Equilibrium (2 page)

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean why bother?” Darcy scraped her forefinger along her thumb, working a hangnail. “It’s not like he’s there. Not like we’re visiting the rest home or something. Going to take dear old Dad out for the day. Take him for a drive around town, bring him to his favorite restaurant. Honest enough for you?”

“Crude’s not the same as honest.” Laura approached the bed and sat down a good foot away from Darcy, hoping to get closer.

Darcy sprang to standing. “I’m getting dressed now,” she said, earning the seven-days-and-counting Laura-diagnosis of moderately oppositional.

 

Distraction worked wonders.

After Darcy sailed out the door, Laura put on a pot of coffee and took out the ingredients for pancakes, tried focusing on colors and textures. The shiny gold of the yolks, the manila powder of the flour, pools of cool ivory milk reflecting the curve of the toaster.

Elle’s Explorer pulled into the driveway, the engine’s hum as familiar as her friend’s voice.

Laura peeked out the mudroom window. Elle was sitting behind the steering wheel, blowing her nose. She tilted her face toward the vanity mirror and dabbed foundation beneath her eyes.

Memories about Elle’s ex-husband, Rick, were the only thoughts that could set off her upbeat friend. She’d replay events, opening her emotional scar tissue along its purple seam, as though she sought pain to keep the relationship going.

Laura returned to her pancake batter, beat the egg yolks, and folded wet ingredients into dry. Years of slogging with Jack through his mood disorder made gentling Elle through garden-variety regret seem like a cakewalk. This problem she could fix.

Elle stumbled into the mudroom and shut the door against a cold blast of late February air. “Howdy!” She stomped week-old snow from her Ugg boots and left them at their reserved spot on the welcome mat. She hung her wool coat next to the ski jackets Darcy and Troy refused to wear unless they were in fact skiing down a slope. “Mind if I stop by?”

Laura approached Elle and hugged her first. Temporary loss of control embarrassed Elle, rendering her uncharacteristically shy.

“Just tell me what you need.” Laura smoothed her rumpled morning attire, a jarring contrast to the starched business suits Elle wore daily as proprietress of her in-town antiques and collectibles shop, Yesterday’s Dreams. Unlike Elle, no one would notice if Laura stayed in her robe all day, like an unmade bed in a vacant house. “Have you eaten?”

“I don’t like eating alone.” Elle headed straight for the abandoned pancake batter and stirred with a vengeance.

“Sit.” Laura nabbed the spoon from Elle’s hand, stopping her mid-stroke.

“Can’t you let me take care of you?”

“You have taken care of me plenty.” Laura lifted her chin and motioned at the kitchen table.

Elle and Maggie belonged to the book club Laura had been sporadically attending ever since she’d moved to Greenboro, New Hampshire, more than a decade ago. Her friends formed the closest thing to an extended family she’d ever had. Elle was like a cool older sister, Maggie the wise aunt. Days after Jack’s funeral, they’d descended on her house, refusing to leave until she snapped out of the blues. The two women had dragged her out of bed, forced her into a too-cold shower, and would’ve masticated her food for her if she hadn’t started chewing on her own.

Asserting that she was nowhere near a clinical depression didn’t seem to impress her friends. Six weeks was the definition, so why not leave her alone for another five? She’d collapsed under the weight of her loss, thinking she’d deserved a mind vacation, even though her body had refused to budge.

Apologizing to Darcy and Troy wasn’t good enough. Right when they’d needed the strong mom they’d always depended upon, she’d, however briefly, scared them to death by shutting down and staying in bed for a week. Hell, she’d scared herself. Never again.

“Rick’s marrying Trixie,” Elle said, and her face contorted.

Laura put her arms out to Elle and drew her close. So Elle’s meltdown was about a
new
Rick drama. Her ex-husband was marrying his live-in girlfriend. Five minutes must’ve set some kind of record for Elle. Less than three minutes usually passed before she’d divulge what troubled her, even though she never set out to reveal herself. Nobody ever did.

