Ted had come home from work with flowers yesterday. He’d given her a kiss on the cheek as well.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Jillian had said, worried by these uncharacteristic gestures, so they’d waited till bedtime to talk, side by side in their flannel pajamas in the dark.
He loved her. There was no doubt about that, he said. She closed her eyes, waiting for the “but,” which soon followed: He just needed a little break from intimacy for now. Not forever, he assured her, just for a little while. How long was a little while? she asked him, but he didn’t have an answer. “It’ll happen though. Then I’ll get right back on the horse!” he said, then, hearing how it sounded, amended, “I mean, back in the saddle.” Which was no better.
She wasn’t sure how to answer, and so she hadn’t. It wasn’t a question anyway. What would a refusal to accept his personal moratorium mean? Divorce? Who divorced someone for a temporary suspension in marital relations? Soon the stress of the town would be a thing of the past, and then they could revive that aspect of their lives, she told herself, wanting to believe it. They had fallen asleep nestled like spoons. It wasn’t sex, but it was something. But it wasn’t sex.
She reviewed the choreography for “Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly” in her head. She and the three kids in the show had been taught the steps during rehearsal tonight. The song was a corny one, no doubt considered risqué when the show opened on Broadway in the mid-1940s. “I feel a little silly, singing it. My country accent is supposed to be over the top,” she said in an over-the-top country accent.
Ted made a noise that seemed to indicate that he was listening, but Allison suspected he hadn’t heard a word. He had marked the spots on the map where the trees had been damaged around town, a total of twenty-three now. Granted, most of them were the size of brooms, but they were still trees.
Who was doing it? She made a list of possibilities. Nick, okay, he was definitely a suspect, having cut down so many trees on his properties; but there were a lot of other possibilities, people who were just fed up with things and needed a release. There was a lot to be fed up with these days. The idea that someone would want to exert control over something, even something as weird as the trees, was not unreasonable. Could it be Lucy? Could the bulletin board and the trees and everything else be part of a scheme to drum up business for the café? Maybe she wanted to expand it. Turn it into a chain. Or maybe it was that crazy new principal at the elementary school. Or Ted himself. Maybe he was trying to frame Nick. The idea was ridiculous—but he was probably at least WP Tree Poet. She’d liked the Khalil Gibran quotation the town had woken up to today, Life without love is like a tree without blossoms or fruit.
“What?” Ted said, feeling her eyes on him.
“Looking for patterns, Monsieur Poirot?”
He turned the map sideways and squinted. “Don’t seem to be any.”
He was absolutely obsessed. Was she wrong to ask him about them? Did that make her an enabler?
Not that trees were his only obsession. He was obsessed about the moratorium hearing too. He’d collected more than enough signatures, a personal victory. He worked on his testimony in bed at night, often reading it aloud to Allison, whose job it was to make sure it didn’t go over three minutes. He seemed to think his nightly changes were radical, but Allison usually couldn’t tell the difference between one version and the next. She’d be able to recite it from memory by the time the hearing rolled around next week. He was even making a slide show to accompany it, not a PowerPoint, but with actual old Kodak slides.
Jillian nodded her head up and down like a bobblehead on a car dashboard. It was a wonder she could concentrate on what she was writing, her head was moving so much.
“How can you concentrate on your schoolwork with music playing?” she said, but Jillian didn’t hear her.
Ted put on his glasses, which he only wore when he was tired. They made him look older. They’d been a couple for more than half their lives. No wonder their sex life had died. Life was changing, evolving, for better or for worse. Soon they’d be old. Jillian would have to take care of them before long. She was glad she and Jillian were so close. Or were they close? She couldn’t remember the last time they had had more than a two-sentence conversation.
“What are you listening to, Jill?” she said, wondering, literally, what was going on in her daughter’s head.
Jillian sang aloud. “What?” she said, when she caught Allison looking at her. She pulled out an earbud, looking cross.
“You were singing.”
“I was not!” she yelled.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Allison said in her best faux-chipper voice. “Join me?”
