The Other Mrs. Miller

by Allison Dickson

  Next time. She supposes this must make Vicki a real friend now. Not only are they sharing food, but they’ve swapped phone numbers, text messages, recipes, and celebrity gossip. They haven’t delved much deeper than that. They also haven’t made friends on social media, but that’s only because Phoebe deactivated all her accounts after her father died. And that’s a good thing, because she still hasn’t opened up to Vicki about any of that. Maybe she’s already made the connection and isn’t saying anything out of common courtesy. If so, that only makes Phoebe like her more.

  Wyatt would probably be proud of her for making an effort at friendship, if she ever decided to tell him. That she hasn’t yet is more a function of their living in separate ends of the house now, but she supposes she also likes keeping this part of her life to herself. If Wyatt knew, he might want to join in and try to make it a double date situation, and that is out of the question. Thankfully Vicki hasn’t mentioned doing any such thing. Like Phoebe, she seems content to maintain this little girlfriend oasis of theirs.

  Of course, it isn’t exactly an oasis. There’s another person on their island, though mostly unbeknownst to Vicki or anyone else: Jake. He comes over regularly enough now to mow the grass that Phoebe went ahead and canceled her landscaping service. His attempts to find a summer job here in town this late in the season were unsuccessful anyway, so she’s doing him as much a service as he’s doing her. Wyatt hasn’t mentioned anything about the change, but he rarely has a hand in maintenance matters.

  She’s also employed Jake for other random jobs around the house that she long ago stopped nagging Wyatt to take care of: replacing lightbulbs she can’t reach, unclogging a downspout, hanging art she bought years ago but never put up, touching up a little chipped paint on the porch railings and outside door frames, organizing her shed and attic, and, of course, dusting off the Ferrari. It’s been nice accomplishing certain tasks, but she isn’t blind to her real motives. Having him around perks her up like a triple espresso. She likes watching the easy physicality that a lifetime of tennis has given him, but he can hold a great conversation too. That high-dollar private school education shows in his knowledge of books, politics, and language.

  The stares between them linger a touch longer than they should, and it’s amazing how many unspoken words can crowd into a single second, but Phoebe figures as long as she doesn’t touch, she can continue to enjoy those quiet gazes. Which sounds just like a pyromaniac who tells herself that as long as she sticks with safety matches, she won’t ever burn a house down.

  But at least he’ll be going away to school soon. By Labor Day, this ridiculous little infatuation will be extinguished for good.

  Vicki grabs a wineglass from the cabinet and the corkscrew from its ready spot near the wine rack and takes her usual seat at the table, the same place Wyatt used to sit in the morning when they ate breakfast together. Her new friend has definitely grown familiar with the surroundings. Then again, they’ve gathered in Phoebe’s kitchen the last three times, and it looks like that will continue for a while. Vicki says her house is still too spartan for guests, because she and Ron can’t seem to agree on even the simplest things, like paint colors and furniture. Phoebe thinks there’s a bit more to the story, like perhaps Ron doesn’t like his wife having guests, but she’s happy to host either way, because even though she’s let new people into her life, she will always feel more comfortable within her own walls.

  Phoebe watches Vicki struggle to uncork the bottle for a minute before deciding to intervene. “Want me to do it?”

  Vicki gives her a sheepish look. “Would you? Knowing my luck, I’ll drop the damn thing.”

  Well practiced at this particular skill, she makes quick work of it and hands the bottle back. Her friend doesn’t look so good, pale and a little weak, like maybe she’s using this wine to nurse a hangover, something at which Phoebe is also well practiced. While Vicki fills her glass well beyond the halfway mark, Phoebe notices how gaunt the woman looks. She must have lost a few pounds from her already petite frame, but it’s kind of hard to tell based on what she’s wearing: a billowy pink gingham blouse that’s both long sleeved and buttoned a bit too high. Unusual for midsummer. She remembers the bruise she saw on Vicki’s arm the first day they met and feels a little uneasy. Is there something new to cover up?