Public tears worked as a catharsis for Elle of the you-get-what-you-see personality. In contrast, Laura craved privacy. She held Elle at arm’s length and made sure she was paying close attention. “Do you want Rick back?”

“Hell, no. I should thank Trixie for ending our marriage.”

“That’s right. You’re a wonderful person. You deserve someone better than Rick.”

Elle nodded, exhaled a delicate sigh. “I know, I know.”

Laura poured batter onto the ready griddle and set a pitcher of maple syrup in the microwave. The bubbling pancakes and heating syrup melded with the aroma of brewing coffee.

Elle slid out a chair, reclined in the ladder-back. She crossed her legs, and her tweed skirt hem rose, revealing a swatch of forty-three-year-old thigh without a trace of cellulite. If Laura didn’t love Elle, she’d hate her.

Laura set their breakfasts on the table, amber syrup dribbling down the fluffy stacks. She fixed two cups of coffee, even though Elle hadn’t asked. Black for Laura. Cream, no sugar, for Elle, just the way she liked it.

Ten minutes later, Laura wiped her mouth, then cleared her plate from the table. “Why the suit? Isn’t this your day off?”

Elle spoke through her last bite of pancake. “I’m redoing the display windows, getting them ready for spring. Want to help?” Elle’s face brightened with the idea. “We had so much fun the last time we dressed windows together!”

Laura attempted to reconfigure her mental to-do list and find a slot to assist her friend. Elle needed moral support, and Laura enjoyed proving her creativity beyond the pages of Jack’s manuscripts.

Jack. Laura’s shoulders tensed. “Oh, I, uh . . .”

Elle squinted at Laura, then dashed into Laura’s office and returned with the hard copy of her list. Any friend of Laura’s knew nothing around here manifested as real unless it journeyed from mind to paper first.

“After months of stressing over the estate, I thought I’d feel relieved, but I don’t. I’m feeling a little unwell today,” Laura said, and recounted the graying out she’d skirted in the mudroom.

Elle looked up from Laura’s notepad, revealing tears ready to drop and ruin her recently repaired makeup. “Why didn’t you say something? I should be helping you clean, not rearranging knickknacks at my shop.”

“Don’t you dare start, or I won’t be able to stop. We’ll be two fools crying in the kitchen all day.” Laura tightened her fabric belt, crossed her arms, and exhaled like a blowfish.

Elle wrestled a tissue from her blazer’s breast pocket. “I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year,” she said through the tissue. “Did you ever get around to putting an ad in the paper to rent out Jack’s studio?”

“No,” Laura said, even though Elle already knew the answer. Laura had discussed the idea with the kids months ago. Troy had thought it was a logical way to use the now-empty space. And Darcy had said she couldn’t care less, practically a glowing endorsement. But Laura wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Elle meant well. She was just looking for visible change, evidence of the forward passage of time.

Laura had made a small change to the studio that might pacify Elle. “Want to see something?”

“Sure?” Elle shrugged and followed Laura through the mudroom to Jack’s studio door. Laura drew the skeleton key from her robe pocket and twisted it in three convoluted angles. The door gave way and soughed open.

Elle flinched.

“Oh, right. You haven’t seen his studio since—it’s okay. It’s all fixed,” Laura said.

Elle swung her long hair over her shoulder and walked ahead of Laura, trailing false confidence. “It looks exactly like I remember it.” She directed her gaze toward the denim futon and lost all natural color beneath her tawny blush.

“It’s a new futon,” Laura said. “Just picked it up last week.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a different slipcover?”

“Then it wouldn’t look the same.”

Elle shook her head, agreeing to nothing. Instead, she focused on the floorboards—the cherry stain and polyurethane finish worn off unevenly, in even worse condition than the neglected pine flooring in the rest of the house. Laura had once talked of actually hiring a service to refinish all the floors, but that was before.

Elle looked her in the eye. “So how’s the money situation? You have enough?”