“Math sucks,” Jillian said.
Allison weighed her options. If she ignored the bad language, it might encourage Jillian to open up to her. But in the end, Allison couldn’t resist suggesting an alternative. “Math stinks,” she said.
Jillian rolled her eyes and stopped up her ears again.
“Candy could use a walk,” Ted said.
“Not tonight.” Allison had the right to go alone. Ted never took Candy on his nightly walks. He came home with mud on his shoes. He claimed just to be taking inventory of damaged trees and property, but Allison suspected he had visions of catching Nick in the act, and turning him in, vigilante-style. It reminded her of when Jillian and Sofia used to wander the neighborhood in raincoats and sunglasses, pretending to be spies.
And, too, you couldn’t take photos when you had a dog along. That was what Allison was going to do tonight. She grabbed her coat, camera, and tripod and walked into the glow of the night.
December was a miracle in Willard Park. Every house was decorated with tiny white lights no matter the religion of the resident, a town tradition. It looked like a toy town, despite the contrasting house sizes. The lights were officially lit on the first Sunday evening in December, a ceremony that included caroling and deep cauldrons of hot chocolate. The town tree, a Douglas fir planted on the green years ago so they wouldn’t have to sacrifice a new one each year, stood nearly twenty-five feet tall. Schoolchildren made the ornaments—religion neutral, so as not to offend.
Usually neighbors on ladders decorated the town tree, but this year Nick and Kaye, as cochairs of the decorating committee, had hired a company to do the job courtesy of Cox Design and Build. A woman in a suit and dangerously high heels had stood below, directing, clipboard in hand. The result was worthy of a magazine. There were so many lights, kids could play by the glow of them after dark, which, while excessive, was also kind of fun.
Allison appraised the house decorations as she walked around the block, judging them privately since the town no longer offered prizes, a practice that ended a few years before, when someone unstrung most of the lights on what would certainly have been the winning house. The Garcias had electric candles in the windows and icicle lights dripping from the eaves, like the witch’s house in “Hansel and Gretel.” Nice, Allison thought. The Conways had opted for blinking lights around the window frames. A family of mechanical deer grazed on the lawn. A little tacky.
Nick and Kaye had put up colored lights their first December in Willard Park, prompting the town council to draft a letter informing them that colored lights were against town regulations. This year their house was outlined with white lights like a drawing in a coloring book—a streamlined and effective look. The same woman who had coordinated the decorating on the green had supervised the work. It went against the spirit of the thing to hire out, but Allison had to admit that the house looked magical. The winner.
Allison set up her tripod on the sidewalk, lowering the legs so she could take the shot from the ground up, to make it look like a looming fairy-tale castle. If she angled it right, she could make the stone lions by the front door look life-size. She was about to screw the camera onto the tripod when Rex came around from the back of the house, barking.
“Hush, Rex.”
He barked again, but it was more of a c
ome-pat-me bark than an I’m-going-to-eat-you-up bark. Allison crept up the path and sat on the top step, hoping to mollify him. Rex sniffed her hands and legs, his tail wagging. He emitted excited yelps periodically and licked her face.
Nick opened the front door. “Rex!” he yelled. Then he saw Allison.
“Hi.” If she acted normal, maybe it wouldn’t seem weird that she was sitting on his steps. “He’s a good watchdog.”
“Can I help you, Mrs. Miller?”
“I was hoping to take some pictures of your lights, Mr. Cox. They’re stunning.” The praise felt like a betrayal, but there it was. She’d said it.
Nick came out on the porch, the storm door easing closed behind him. “I suppose Ted’s home preparing for the hearing?”
“I’ll just be going . . .”
“No. Stay.” He sat beside her. He was barefoot, in jeans and a dark button-down shirt—not enough clothes for a winter’s night. His feet were unexpectedly long and narrow. Practically hairless. Allison’s face grew hot with embarrassment, which was silly. They were only feet.
“Is it for your book?” he said.
“What?”
