He often thought back on times spent on the ocean, the roll of the boat, the spray of salt water, the heat of the sun, the excitement of game fishing, working with the captain to help the tourists in the fighting chairs have a better chance of landing a sailfish. In prison, his thoughts had often drifted to Amanda, so deeply missing the feel and smell of her that it became a physical pain, a sort of caged anxiety he thought might make him insane. But then, one dark night, he’d come to the realization that Amanda had to be as dead to him as the man he’d killed on the dock, because he’d never be able to see her again.
But Miles still thought of her. Still longed for the way she’d made him feel.
Amanda had told him early on that they would never last, but that he would feel this way again with someone else—probably more than just one someone else. He hadn’t wanted to think that, but she’d told him it was inevitable, and it was okay, and to enjoy what they had knowing it would never be more than what it was. He’d lost himself to those thoughts—to Amanda—for months. Until the night he killed that man. And then it was over.
#
When Miles opened his eyes he was unsure of how much time had gone by. One hour? Two?
The light at Cara’s bedroom window was off. He expected that at some point before sunrise he would hear her crying again. But the dark hours slid silently by, eventually washed away by sunrise.
After breakfast Sunday morning, Miles’ father called Cara to see how she was feeling. It was another brief conversation that seemed to erase whatever hopes George had managed to recoup overnight.
“She still not well?” Miles asked.
His dad nodded rather glumly. As he looked out the kitchen window, a few leaves fell silently from the maple tree that had been planted as a seedling by whoever first owned this house over 50 years ago and since grown far too large for the small yard yet was too majestic to cut down.
“Maybe she’ll feel better later,” Miles said, then moments later, added: “I was thinking about hanging out at Juan’s this afternoon. I could bring back something you could take over to her. Maybe flowers? One of those little bouquets they sell at Trader Joe’s. They’re bright and cheerful—and not expensive.”
“That sounds nice.”
“And I’m going to ask Juan about working on his father’s food trucks.”
George thought a moment, then nodded. “Sure, son. Whatever you think’s best.”
#
Later that afternoon, when Miles and his father knocked softly on Cara’s door, she answered wearing a sweatshirt and yoga leggings, with her wavy hair pulled back in an elastic tie. She had a slight flush to her face Miles first thought might be from a fever, but she was also a little out of breath.
“Sorry I’m a mess,” she explained. “I’ve been on the treadmill.”
Miles’ father smiled. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you, George. And thank you for your concern. But I’m over feeling sorry for myself. And I’m sorry I didn’t help with the leaves yesterday, or come over for dinner.”
Miles said, “Those are for you,” indicating the bouquet his father seemed to have forgotten he was holding.
“Thank you,” Cara appreciated. “You two are so sweet. It’s been a long time since anyone brought me flowers.”
“Have dinner with us tonight,” Miles suggested.
“Yes,” his father echoed.
“All right…well…I have to clean up—obviously.”
“How about an hour?” Miles suggested.
Fifty minutes later, Cara Blakely was seated across from Miles’ father at the dining room table, wearing a v-neck sweater with a low neckline George couldn’t stop admiring. Over dinner, she said, “I can’t let myself sink waiting for a rescue boat. I’ve got to swim.”
Miles used to hear a lot of those phrases in jail—from fellow inmates or their family members—little slogans meant to prop you up and help you survive against all you couldn’t control. Like saying, And they lived happily ever after at the end of a fairy tale to paint on a smile against a future ever too uncertain and inexplicable to figure out.
“I have a career now.” Cara sounded as if reciting a self-help podcast. “And unless I give it the right priority, I’ll just be stuck in one place. And there is opportunity where I’m working. I’m lucky to be able to take advantage of it. There are credits if you contribute to bringing in a new client, or take part in the creative details of a campaign. Someone who started at the company a few months before me got a car for helping land a new account.”
“Good for you,” George said, devouring every bit of Miles’ scratch-made fish and chips.
“I’m actually going on my first work trip this week,” Cara announced. “I didn’t want to travel because I thought I’d have to be here to handle things with Ian, but that’s going to take time. I have to understand that.”
Miles heard the small crack in her voice, the uncertainty she was trying to hide, perhaps even the dread.
“I’ll be traveling this week, too,” George said.
Miles wondered if this was one of his father’s encouragements wrapped in a white lie, because he hadn’t said anything about being away.
“Just two nights,” George continued. “Wednesday and Thursday, I’ll be in Dover. You wouldn’t happen to be heading anywhere near there, would you?”
“No. Raleigh.”
“That’s a nice city,” George said. “You’ll like it.”
“I hope so. I leave tomorrow and won’t be home until Friday.” Saying her itinerary aloud caused Cara to falter.
“You’ll be fine.” George reached across the table, placed his hand over hers and squeezed reassuringly.
Cara smiled.
#
Miles was in bed, checking out a fishing website on his laptop when his father turned off the living room lights and came upstairs. “Ms. Blakely seems pretty good,” Miles said when his dad looked in to say goodnight.
