not even their names. Pathetic. Maybe one of them died and there was a quiet auction. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t have a key. I only ever saw them in passing. Folks kind of keep to themselves here.” She wants to add: In fact, kid, this conversation represents the most words I’ve ever spoken to one of my neighbors in a single go.

  His face falls a bit and he glances over his shoulder at his ranting father. “He’s not exactly making me want to go back there to deliver bad news.”

  Phoebe realizes she’s perfectly fine if he doesn’t want to go just yet. This is the best distraction she’s had in months.

  “We might as well introduce ourselves, then. I’m Phoebe Miller.”

  He stares at her for a second. Maybe he isn’t sure how much he wants to interact with someone who smells like a wine barrel. Can she blame him? Then he grins, extending his hand. “I’m Jake Napier.”

  “That’s a strong grip you have, Jake.” Oh wow. Now she sounds like a bad actress in the opening scene of a cheap porno. It’s hard to believe that once upon a time, she knew how to talk to men. “Your dad seems a little pissed.”

  He flushes with embarrassment. “Yeah, it’s been kind of a rough trip. He’s Ron. My mom is Vicki. She’s driving our other car, but she’s stuck in traffic about an hour behind us. I’m just glad they didn’t ride in together. There would have probably been a roadside murder scene somewhere in the middle of Utah otherwise.”

  “Oh man. Moving is the worst,” she says. As if she would know. She’s moved once in her life, coming here from her father’s house fifteen whole miles away. Hired help handled everything, even the unpacking. She had only to point to where she wanted things, like a demanding princess. The Napiers seem to be more the DIY type, even though it’s clear they have money. They’d have to if they’re settling down here.

  “Yeah, it’s been a real roller coaster for everyone,” Jake says.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Los Angeles,” he says. “But my parents are actually from out here.”

  “Ah, so a homecoming for them. What’s the occasion?”

  “My dad took a job at a hospital here. He’s a doctor. I’ll only be here a couple months, though. I’m starting Stanford this fall.” It’s hard to miss the note of relief in his voice, which is understandable. The last thing a kid his age wants is to pick up and move halfway across the country with his parents, but at least he has an upcoming escape.

  “Oh wow, congratulations. Starting college is a major milestone.”

  “I also turned eighteen on the way out here. Lots of milestones.”

  The math running through her head is both reflexive and nauseating. He isn’t half her age, but just shy of a decade and a half is a wide enough gap for decency to get lost in. At least he’s not a minor, she thinks. You have that going for you, right?

  “Even if you’re heading back west soon, you’ll still be visiting during the holidays, won’t you? Pack a parka. We have real winters here.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “So, Stanford, huh? Let me guess. Philosophy, political science, or premed?”

  He laughs, adorably. “That’s three strikes. I’m actually going to be pre-law. I want to be a criminal defense attorney.”

  “Law school would have been my fourth guess. I weep for another young heart soon to be crushed by the drudgery of the American justice system.”

  “You sound like you have experience with that,” he says.

  “No, but I watch a lot of Law & Order.”

  They grin at each other, and she’s tempted to ask him in so she can look a little harder for the spare house key she knows she doesn’t have, but his father yells from across the street. “Jake, I could use your help down here!”

  He turns and gives a wave. “I guess I should go.” He lingers a bit, like he doesn’t want to leave. Whether it’s more because he enjoys her company or because he doesn’t want to return to his father, she isn’t sure.

  “You might be able to get a key from the house at the corner.” She points to her left. “Don’t know their names, either, but I’m pretty sure they socialized more with the former owners.”

  “You don’t know any of these people, do you?”

  “Well, I know you now, don’t I?”

  He flashes a brilliant California surfer-boy smile that makes her heart flutter. “Good point. I’ll go ask them.”

  “Good luck. See you around, Jake.”

  “Okay. Great. Bye, Ms. Miller.”

  Oh, look at his adorable manners making her feel like her mother-in-law. “Please call me Phoebe,” she says.

  “You got it. Later, Phoebe.”

  She watches him go, admiring his long, confident strides and the solid roundness of his shoulders. He isn’t exactly built, but he also isn’t skinny like a lot of guys his age. There is substance to him, she suspects inside as well as out. She closes the door before anyone can catch her staring, but her belly is burning in that special way it used to when a hookup felt imminent. And he’s going to be living only a couple hundred feet from her front door, at least for a little bit. This could be interesting if she wanted it to be. Maybe even a little dangerous.

  “He’s barely eighteen, you cougar,” she blurts out to the empty house. The commonsense part of her, having spoken without warning, quashes her fantasies before they can take root. She trudges upstairs to clean herself up. By the time she’s showered and in a pair of soft, clean leggings, she feels a bit more like herself again, and she hates it.