  Though they’ve both spent some quality time ragging on their husbands, they’ve avoided anything serious. But the questions have lingered in Phoebe’s mind. Vicki always seems a bit too high-strung, nibbled around the edges, like her fingernails. Phoebe did finally meet Ron up close the morning after she loaned them the lawn mower. He’d come home from his shift at the hospital early, complaining of a headache, so his mood wasn’t better than it had been on moving day. He was polite enough and thanked her for the mower, but he sounded bitter about it too, like the gesture had embarrassed him more than anything. People can be weird about accepting help, though, and Ron seems like someone who takes his manly pride seriously. Which also makes him the type of guy who would put his hands on his wife.

  Phoebe decides it might be time to take things to the next friendship level. “Hey, is everything all right?”

  Vicki takes a deep sip from the glass and lets out a sigh. “I look that bad, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but I can say from personal experience that when I’m ready to guzzle down a bottle of wine with breakfast, I’m not having a great day.”

  “Your insight is not inaccurate. But let’s just drink and have some food first.”

  Phoebe nods and reaches for the bottle. “I can get behind that.”

  After the quiche comes out, Phoebe plates big slices of it next to the pineapple and strawberries she bought, and they move out to the back porch, because Vicki normally likes to smoke while they chat. Phoebe bought an ashtray for her last week, which she promptly cleans and hides away after Vicki leaves. Wyatt would be glad knowing Phoebe is having a friend over, but he would have a conniption over any evidence of cigarettes.

  “All right, we have our food,” Phoebe says after a few bites. “Spill.”

  Vicki puts down her fork and wipes her mouth. “Ron and I had a pretty bad fight yesterday. No big surprise there, but it was worse than usual. I’m worried he might leave me. Especially after Jake goes away to school.” Her voice cracks on those last words, but she clears her throat and manages to hold it together.

  “What was it about?” she asks, refraining from wondering aloud why Ron’s leaving would be any great loss. At best, he’s a surly jerk. Take his alimony, honey; let the rest go.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.” She’s quiet for a minute, as if gathering her thoughts. “Everything’s just coming at me from a million different directions. Ron’s job, our marriage, my mom.”

  “You mentioned your mother was ill. That must be stressful by itself.”

  “She’s actually been in a nursing home most of my life, which is hard to believe now that I think about it. I still remember how she was before . . . before she got sick, but I can’t believe it’s been more than twenty-five years.” She sighs and lowers her head. “It’s really hard for me to talk about her. The hardest thing, actually.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I understand.”

  Vicki suddenly lets out a short, shrill laugh, the sort that makes it difficult to tell if someone is amused or angry. “Do you?”

  “I know what it feels like to lose parents. My mom died when I was thirteen.” A defensive note enters her voice. Is Vicki trying to challenge her on who’s suffered more? Let it go, Phoebe. The woman is clearly stressed out. She takes a long swallow of her wine.

  “I had a plan when we came out here, you know? We’ve been through absolute hell these last few months, but I was sure we were going to make a fresh start, put everything back together again like it was before. But it hasn’t exactly worked out. I feel like a fucking idiot.” Vicki
is speaking louder and faster, gesturing with her much emptier glass. The alcohol must already be going to work.

  “You’re still adjusting,” Phoebe says. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

  Vicki continues as if Phoebe hasn’t spoken. “Ron hates his new job, says he feels like he’s been demoted.” She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay, dude. I know you don’t have your fancy practice in Beverly Hills anymore, but you’re still a goddamn neurosurgeon in one of the country’s top hospitals. Demoted. He’s lucky he’s still a doctor at all and not a janitor at that hospital.”

  She falls silent for a minute, the words hanging between them like a vapor. Phoebe is tempted to ask what exactly happened with Ron’s job, but it doesn’t feel like the right time yet. Vicki is still winding herself up to let more out. “And then there’s my son. I get the sense he’s spinning his wheels too. He hardly mentions Stanford anymore. You know how many years I put into making sure that kid had the grades and the athletics to get his scholarship? He has a full ride, and now it’s like he’s ready to blow it. I suppose that’s my fault too.”