Laura tried a laugh, but it came out like a hiccup instead. “Enough for now. Thanks to Jack’s posthumous sales boost, his royalty check will keep us for the next nine months.” And thanks to Jack’s previous suicide attempts, he’d never been able to obtain life insurance. She shrugged. “We’re used to living royalty to royalty.”

Elle touched Laura’s shoulder with her fingertips. “By the way, a guy from my spinning class is looking for a rental. This studio would work great.” Elle clicked her tongue against her teeth, counting out imagined money. “You could probably get eight hundred a month, if you include utilities. Easy passive income.”

Elle and her schemes. Her friend’s ex-husband-related tears were real, but they weren’t the primary reason for Elle’s “impromptu” visit. Laura should’ve known as soon as Elle had uttered “by the way
.
” The fact Elle had crunched numbers for Laura sealed the deal.

“I’ll think about it.” Laura didn’t like seeming unappreciative. She simply wasn’t ready to give up Jack’s studio, the seat of his soul, even when Elle’s solution for her money troubles made perfect sense financially.

“But he’s looking now. Just talk to him. His name is Aidan Walsh. He’s a nice guy.”

“I said, I’ll think about it.”

“After all Jack put you through.” Elle’s lower jaw quivered. “How can you enshrine him like this?” Elle looked around the room, swiping her arm through the air, as if she wanted to strike every object, from the denim futon to Jack’s handwritten sticky notes framing the computer monitor, the ink smudged where Laura had tried absorbing her husband’s last words through her fingertips.

“That’s not how I see it. I owe him everything.” Marrying Jack and having his children gave her the only family she’d ever have, her reason for getting up every morning. She understood the difference between her husband and his mood disorder. Besides, playing the blame game wouldn’t rewrite history and return the only man she’d ever loved.

“No. He owes you everything. You single-handedly kept the man alive for a decade. I mean, how many times did he go off his meds? How many times did you call the police to track him down before he hurt himself, before—” Elle pressed her lips together, restraining the words she’d intended to say. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just really hard hearing you defend him.”

Laura swallowed through a suddenly sore throat. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll talk to your friend,” Laura said, if only to pacify Elle and give herself time to decide.

Elle stared at her, unblinking, as though waiting for Laura to change her mind. Elle raised her hands. “Hallelujah! Let’s go clean those bathrooms!” She took Laura by the elbow and guided her from the studio.

“Elle? I really don’t want you cleaning my bathrooms. The overflowing trash, Troy’s lousy middle of the night aim.” Laura gave Elle’s crisp outfit a once-over. “And you’re not dressed for scrubbing toilets.”

Elle held a finger in the air and pulled down an alternate solution. “I’ll send my cleaning lady over, my treat.”

Laura shook her head. “I need some time alone. Know what I mean?”

“Positive?”

She could blast some of her favorite music—Adele, Ray LaMontagne, Train—and scrub the bathroom grout until either her mind silenced or her knuckles bled, whichever came first. “I’ll be fine.” Laura flashed her practiced smile. “Get to work and don’t worry about me.”

A few steps away from Jack’s studio, healthy color was already seeping back into Elle’s cheeks. “How about tonight? Need me and Maggie tonight?”

“Tonight?” Her last night with Jack, Laura had served his favorite dinner, brisket and red potatoes. His gravelly voice had thrummed through her body, and she’d resonated with his every word. Hands firm along her waist, he’d guided her up the stairs to their bedroom. He’d warmed her through the night.

“I need, I need . . .” Laura said.

Elle nodded. “Uh-huh. Maggie and I will be over at five,” she said, and kissed Laura on the cheek.

Laura had meant to say, “I need to be alone with the kids,” but one look from Elle and,
poof
, the sentence had vanished.

Soul sisters like Elle got you into the habit of telling the truth, whether you wanted to or not.

Chapter 2

I
mpersonating a dumb blonde got them every time. Darcy waited until the Monte Carlo stopped directly in front of the high school entrance, timed the cleavage reveal perfectly. Hanging out with a cute boy after school was way better than Market Basket with Mom. She unzipped the hoodie her homeroom teacher insisted she wear for the entire day, despite the school’s overactive heating system. “No midriff showing,” Mr. Burke had said, while staring right at her bare belly button. She glanced at Heather and handed her backpack to Cam, bounced to the driver’s side of the idling stack of metal, and rested her elbows on the window frame until Nick got a good eyeful.