“I think so. Hopefully this trip goes well for her. She asked if we’d get her mail. She’s going to drop a key tomorrow morning before she leaves.”
“Okay.”
“She also said the toilet upstairs runs sometimes and she doesn’t know why. Probably a bad flapper. So I was thinking we could fix that for her as a surprise while she’s away.”
“Sure.”
“About this business in Dover…” his father began.
Just say it, Dad, Miles thought. Whatever it is you’re worried about.
“…it’s not that far so I could drive it every day. But the company’s offered to put me up in a hotel…”
Miles said, “I’m fine here by myself.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
George nodded, but remained in the doorway—something else on his mind.
Miles waited.
“I’ve, um, also been thinking maybe I should go down to Aunt Kay’s and see Mom.”
“I talked to her yesterday,” Miles said.
His father was surprised.
“She never called me back from a couple weeks ago so I decided to try again. She sounded, well, fuzzy.”
George sighed, his happiness from being around Cara draining away.
“She’s not coming back is she?” Miles asked.
After a few seconds, his dad replied, “I don’t know.”
Miles appreciated the honesty.
His father said, “It’s not that far from Dover to Philadelphia. I’m thinking about getting a flight from there to see Mom once I’m finished work on Friday. If I do that, I won’t be back until Sunday night, maybe Monday or Tuesday depending on how Dover wraps up. It’s a substantial loss claim.”
“I’m really fine here by myself,” Miles assured.
George nodded. “Cara will be back on Friday. If you need anything I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you.”
17.
“Hey, Ms. Provence.”
Wednesday afternoon, Debra Vance looked up
when Miles Peterson entered the classroom where she sat alone, checking a stack of student papers for spelling errors.
Miles set a worn travel book on the desk in front of her. The cover featured a photograph of the Eifel Tower. “I saw this and it made me think of you.”
The slender volume featured a series of walking tours through Paris.
Vance felt herself smiling, a pleasure she tried to conceal by opening the book as if she could hide inside its pages. Only she couldn’t resist looking at Miles, her blush of happiness still very evident. “This’s so thoughtful.” She touched his forearm, a gentle contact she withdrew as soon as she realized what she’d done.
Miles seemed not to notice. “I wrote something inside.” He had her turn to the title page where he’d inscribed: For that day you pack your bags. Don’t forget to send me a postcard. – Miles Peterson.
#
For the seventh Friday in a row—every Friday now since they’d met—Miles and Jennifer returned to Georgetown.
Despite Jennifer’s insistence that her parents knew they were friends, Miles suspected she was lying. If that was the case, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d been someone’s secret.
Arm in arm, they strolled toward Georgetown University. Against the cool cloudy day, Jennifer wore a black cashmere sweater with tiny imitation pearl buttons, low-slung vintage bell bottoms with an embroidered peace symbol on the back pocket, suede ankle boots with a faux fur lining, and the scarf Miles had given her.
Once on the Georgetown campus, they blended with college students on paths partially covered with autumn leaves.
Nothing about the students’ appearances gave away whatever admissions’ qualifications they’d met to be accepted—most everyone looked pretty much the same to Miles as those working in Starbucks or the cupcake shop that always had a line or the other cupcake shop that didn’t.
“I wonder if I could get in here,” Miles wondered.
“Here?” Jennifer sounded surprised.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Have you applied?”
“No.”
“Where have you applied?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” She looked at him with concern. “You know you’ve already missed the early acceptance deadline.”
“Didn’t know there was an early acceptance deadline.”
“It tells you on the admissions packet.”
“Yeah…I imagine it would.”
She realized what he was saying. “You haven’t gotten any admissions packets, have you?”
“No.”
“Yeah—well, you need to meet with Mr. Green.”
Miles considered the university buildings, most of which appeared old and foreboding, as if built decades before historical events he’d be expected to know.
Jennifer said, “Mr. Green knows all about college admissions. You need to see him real soon. Like yesterday.”
Miles considered a campus directory, then led Jennifer toward Regents Hall, which the map depicted as the university’s science building. Only once there, he didn’t want to go inside.
The structure, unveiled in 2012, was a modern design of glass walls and metal roof, and looked as out of place as a space ship. While Miles considered just how much he hated it, Jennifer’s phone sounded warning of a text from her mother—a tone she’d first assigned to be a shriek from a horror film but had to change after her mother heard it. It was now an irritating bird chirp.
Jennifer read her mother’s text aloud. “Are you and Autee going to the movies?” She rapid- texted a reply. “May…be.” Then put away her phone.
“So is this still going to work?” Miles asked. By “this” he was referring to their plan for the night. With his dad out of town until Monday, Miles was going to fix Jennifer dinner at his house. And she was going to spend the night with him. But that depended on Autee covering for her.
“We’re good,” Jennifer said.
“You sure?”
“Mm-hm.”