“The photos. Are they for your book?”
“How do you know about my book?”
“Kaye told me.”
“How does Kaye know?”
“Lindy told her,” he said. It was descending into the absurd. “Mind if I see them?”
She had a creeping sensation he would erase all of the pictures on her camera as revenge against Ted. Well, most of them were backed up. She slipped the camera strap over her head and gave it to him.
He thumbed through the shots, making positive sounds. He smelled like wine. Allison felt a little like they were on a date. Teenagers sitting on the front porch after an evening at the movies.
“These are really good,” Nick said.
“You sound surprised, Mr. Cox.”
“We should collaborate, Mrs. Miller.”
“Collaborate!” She laughed.
“Printing costs have got to be astronomical.”
“A publisher would deal with that.”
“You got one in mind?”
“I’ve got a few ideas . . .”
“It’d make a great coffee-table book.”
“It’s a history book,” she said, arching. “You and I could never ‘collaborate.’ We’d have completely different ideas. It’s all a matter of taste.”
He smiled. “Taste? You think? What do you suppose my book would look like?”
“You really want to know?”
“Absolutely.”
“A real estate book, like that glossy ‘Superior Properties’ booklet we get in the mail all the time. My guess is you’d focus on freshly minted mansions, complete with prices.”
“As opposed to the recycled newsprint you have in mind, the profits designated for the ‘Save the Ferret’ fund.” He leaned away from her, smiling, as though he expected her to hit him, which was exactly what she felt like doing: not in the way siblings were said to do—out for blood—but in a playful, giggling, go-down-groping sort of way.
“I’d better go.”
“I’ll bet we could work out a compromise. I could pay the up-front costs. I’m kind of a regular at the bank.”
“What would be in it for you?”
“Done well, it could put Willard Park on the map.”
“It is on the map. It’s a town.”
He laughed. “On the map on the map. I’ve got some ideas for this burg.” He went on to tell her about the business district he envisioned, complete with restaurants and fancy shops. He talked with his hands, framing his ideas in the air in front of both of them. “I’m a dreamer, I guess.”
“It’s not so bad to dream,” she said, again feeling like a traitor. His dream ran in direct contrast to Ted’s.
The front door opened behind them. Grant leaned outside. Allison jumped up. “Frank!” she said.
“Why it’s Annie Oakley!” He turned his fingers into guns and shot at her. His eyelids looked heavy, as though they wanted to seal shut.
“I was just going,” she said.
“This gal can sing. Did you know she could sing?” Grant said.
Nick raised his eyebrows. “I’ll bet she can.”
Allison’s face went hot. “I’d better go.”
“Have a glass of wine with us. We saved you some cab,” Nick said.
“We’re talking about the hearing. Might interest you,” Grant said.
“Nothing could interest me less,” she blurted out. “I mean . . . I didn’t say that. Good night, gentlemen.” Her photo session could wait.
Nick laughed. “Good night then, Allison.”
“Lasso you later,” Grant said.
“Yee-haw.” Allison gathered her camera and tripod and headed across her lawn, toward home.
The Christmas lights on their house went out as she stepped onto their front porch. They were on a timer, set to go off at ten thirty, but the serendipity of the timing made it feel like a judgment. She glanced back to see whether Nick had gone back inside. He hadn’t. He was watching her from his porch, his feet bare upon the wood.
13
DECEMBER 14
If Suzanne heard “Jingle Bell Rock” one more time, she was going to take one of the guys who was selling tiny remote-controlled airplanes throughout the shopping mall and throw him and his little Styrofoam planes down the escalator. Four months into the pregnancy, she was supposed to be beyond the nausea, but the lights and the noise, the sugary stench emanating from the stores, the pomposity of Santa’s crystal palace in the atrium, and Santa himself, who had winked at her lasciviously as she walked by, all had a weakening effect.