“Got room for three more?”

“Three more what?” Nick grinned like crazy, deepening his ever-present dimples. She could see why all the girls were going gaga over the newest boy in town, but she didn’t impress easily.

Darcy signaled to her waiting friends without acknowledging Nick’s lame joke. The plans she and Nick had made during lunch on Monday didn’t include her best friends as chaperones, but she liked first-date protection. “Nick—this is Cam and Heather.”

Nick nodded at her chest, as if she’d introduced him to her boobs instead of her best friends. Cam opened the side door and held the bucket seat forward for Heather. Heather did her best to avoid contact with Cam after he climbed into the backseat, angling her legs to the side.

“
You
sit next to me.” Nick looked up from her cleavage for the first time and gave her a tiny jolt when his violet eyes made contact with hers. Maybe he had promise after all.

“Whatever.” Darcy came around to the passenger seat and grappled the shoulder strap across her body while Nick peeled out of the parking lot. Serious testosterone overload, even for a junior.

The boys’ middle school basketball team ran down the snow-cleared sidewalk between the middle school and high school for their daily warm-up. Darcy picked Troy out from the line. Apparently brain-dead, she waved, giving her brother permission to jog backward, flailing his arms as if he were signaling a plane.

“Where to?” Nick said.

“The lake would be good.” She angled a glance at Nick, checked out his blond highlights, his overuse of hair products.

“Is the park open?” At the stop sign, Nick dialed up the heat and turned on the stereo, blasting heavy metal through the vehicle.

Darcy lowered the volume and changed the station to the rock she preferred. “Of course not. But we’re not going to the park. We’re going across from the park. Take a left.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Show me the way.”

What kind of girls was Nick used to? Darcy had heard all the rumors, of course. How he’d hooked up with a zillion girls. How he’d been kicked out of school in Nashua for dealing drugs. How he’d hit a teacher. But rumors weren’t always true. She of all people should know how stories got out of control and took on a life of their own.

Darcy reclined in the seat, letting the lyrics for “Breathe” wash over her body. Sing it, Missy. She could relate. Life sucked, and then you died. “Got anything to drink?”

“Cooler’s in the back. Pass my girl a beer.”
His girl?
Give her an eighth of a break. She wasn’t anyone’s girl, not since Daddy had died.

Cam fished through the cooler’s ice cubes and handed Darcy a Bud.

“Thanks.” Her two best friends in the back, a cute boy, cold beer. One more thing would rocket the afternoon into nirvana. “Got anything else in the cooler?”

“Nope, in my pocket.” Nick grabbed her hand and held it against the herb-filled bulge on his thigh. “Enough for everyone.”

“Good.” Darcy withdrew her hand and pretended to need two hands to open her beer. Mom would pitch a fit if she found out she sometimes partied. Since elementary school, Mom had warned her and Troy about the dangers of doing drugs and alcohol, leaving out the part Darcy had figured out on her own: their odds of getting Daddy’s bipolar disorder and how nonprescription meds would make it worse. But Daddy had listened to his shrink’s warnings, and look how well that had turned out. “Take a right at the lights, then it’s the third driveway. Says
private drive
.”

“Your folks’ place?”

Darcy popped the tab and took a sip. Beer misted from the can’s mouth, tickling her nose. “Don’t know whose house it is.”

“Gotcha.” Nick smiled, seeming to understand their tradition of trespassing.

“She doesn’t have folks,just a mother,” Heather said, chiming in only to save Darcy from explaining her life. Yet again.

“Leave the car facing out, in case we have to bolt.” No movement in or around the abandoned cottage. No sign warning against unauthorized entry. No reason to obey the law. Darcy unlatched her seat belt. “Still looks empty. It’s our place now.”

Nick cut the engine and let out a whoop, startling sparrows from a low bush into the pines.

