The Perfect Neighbors (10 page)

She grabbed the lunch bag and got out of the car, stepping over a little pile of sawdust just inside the front door. She passed a man who was taking a loose screw out of his pocket and holding it up against a display to find a match. Kellie could hear Jason laughing and she looked down another aisle to find her husband chatting with a petite blonde with a red shopping basket looped over her arm.

Kellie started to step toward them and call out a greeting, but something made her stop. She moved back, camouflaging herself behind the aisle divider, and continued to watch.

“Definitely,” Jason was saying, “or at least one of the Farrelly brothers movies.”

The blonde burst into laughter again. Kellie could tell the woman liked Jason; her body language all but shouted it.

She watched as Jason reached up to the top shelf, his shirt gaping up to reveal a few inches of pale skin. He'd gotten thicker around the middle during the past few years, and he now wore his shirt out instead of tucked in. Jason grabbed a lantern advertised to light up a room in the case of a power outage—Kellie had two in her basement—then handed it to the woman.

“You'll need some D batteries, too,” he said. “They're in the next aisle.”

Before Jason could spot her, Kellie hurried to the front of the store and left Jason's lunch on the counter. Later, she'd tell him she hadn't wanted to disturb him when he was helping a customer.

If they ever divorced, Jason would be fine, Kellie thought as she got back into her minivan and started the engine. Another woman would snap him up, and be grateful for his kind, steady nature and his regular work hours and his willingness to tackle projects around the house.

Kellie wasn't the slightest bit worried about Jason's reaction to the cute blonde. She couldn't imagine Jason getting drunk like Frank Fitzgibbons and trying to cop a feel, or contemplating having an affair. Jason was so content. He loved working with his father, he loved the weekly dinners at his parents' house, he loved his family. He loved Kellie, too. He told her so all the time.

He'd loved her, and only her, since he'd been a senior in high school. Maybe that was the problem: in some ways, she felt frozen at eighteen around him. She wondered if Jason didn't adore that version of her, rather than the woman she'd become today. His parents still called her and Jason “the kids,” and Jason enjoyed going back to their old high school to watch football games, sitting in the same bleachers they'd warmed two decades ago. He liked to go to the shore every summer for vacation and stay in the same motel. He liked football on Sundays and sex twice a week. Once, when they both felt like they should fool around but couldn't summon the energy, he'd suggested she squeeze into her old cheerleading outfit.

Kellie could see their lives stretching out, as straight and unremarkable as a swath of highway. Jason would take over the business when his father retired, but his father would still come in for a few hours every day to sit on a stool and chat with customers. His mother would be fretting over the juiciness of her roasts when Kellie was fifty-five. The thought of all those dinners, where everyone sat in the same seats, circling around the same conversational topics, made her chest tighten.

The other day, when Kellie had called her sister, Irene, in Los Angeles, she'd heard the clatter of the city in the background—the rush of cars swooping past and honking, the sound of a guy yelling, the yipping of a dog. All that energy swirling around, all of that
life
! An intense wave of envy had gripped Kellie.

It was strange, because Kellie was the prettier, older sister, the one who'd married one of the stars on the football team, the one with two beautiful children and a comfortable life. Irene shared a one-bedroom apartment with two other girls, and was selling cosmetics at Sephora. So far she'd been an extra in a dozen TV shows, had played Jane Doe #2 in an episode of
CSI
, and had gotten a small speaking role in one episode of a new sitcom that hadn't yet aired.

“I didn't get a callback for the part of the sister in that movie I told you about,” Irene had said during their call. “Maybe I should give this up. I mean, I'm past thirty!”

“You're only thirty-two,” Kellie had said, but what she'd thought was:
You're so lucky
. Irene's options were spreading out all around her like a sundial. Move to another city! Get engaged—or don't! Go to Greece and be a beach bum! Move to Thailand and teach English!

When they'd shared the brownie at A Piece of Cake, Miller Thompson had talked about the Italian lessons he was taking. He was planning a trip to Italy.

“I love good wine,” he'd confided. “There's this class you can take at a third-generation family-owned winery in Tuscany. You stay in a little guesthouse on the back of the property, and spend a week learning about the grapes. You work in the fields, and eat fresh pasta every night. At the end, you make a dozen bottles that you take home and save for special occasions.”

“That sounds incredible,” Kellie said. The feel of rich, dark soil in your hands, the smell of grapes perfuming the air, the sun warming your shoulders as you worked. Then a sunset picnic in the vines, with cheese on chunks of bread torn from a crusty loaf, and sweet young wine.