She ought to be relishing this, she reminded herself. Allison had offered to watch Adam again today so Suzanne could go to her ultrasound appointment and her obstetric appointment—a gynecological double date that culminated in a shopping mall nightcap. A terrible combination, but arguably better than sitting in a sauna watching Nina Strauss sweat her way through hot yoga. Who knew if she would get another chance to Christmas shop? Enjoy, enjoy! she commanded herself, marching into Nordstrom’s boys’ department. She chose three size 6 polo-style shirts in yellow, red, and blue; a little white dress shirt and tie; a blue pullover vest and a pack of socks, then went up to the men’s department, where she bought the same for Grant in men’s large.
She fought a yearning to slip over to the baby department to buy something tiny and soft for the baby. She didn’t want to jinx the pregnancy. She wanted this child. She hadn’t realized how much until she went in for her ultrasound. She’d been nervous driving to the appointment. What if something was wrong with the baby?
Suzanne, lying on her back beside the ultrasound monitor, needing desperately to pee, had held her breath as she saw the image of the baby appear. The baby—a girl!—was perfect. She was so tiny and delicate, with her miniature forehead and nose.
Suzanne’s abdomen suddenly felt heavy. She sat in an armchair by a fern in a brass pot, an area reserved for bored husbands, and listened to the holiday pianist play “Silent Night.”
Dr. Fielding, the obstetrician Allison had recommended, was concerned about Suzanne’s cervix. He’d mentioned it twice now, once a few weeks ago, and again today. He’d had the technician who did the sonogram check its length.
“It’s a little short,” Dr. Fielding said. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
“My cervix is fine,” she said to the white ceiling. She was wearing a blue paper gown, feet in cold metal stirrups, a hard position from which to be authoritative. “It never gave me a moment’s trouble during my last pregnancy.”
Dr. Fielding peeled off his gloves and helped her up to a seated position. He had a warm smile, long eyelashes, big brown eyes. He was too good looking, really, to be an obstetrician. She and Allison often discussed his cuteness, how disconcerting it was to be attracted to your obstetrician. Not unpleasant, just disconcerting. They theorized ab
out his sex life. Was sex with his wife more like work than fun for him? Just another vagina after a day of vaginas? Allison was the one who brought it up. She was more deviant than she looked.
Adam’s size at birth—nearly nine pounds—and his eagerness to leave the womb had weakened her cervix, Dr. Fielding explained. She might need a cerclage to carry the baby to term. The word “cerclage” sounded French and lovely, like something you might find at a patisserie, or an aperitif. It sounded much less terrifying than “stitching up your vagina to keep the baby in.”
“An incompetent cervix is manageable,” Dr. Fielding said. “Not that I’m calling it that at this point.”
“Incompetent.” The word stung.
Three girls walked through the juniors’ department, laughing. Two of them, blondes, were dressed nearly identically in miniskirts without tights, ankle boots, and thin fitted jackets. A brunette in a practical-looking red parka and clogs was between them. Suzanne flashed forward to her own daughter, several years from now, out shopping with friends. One of the blondes wasn’t a girl, Suzanne saw now, but a woman: Kaye Cox; the other was her daughter, Lindy. The brunette was Jillian Miller.
Suzanne nearly called out a hello, but Jillian disappeared behind a rack of blouses before she had the chance. Suzanne thought about going over to her, but it sounded tiring. And she would have to talk to Kaye. She picked up her shopping bags instead, and slipped out of the store.
JILLIAN PULLED A SHIRT OFF THE RACK AND HELD IT UP, AS IF CONSIDERING it. What in the world was Adam’s mom doing here? Had her mom sent her to spy on her? Would there be a note on the bulletin board the next day? Jillian went to the mall without her mother’s permission.
“That is so ugly,” Lindy said, tugging on a sleeve.
“I know, right?” Jillian said. It was ugly, an odd mixture of pink and olive green with kimono-style sleeves. She looked over the top of the hanger to see if Suzanne had seen her, but she was leaving. Phew. Jillian put the shirt back on the rack, pretending to consider another equally ugly shirt, giving Suzanne time to disappear before they continued to their destination.
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