Heather untangled herself from the backseat and ran ahead.

“Wait a minute!” Darcy chased Heather to the cottage, her sneakers sinking into the snowy yard. “You okay?”

“Sure, why?”

“You’re kind of quiet today. I mean, more than usual.”

“Hey, that wasn’t here last fall.” A weathered hammock hung between two spindly pines. The trees listed inward. The ropes strained. Heather gave the hammock a halfhearted prod, and the crapped-out netting swayed.

Darcy felt herself shaking her head, her whole body saying no. “Don’t touch it.”

Cam came up behind Heather and swung the cooler into her butt. “Quit it,” Heather said. Cam set the cooler down and pretended to sulk.

Nick ran past Darcy and hurled himself sideways onto the hammock, pitching it back and forth.

“There’s room for two. Come to Daddy.” Nick held out his arms to Darcy, as if she were a toddler needing direction.

“Shut up, Nick.” Heather crossed her arms against the image Darcy couldn’t block out, no matter how hard she tried.

The backyard hammock at home had been their special place for years. Even when Daddy was too down to manage anything else, they’d swing for hours. Sometimes he’d ask her to memorize poems and recite verse back to him. Darcy found out the hard way that some poems served as a foreshadowing of events to come. She should’ve understood the cautionary tale when he’d asked her not to tell her mother about their secret Shakespeare sonnet.

Darcy snatched up the cooler and ran down the trail to the beach. She squeezed through the overgrown bushes and climbed up the slippery rock path to her favorite perfectly flat boulder. Snow covered the lake, and she blinked against the reflected light till her sight adjusted. She sat, drew up her legs, hugged her knees. Her throat burned, dry as a bone, and she gulped at the beer.

“What the fuck, Darcy? You’re pissing Nick off, you know.” Cam came up the path alone, sent as a messenger. He plunked down on the rock and stretched out his legs.

She knew what to do with a messenger. “I was just wondering. Could you possibly use less creative language?” Even she sometimes cursed, but only for shock value. “Sure
fuck
could be construed as colorful language. But swearing is generally used as a defense mechanism, a lazy man’s way to communicate,” she said, repeating her father’s warning word for word.

“You used to be nice, Darcy.” He spoke through a swallow of beer, wiped dribble off his chin with the back of his hand.

Evidently, she’d disappointed him by changing into someone he had trouble recognizing. She didn’t even recognize herself lately, so she kept experimenting.

Cam frowned. He swung the heel of his sneaker into a patch of ice, breaking off chunks. His outrageously long eyelashes curled up to meet the mane of thick curls drooping over his forehead. When they were both eight, he’d begged her to trim his feminine lashes for him, and she’d slipped. Instead of telling, Cam had covered for her. Told his mother he’d fallen against a fence picket during a game of tag. A flesh-toned scar still cut across his brow bone.

“Sorry.” Darcy rubbed Cam’s shoulder, trying to erase the verbal jabs she’d given him.

“Heather thinks Nick’s going to ask you to the prom.”

It was Darcy’s turn to sputter on her beer. Last week, she’d mentioned wanting to go to the junior prom to Nick as a joke he’d apparently taken seriously. Something ridiculous like a bunch of teenage girls dressing up like fairy princesses might prove a worthy distraction. For the boys, the evening suggested a promise not evident in any fairy tale she’d ever read. No happy ever after, just happy for about fifteen minutes. Or so she’d heard. Despite rumors to the contrary, she was still holding on to her virginity, wearing it like a hoodie she could unzip for optimal impact when she was ready.

“Am I supposed to tell you my answer before he even asks me? Take away all the suspense? What would be the fun in that?”

Cam shoved her with the heel of his hand. “Quit it, Darcy. You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Umm.” She totally agreed with him. Even she had trouble swallowing how nasty she could get, how far she’d go to produce interesting reactions. Sometimes, she’d get really quiet inside, and her mind would slow down to listen to words she could hardly believe she was saying. Like the way she spoke to her mother this morning about going to Daddy’s grave.