  ■■■

  INTERLUDE

  WATCHING YOU ISN’T the only hobby I have. I guess you could say I collect things, which doesn’t sound strange at all until I add in the minor detail that I sneak into people’s houses to get those things. It’s mostly just scraps and trinkets I’m after—little figurines, labels from pricey bottles of wine or liquor, the tassle off a curtain—stuff no one would miss, though sometimes I’ll steal a dirty secret or two if they’re readily visible. Those secrets are a little more interesting in ritzy neighborhoods like this one, probably because they feel more hypocritical or unexpected. BDSM rooms are a recurring theme in the homes of the ultra-wealthy, but that’s fifty shades of unsurprising, as are the amazing drug stashes. Child pornography is depressingly common as well. In those cases, I don’t mind leaving any exposed caches out in the open to drive them crazy night after night, wondering who knows their filthy truths.

  I’ve been breaking into houses so long that it feels normal to me. A bored kid growing up in the Indiana sticks will do anything for a little entertainment, and I didn’t have video games, a computer, or even cable TV, so I took to watching people instead. Eventually I found work doing chores for them, and I would use their bathrooms and check the medicine cabinets. Typical enough. But after that, if the coast was clear, I’d move on to their dresser drawers or their pantries. I had to know if they were living anything like me, this dirty little farm girl whose mother still sewed patches onto jeans and darned socks like someone from the frontier days. After a while, I stopped looking for reasons to be invited in and waited until they weren’t home. It seemed easier that way. And here I am, sitting in on
e of the wealthiest suburbs in the country. I’m proud to say I’ve explored a great many of its houses so far. Not yours, though. Not yet.

  We’ve met a few times, but you wouldn’t remember. I was able to land a part-time job at the local fancy grocery store a mile from your house in the hopes you might shop there, and again, you didn’t let me down. In fact, you’ve come through my checkout lane a couple of times, which is how I learned about your love of wine and Ben & Jerry’s. You didn’t look twice at me, which is fine. I would be concerned you’d see something familiar in my face, and then you’d ask that question people do when they can’t quite put their finger on something. “Do I know you from somewhere?” I’ve rehearsed all sorts of possible answers to that question, but none of them feel right yet.

  If you were hearing all this, you’d likely think I was sitting out here waiting for the right opportunity to break into your house and add a piece of your life to my collection. Things aren’t quite that simple when it comes to you; it’s not a piece of your life I want. Soon enough, you will know why I’m here. In the meantime, I’ll keep watching for that telltale twitch of the blinds letting me know you’re there and that you see me. I never have to wait long.

  CHAPTER 4

  PHOEBE’S SO BUSY glowering into her coffee cup, trying to find her thoughts in a swirl of cream, that she doesn’t hear Wyatt the first time. “Hmm?”

  “I don’t have to go into the office today,” he repeats.

  “Oh.” She can’t help but sound disappointed. It’s getting harder to hide. “How come?”

  “The keynote for the anxiety seminar I’d planned to attend in the city canceled. I have no other reason to go, and I’d cleared my schedule for the day. So I’m a free man.”

  “Congratulations. What are you going to do with your day?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, like he’s thinking about it. Phoebe picks up her phone and starts scrolling through the morning headlines, hoping he will decide to play golf or run any business errands he’s been putting off. Instead, he says the last thing she wants to hear today: “Let’s go do something fun.”

  She looks up from her phone, hoping her irritation with him isn’t as visible on her face as it feels. Why does he have to make his day off about her? “Like what?” she asks.

  “We could hop a train into the city, grab lunch, maybe do some shopping. We haven’t done that in ages.”

  Part of her softens. He’s trying, at least, which is more than she can say for herself since the fight a couple days ago that she now thinks of as the Big Ugly. He hasn’t said a word about any of it, but she’s been waiting for it to pick back up where it left off. Instead, he seems determined to move on.

  It isn’t working, though. Despite his attempts to be chummy, she can feel a well of contempt churning away just beneath his placid surface, and an afternoon of eating fancy food and spending money on more things they don’t need isn’t going to make it go away. Wyatt advises clients all week on how to deal with dysfunctional thinking. Why can’t he recognize his own? Avoidance is such a weak glue.

  “I’m not feeling up to going out today,” she says.

  “Come on, honey. Don’t stay in this rut. Sometimes you have to make yourself do things even when you don’t feel like it.”

  “Why do I, though? It isn’t a rut if I’m completely fine with staying in. I have things I need to do here, anyway.”

  “Like what? Obsess over a car outside that has nothing to do with you? Work on your book?” His expression reveals no sarcasm, but it’s roiling in subtext. A couple years ago, she told him she wanted to try her hand at writing. She managed to scribble down two chapters before losing interest, but she kept up appearances for a good bit longer. Her looking busy with a project seemed to make him respect her time more. It also gave her something to talk to people about on their rare social outings. Instead of being the pampered, apathetic princess, she was an interesting author. The act started to wear thin once she realized she would have to produce an actual book before too long. Wyatt seemed to sense this, because he’d stopped asking her about it, at least until now. His congenial mask is slipping. Fine. Let it. She’d rather deal with him at his ugliest than watch him struggle to act like everything is okay.