Her tone was suggestive, but Miles didn’t want to misconstrue that as he had weeks ago. He’d been careful to let Jennifer establish what they’d do sexually, waiting for her softly-spoken or sometimes more excitedly-gasped Okay before taking the next step. So far that had stopped short of his being inside her—although she kept hinting that would come soon. Maybe tonight.
It had been a long time since he’d had actual sex, and Miles missed it—that sensation of being completely lost to the moment, and the residual afterglow full of promise that everything was going to be fine. The way he used to feel with Amanda—and was beginning to believe he might feel again with Jennifer.
But just when he thought he was getting to know her, Jennifer did something that surprised him, reminding Miles that he barely knew her at all.
#
Once at his house, Miles told Jennifer that his neighbor was away and he needed to get her mail, so Jennifer went along. But instead of leaving once Miles placed the single letter on the small table by Cara Blakely’s front door, Jennifer began looking around inside the house.
“What’re you doing?”
She didn’t answer. Without reaction, she considered the living room’s plain comfortable furniture, suitable for the wear-and-tear of a young boy. Also: a modest-sized flat-screen TV over the fireplace; a woven rug with frayed fringe atop original hardwood floors; and built-in shelves half-filled with books, DVD’s, and games.
In the small dining room—painted the same warm beige as the rest of the interior—Jennifer showed little curiosity about dishes and glassware in the old hutch.
In the kitchen, she peaked inside cabinets and opened the refrigerator. The room had been redone at some point, but still appeared dated even though everything was newer than in Miles’ rented house.
“What’re you looking for?” he asked, becoming uncomfortable.
Jennifer bent down to look in the freezer section. “I like to see what other people do, don’t you? What they eat. Autee’s family gets all this stuff from Costco. All these huge containers. Like a hundred of everything.” She closed the freezer, stood and looked around.
Miles said, “We should go.”
Jennifer smiled slyly at him. “You’re nervous.” She smiled. “Miles Peterson is nervous. I didn’t think that was possible.” She slid by him, back into the living room toward the front door, but Miles could tell she had no intention of leaving. She was heading for the stairs. “I wonder what’s up there… Bedrooms…? Where people sleep…? Where people…” She pretended to gasp. “…have sex. Have you been upstairs, Miles? Have you seen her bed? Have you seen where she has sex?” She picked up a framed photograph of Cara and Ian from the built-in. “Is this her? Your neighbor?”
Miles wished she’d put the picture back.
“Pretty hot,” Jennifer said. “Don’t you think?”
“We need to go.”
“Really?” She saw he was serious.
“Yeah.”
She set down the photograph, careful to return it to its exact position, then faced Miles. “What if I said…we could…do it…right now…on her bed…? Would we still need to go?”
18.
Cara Blakely’s first days in Raleigh with the small group from work had been exciting, and even managed to distract her from anxieties about Ian and her debts that seemed to be mounting faster than she’d estimated.
But she’d barely slept since Wednesday after drinks with Wendy.
Wendy Jordan was young, pretty, thin, trendy, tech-savvy, and drove a lower-end Mercedes the company leased for her. Cara didn’t fully understand Wendy’s role with the company, except that she could influence decisions and, as it turned out, had recommended Cara be included on the “Raleigh Team.”
Wendy had also made sure Cara’s room adjoined hers on the concierge level of the team’s hotel in North Hills, ate breakfast with Cara every morning. And shared drinks at night.
Wednesday evening, it had been just t
he two of them when they had the conversation that left Cara unsettled—taking her back almost 20 years to when she’d spent time in Europe. There was no way Wendy could have known about that period in Cara’s life—not even Sean knew. So it had to be a coincidence. But what if it wasn’t?
Cara had hoped getting back home would ease her anxiety. But now that she was standing in her own living room—the temperature so chilly she didn’t want to take off her coat—she felt terribly alone.
Leaving her bag by the stairs, Cara walked next door to George and Miles’ house. She forced a smile, not wanting to reveal any hint of anxiety George might detect and persuade her to talk about. Because George would not understand.
Cara knocked on the door, waited, and was about to knock louder when the door opened. Only it was Miles, not George.
“You’re home,” he said, voice caught in his throat as if she’d awakened him even though it was only 9:30 in the evening. His eyes seemed slightly dreamy.
Cara thought he might be mildly stoned, then she saw the girl on the sofa: thin and blonde like Wendy from work, only with hair that was much longer. “I’m sorry,” she apologized for interrupting.
“It’s okay... Did you have a good trip?” Miles asked.
“Yes.” Cara was still looking at the girl—curled into the sofa in a posture of unpracticed seduction, her top halfway unbuttoned, waiting for Miles to return to her.
Miles said, “Dad went down to Florida to see my mother. He’ll be back Monday.”
“I see…”
“He fixed your toilet,” Miles said. “So you shouldn’t hear that water running anymore.”
“That was very nice—thank you.” Cara nodded, grateful that someone had done something so kind for her. And whether it was because of that or something else—everything else—she felt as if she might cry. Before Miles might notice, she told him good night and turned to leave.
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 10