Cam flipped his sweatshirt’s hood over his head. For warmth, he tucked his right hand into the sweatshirt’s left sleeve, his left hand into the right, a ritual he’d practiced since preschool. What would she do without her quirky Cam?

Cam glanced over at her, responding to her unbending stare, the close scrutiny of his every move. He shook his head, stood up, and guzzled down the rest of his beer.

She should really be nicer to Cam, instead of treating him like her brother. Cam refused to discuss her father, even though Cam’s father had been the first person her mother had called after finding Daddy’s body. She wondered what exactly her mom had said to Mr. Mathers. Something like,
Uh, Tom, I think I found one of your guns.
Then Mr. Mathers must’ve told Cam’s mom, energizing the story of her father’s last drama through the small town, leaving no one untouched. Each person took the story way too personally, like Cam, or not nearly personally enough.

Heather and Nick crunched up the path, walking in perfect unison—right leg, left leg, arms swinging in agreement. Heather had told him. Everything. Why else would he be looking at her like that? Meeting her gaze, then staring at his feet, as if his shoes would tell him what to do next. Stay or flee.

Darcy pulled her legs up under her, took a sip of beer, and stared out at the lake. Nature never shied away from you. Last week, she’d stood in the yard, catching snowflakes on her tongue. Another six weeks, and spring would come. Then white dandelions would pop up across yards all over town. Then little girls would close their eyes, blow on the fluff, and pray they’d remain their daddies’ sweethearts forever. Then her daddy would be gone for a whole year.

Nick sat down right beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and took a beer. He held the can between his knees, depressed the tab, and hooked an arm around her shoulder. She didn’t mean to shudder from his touch.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

She tried to gauge his level of pity, how repulsed he might be by the story of her life. His eyes didn’t give him away. Nick had moved to Greenboro a few weeks ago, and nobody had clued him in to one of the town’s most notorious former citizens—writer in residence and crazy person in residence Jack Klein. Well, good. The story must’ve finally died down and been replaced by more recent gossip. Come to think of it, Nick was the most recent gossip.

The notion of their going out together suddenly made perfect sense.

“I like your earring.” She slid her finger over the thin gold hoop straddling his left lobe, then dropped her hand when Nick didn’t look away.

“Want it?” He fussed at his lobe and offered the earring to her. “I have others.” He pushed back her hair to reveal the diamond studs she always wore, a gift from her dad.

On reflex, Darcy covered her earrings.

“Okay.” Nick heaved a sigh and snapped the hoop back on his earlobe. “I don’t have a dad, either, you know.”

“Is he dead?” It was a disgusting thought, but the very possibility of someone finally understanding actually excited her.

“No, not dead. Just divorced. I only wish he were dead.”

“Why?” She’d given up wishing years ago in favor of bargaining with God, telling Him she’d be good, do more chores, if only Daddy would get better. But she’d never wished him dead. He’d done enough of that himself.

“It’d be easier. I like things easy. That’s what my mom says.”

Didn’t sound exactly like a compliment to Darcy, but Nick seemed to think so, judging by the way he was smiling at her. Heather and Cam sat at the boulder’s edge, dangling their legs. A few feet away, they were in their own world. Good for Cam. He’d had a crush on Heather forever. Heather never seemed to notice how Cam trotted by her side, like a lovesick puppy. Darcy even thought they looked good together—Heather’s stick-straight blond hair working to balance out Cam’s thicket of dark curls. Whenever Darcy tried bringing up the subject of any boy lately, not just Cam, Heather would change the topic. As if fussing over trouble with hair and acne were more amusing than boys. Nothing was more amusing than boys. Darcy placed her hand on Nick’s pocket and gave him a moment to consider what she might be after.

“Oh, princess wants some weed.”

“I’m not a princess.” In all the Disney movies, the heroines were either orphans or came from single-parent households. Hey, maybe she was a princess. And he was Prince Charming, sliding a baggie of marijuana from his low-slung jeans and sprinkling the dried leaves into a tidy row on a rolling paper.