  “What I do with my time around here is none of your business. I never nag you about that, do I? When you say you don’t want to do something, I don’t force you.”

  “In case you forgot, we’re married, Phoebe! Married people spend time together. If all you wanted was a roommate who left you to yourself, why didn’t you just say so ten years ago?”

  “You were a lot less annoying ten years ago.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” He stands up. “Let’s just ask the obvious question here, since it’s clearly been on your mind lately, but you’re too much of a damn coward to actually say it. Do you want a divorce?”

  This is the part where she should tell him yes. The marriage has run its course. It’s time to divvy up the consolation prizes and move on. The process shouldn’t be too difficult. They were smart. He signed a prenup. She would have to pay him alimony, but she doesn’t see him being vindictive about going for more, and she doubts she would have to pay him for long anyway. Wyatt should have no problem finding a Good Wife to spit out ten kids for him.

  But it isn’t logistics that keep her from saying yes. With Wyatt gone, Phoebe fears she would lose herself completely. She loves the taste of wine a bit too much these days. Most of her family is dead or so dispersed they don’t matter. They arrive here in the form of yearly Christmas cards, which are really just placeholders in their portion of the family trust. When she kicks off one day, they’ll descend like vultures to pick her carcass while reciting her best virtues, all of them lies or assumptions. She’s used her father’s money to build herself a hollow excuse for a life. Nothing would magnify that more than being completely alone, all day, every day. Of course, this is also why people have children. She stiffens at the sound of her mother’s voice piping up in her head, uninvited.

  “If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But . . . I don’t want you to go.”

  He rubs his hands over his haggard face. “Okay. This is good, right? We have something to work with.”

  “This doesn’t put kids back on the table. That ship has sailed. If you can tell me you accept that, we can move forward.”

  His jaw clenches. “Can you at least tell me why you’re being so adamant about this? Is this really all you want out of your life? A big, empty house. No dimension. No depth. No job. Just . . . you. And your little imaginary friend in the car outside, I guess.”

  She sighs. “I don’t know if I could explain it in a way that would satisfy you, any more than you can explain why you want kids so badly in a way that would satisfy me.”

  “Of course I can explain why I want kids! It’s natural human instinct to want to love something or someone outside yourself, to contribute to the world in some meaningful way.”

  “I’m sure Hitler’s mom felt the same. But look what she unleashed on the world.”

  His face is first an O of incredulity, but it soon softens with a hint of comprehension. “This is about your father, isn’t it? You somehow think whatever kids you raise are going to turn out like him or worse.”

  “This wasn’t an invitation for you to analyze me, Wyatt.”

  “I’m not. But tell me I’m at least close.”

  “Daniel never liked kids. To him they were annoying, dirty, noisy nuisances better left to the care of someone else.”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “He obviously cared for you enough to leave you most of his money.”

  She shrugs. “He liked me more as an adult, I guess. A dislike of children is one of the only things I had in common with the man.” She can’t help but wince at how cold those words sound outside her head. Are they even completely true? Though she isn’t interested in motherhood,
she can safely bet if Xavier or any of those lost embryos had lived, she would have treated them better than Daniel ever treated her. But that still isn’t saying much, and Wyatt doesn’t need to hear anything that might bolster his hopes.

  Wyatt stares at her. “That’s it? You just . . . don’t like kids?”

  “You make it sound like that’s not reason enough.”

  “Most people don’t like other people’s kids, Phoebe. But they do like their own.”

  She shakes her head. “That was not true in my house. You try growing up with someone who hates kids. It’s not a fun way to live. I’m not going to do that to someone else.”

  “But see, that empathy you just showed for a kid who doesn’t even exist tells me we can work on whatever this is.”

  The last grains of her patience finally run out. “Or you could respect my feelings and my decision and stop trying to think they’re something that needs fixing. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?”

  Little pinpricks of something approximating hate dot his eyes. “It’s that final, huh? End of discussion. Phoebe’s way or no fucking way?”

  “You should be grateful I’m being honest about this. People who don’t want kids are the last people who should have them.”

  “Well, if we’re on the subject of conditions, maybe I have one too. If you don’t want to take care of a child, you can at least stop acting like one and start taking care of yourself. Try a shower and a change of clothes once in a while. It makes me sick looking at you.”

  She gapes at him. He’s never been so baldly critical of her. No, not just critical. Mean. Is this the mask slipping or is it a new mask he’s trying on for size? She doesn’t like it on him. But most of all, she doesn’t like how his words have hooked under her skin like barbs. It’s one thing to see your reflection in the mirror, another thing when someone else holds it up for you. Her eyes burn and her guts somersault, but she won’t betray even the faintest tremble. She’s well practiced at this part. Being Daniel Noble’s daughter was all about maintaining a smokescreen, and he hasn’t been dead long enough for her to forget how.