  Phoebe raises her eyebrow. Jake has a scholarship? Interesting, given Daddy’s prestigious line of work. Neurosurgeons from Beverly Hills can usually afford to send their kids to college without that kind of help. She’s almost curious enough to ask more about this, but Vicki keeps talking.

  “Ron and I do nothing but scream at each other these days. I’m surprised you can’t hear our fighting. Or have you heard it? Don’t worry, you won’t embarrass me if you say yes. I’m already mortified enough for all of us.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. This place is like a fortress.”

  Vicki pulls out her menthols and lights one. “Lucky you. Our house is like Swiss cheese. Drafty windows, roof leaks, bad central air. You name it, it needs fixing. The place is a total lemon.”

  Phoebe frowns. “Didn’t you need to have all that inspected before you bought it?”

  “I guess I should come clean on that. We’re actually just renting it.” She bows her head, as if in deep shame. Phoebe can understand a little of her distress, at least from a status standpoint, but it seems far from the end of the world. If anything, Vicki should be relieved not to be saddled with a mortgage on the place.

  “Well, then the owners should be responsible for repairs and things, right?”

  Vicki sighs. “You would think that. But the way we did the lease . . . it was kind of rushed and slapped together. Basically I thought we could handle whatever little problems popped up. I assumed a house around here couldn’t need that much work. I was stupid.”

  “That really sucks.” It’s her stock answer when she can think of nothing supportive to say, because yeah, Vicki was pretty stupid. Lake Forest is lush with generational family estates worth millions of dollars, but they’re still just houses, and many of them are pretty old. They’ll fall apart like any other pile of wood and brick when they’re not maintained.

  “Ron was on board with everything too.” She pauses. “Well, mostly, anyway. He didn’t want us to get the place, but he eventually came around. And he was fine until things started going south with it. Now it’s all my fault, and he reminds me every chance he gets. But we were also rushed into a move in part because of him.” Vicki takes another long drag from her cigarette and wipes her eyes.

  “Why did he rush you to move?”

  “He lost his job.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. He’s really a quack. The only reason he has this Northwestern gig is because he still has a few friends in high places. Isn’t that how it always works? They say the cream always rises. People forget that turds also float. Eventually, he’ll screw this up and get flushed, and we’ll all go down the drain with him.”

  Phoebe winces. Vicki, clearly buzzed and well on the way to drunk, drains her glass and empties the remainder of the bottle into it, bringing the chardonnay nearly to the rim. “Do you mind?” she asks, as if Phoebe would object now.

  “Have at it.” For the first time in a while, she feels like her current sorrows aren’t as much in need of drowning. At least she has a good roof over her head. At least her chunk of the Noble fortune is insulated from the current fallout over her father’s stupidity, almost as if he saw to that. Phoebe feels guilty now, though she isn’t sure why.

  “It’s strange how everything can fall apart in a way that makes you wonder if a higher power not only is in charge, but has a vendetta against you in particular, you know?”

  “I do, yeah,” Phoebe says. Though not in the way Vicki means it. She thinks of her father’s many ill-fated wives, to start, and all the other damaged lives he left in his wake, more coming out of the woodwork every day. She can understand how it can feel like a higher power is ruining your life, because for many people, Daniel Noble was that higher power.

  “It’s been a nightmare, Phoebe. No, not a nightmare. Nightmares. Plural, all running together. All I do anymore is wait for shoes to drop. Maybe Ron will get another malpractice suit and blow this job too. I almost count on it.”

  She shakes her head. “Wow.”

  Vicki looks at her with a crooked grin. “Speechless, huh?”

  “I’m sorry. I never know the right thing to say.”