Kellie had tried to imagine Jason sampling Chianti in Tuscany. He'd agree to do it if she suggested it, if he thought it was important to her, but he wouldn't truly enjoy it. He'd be frustrated by the lack of a television in their charming quar
ters, and secretly wish for a Marriott. He'd like the pizza, but he wouldn't want to spend hours wandering around unfamiliar streets, admiring churches and peering into shops. He'd fall asleep during the picnic. He'd snore.

Jason was a smart guy. He could build a playhouse for the kids without a blueprint, change the brakes in his pickup truck, and see a football play unfolding from fifty yards away. But he wasn't a particularly curious man.

It had never bothered her before, but suddenly, like a chip in a new vase, or a small ink stain on a silk sweater, her husband's tiny character flaw was all she could see.

Chapter Fourteen

Before Newport Cove

WHEN ADDISON WAS SIX
weeks old, Tessa hired a part-time nanny. It was ridiculous; she had only two kids, and she was a stay-at-home mom. Shouldn't she be able to handle this motherhood stuff better?

But Harry was still traveling, and Bree routinely awoke before six a.m., and Addison—though thankfully a cheerful baby who showed no signs of colic—wanted to eat every three hours. The nanny, Celine, had been recommended by a family down the street, who employed the nanny's older sister. She was young, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, and had recently immigrated from France.

Later Tessa would berate herself. A recommendation for the nanny's sister was very different from the nanny herself. The family barely even knew the girl!

Although Celine understood English well, she didn't speak much of it. But Tessa was just grateful to have another adult in the house three mornings a week, even if her mother told her she was wasting money.

On one Wednesday morning, everything began to fall apart. Addison had awoken at five a.m., the dryer had stopped working with a load of soaking-wet clothes inside, and Tessa was out of milk and bread and everything else. When Celine showed up at ten a.m., Addison had just fallen back asleep in the bassinet in his bedroom.

“I'm going to dash out to the grocery store,” Tessa had said. “Can you call my cell phone as soon as he wakes up?”

Celine had nodded but she didn't smile. Was she just shy, or sullen? It was hard to know with the language barrier. Even after nearly three weeks together, Tessa didn't have a sense of the young woman's personality. She always showed up on time, but she never sang or hummed, and she didn't seem to particularly enjoy being with the children. More and more, Tessa was asking her to do other things, like tidy the living room or prepare simple lunches for Bree, rather than help take care of the kids. She was beginning to think of giving the nanny notice, and looking for someone else, someone who would inject energy and good cheer into the house.

Still, on that sunny summer morning, as Tessa had breezed through the aisles of the supermarket, she'd felt grateful for Celine. It was remarkable how much easier it was to grocery shop with just a toddler, versus a toddler and an infant, and Tessa had whipped through her list. A helpful employee loaded the groceries into her trunk, and she returned to the house less than thirty minutes later. As she walked up the steps, Bree on her hip, and was about to insert her key into the lock, she heard Addison cry his usual low, drawn-out wail. He'd probably just woken up, Tessa thought, and since his bedroom was in the front of the house and the window was open, she could hear everything clearly.

Then she'd heard Celine say something in her gruff voice, and Addison made another sound—a high-pitched yelp. The only time Tessa had ever heard him make that sound before was when he'd gotten vaccination shots at the pediatrician's office.

It was a cry of pain.

Tessa had flung open the door and raced upstairs, her feet pounding against the steps. Addison was in his room and so was Celine. She was holding him. She looked startled to see Tessa. Startled—or guilty?

Addison's face was bright red and he was still wailing, arching his back, as if he were trying to get away from the nanny.

“What happened?” Tessa had asked, but the nanny just shrugged. She avoided Tessa's eyes, looking at the wall behind Tessa. Tessa had put down Bree and stretched out her arms for her baby. She'd stared down at Addison's tiny, sweet face, wrinkled in misery, and she'd felt rage swell within her. Had Celine pinched him? Or did she just hold him the wrong way, maybe bending his leg awkwardly? She was only a girl and even though the family that recommended her had said she had lots of experience with younger siblings and cousins, Tessa never should have left her alone with an infant.

Tessa had calmed Addison down, then kept Bree in the room with her while she undressed Addison and searched his tiny, helpless body for marks. She couldn't find any, but the echo of his shriek still reverberated in her mind. Tessa's purse was on her shoulder so she'd reached inside it, pulled out some twenties, and handed them to the girl.