  “It’s okay. I get it. My life is a clusterfuck. Every day I get up and look in the mirror and I’m also, like, wow.”

  Phoebe is beginning to regret opening this can of worms. As much venting as Vicki has done this morning, it seems like she’s holding back a tidal wave more of pain and rage, which begs the questions: how much worse is it going to get, and will there be some special request at the end? A sourness fills Phoebe’s mouth as she remembers why she always avoided getting too close to people. Those expectations, they always come around eventually, don’t they? And in many cases, they’re holding out a hat.

  Shame washes over her as she realizes how much she just reminded herself of her father. Vicki is only looking for someone to listen. It isn’t fair to assign any intent beyond that. And what if she did happen to ask for some kind of assistance? Five minutes ago, Phoebe was happy to call her a friend. Helping each other is what friends do.

  But wouldn’t it also be a little unfair of Vicki to put her in a position where she has to say yes or risk making things permanently awkward with her neighbor? She doesn’t seem like that kind of person, but they’ve only known each other a few weeks. If she’s learned anything about people recently, it’s that you can know them your whole life and still discover they’re strangers.

  Despite her doubts, though, Phoebe says the only other thing she can think of, the only thing that seems appropriate when a friend opens up about her troubles: “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Vicki’s expression is part relief, part surprise, part . . . resentment? Phoebe wonders if she stepped wrong, but Vicki drains the last of her wine, sets down the glass, and takes a deep breath. “It’s really about my mother. She—”

  The doorbell rings twice in quick succession, and they both jump. Vicki upsets the plate of mostly untouched food on her lap and lets out an irritated squawk as the quiche and her fork slide off onto the patio stones. “Oh damn it!”

  “It’s okay.” Phoebe stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

  She glides to the door, relieved at the break in the tension. It doesn’t matter who it is at this point. Could be a traveling Bible salesman or even a reporter asking about her father for all she cares. When she sees Jake, however, her heart takes its customary leap and she smiles big. She wasn’t expecting to see him at all today. “Hey, what’s up?”

  He isn’t smiling back. If anything, he looks a little pale. And his T-shirt is wet all down the front. “Is my mom still here?” he asks.

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  She leads him toward the patio, but Vicki is already in the kitchen depositing her plate into
the sink. When she sees her son, she frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  He clears his throat and immediately begins to fidget. “So, uh, the kitchen is flooded.”

  Vicki gapes. “Flooded? What did you do?”

  “I only ran the dishwasher like you asked me to. Water started coming out from under the sink. It looks like one of the hoses gave out. I went to turn off the water at the cutoff valve, but I think we need to, you know, call someone.”

  “Please. If it’s just a bad hose and a little water, I can take care of that myself.”

  He heaves another sigh. “It isn’t just the hose. When I was turning off the water, the valve kind of broke off. I have duct tape holding back the spray, but just barely.”

  Her face goes nearly the color of a beet. “Why didn’t you turn off the water at the main valve?”

  “I don’t know where that is. I looked around by the water heater, but I’m not a plumber.”

  Vicki balls her hands into fists and shakes them at the sides of her head. “This is great! Just . . . just perfect!” She turns to Phoebe, her face branded with rage that seems almost accusatory. “See what I’m dealing with here? I can’t catch a break for even one goddamn hour!”

  Phoebe opens her mouth, but she isn’t sure what to say that won’t sound grossly inadequate. “Wow” certainly won’t do it. But it doesn’t matter, because Vicki is storming toward the front door, with Jake trailing along behind her. He throws several apologetic glances back at her over his shoulder. Seconds later, the door slams closed, leaving Phoebe shuddering in a vacuum of silence. She’s considering helping herself to another slice of Vicki’s quiche when her phone rings. It’s Wyatt. She’s tempted to let it go to voicemail, but she needs to fill the void with another voice, even if it hasn’t been very friendly of late. Also, she can’t remember the last time he called her from work. It could be an emergency of some sort. Though would she still be his main point of contact if he was having one of those?