“You don't need to come back,” she'd said. “I don't need any more help. Good-bye.”

She'd rocked her baby, whispering apologies.

Later that night, she'd called Harry and had told him what had happened.

“So he didn't have any marks on him?” Harry had asked.

“No,” Tessa had said. “But something happened. I know it.” The thought still made her nauseous.

“Maybe he had gas,” Harry had said. “Maybe she was picking him up to comfort him.”

Tessa had felt offended. Why was Harry taking the nanny's side when he hadn't even been here? “I don't think so,” she'd
said. “She looked guilty. And Addison never makes that sound when he has gas.”

“Look,” Harry had said. “You need someone to help you. Do you want to call a nanny agency? Get someone who speaks English and has a lot of recommendations?”

“Not now,” Tessa had said. “I think I'd find it hard to trust someone. I'd rather just do it myself.” But the thought of it made her want to weep. All those long, empty days stretching out in front of her, the mind-numbing chores, the broken sleep . . . If Harry had the regular hours of most fathers, he'd come home every night at six or seven. She could go out for a walk, or see a movie. She'd be free.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Harry had said. “Look, I know I've been gone a lot, and with the colic Bree had . . . It hasn't been easy.”

“I don't need a therapist, Harry,” Tessa had said. Actually, she probably did—the idea of unloading her stresses to someone who was paid to be sympathetic was tantalizing. (Tessa's own mother had raised four kids and couldn't see what the fuss was all about. But back then, every mother on the block had stayed at home. They'd all gathered every day for coffee while their kids rolled around on a mat, and when the kids were big enough, they were sent outside to play while the mothers smoked and drank Tab. The isolation was what was killing Tessa.) “I'm doing fine, Harry!”

She'd hung up abruptly, and had gone to fix herself a cup of tea and a late dinner of cheese and crackers before remembering all the groceries, including the cheese she'd bought for the empty bin in the refrigerator, were still in the trunk of her car and had probably spoiled by now.

I can't do this
, she'd thought, feeling the gray engulf her like thick, damp fog.
I can't do it much longer.

Chapter Fifteen

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Old Towels

If any neighbors have old towels or blankets lying around, I'll be happy to pick them up on my way to the animal shelter. The pups and kittens could use more soft bedding! —Jenny McMahon, Daisy Way

*For Sale, Best Offer

A Nerf Gun, only used twice (when one of my sons fired it directly into his brother's eye, and then into his own eye to prove it didn't hurt and he shouldn't be punished). Will consider a trade: A bottle of vodka for the Nerf Gun. —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way

•  •  •

Gigi removed the heating pad from her back and eased off the couch, hunching over like an old woman. The spasm that had left her writhing on the basement floor was the legacy of a horseback riding injury in her teens that had knocked a few of her vertebrae out of alignment. Luckily, when she'd landed face-first in the box of books, Gigi had had her cell phone in her pocket. Joe had rushed home, helped her get into bed,
and gone to the pharmacy to pick up the muscle relaxants her doctor had ordered (sadly, her doctor was a bit stingy with the prescription and had only allotted her a dozen; Gigi would've liked to have tucked a few away for a rainy day). Then Joe had dashed back out again. More campaigning to do! More voters to sway!

More rest would probably do her still-aching muscles good. But Gigi didn't have any extra time. It was the first Tuesday in November. It was Election Day.

Gigi had already hobbled from her car to the polls this morning, noticing out of the corner of her eye that someone was snapping a picture of her. (The opposing candidate? A local newspaper photographer? It was infuriating not to be able to whip her head around and see.) She'd phoned in an order at the local market for veggie and meat and cheese platters and cases of bottled water and soda instead of the hors d'oeuvres she'd planned to make for their party tonight. So many of their neighbors had jumped in to campaign for Joe during the past few weeks. Today, Kellie and Susan had even taken the morning off from work to go to the polls to try to appeal to last-minute undecided voters. The least Gigi and Joe could do was show them some appreciation.

“We can't invite Tally White, though,” Gigi had said yesterday. “She'll measure our dust bunnies and post the details on the listserv.” She was in bed, woozily being entertained by
Wheel of Fortune
.

Joe had shot her an imploring look.

“Call an ‘n,' you idiot,” she'd said. “Fine, but I'm drawing the line at Mason.”

“He probably won't come anyway,” Joe had said, backing out of the room.

“You didn't invite him, did you? Joe? Joe! Get back here! I know you can hear me!”

Now Gigi made slow progress toward the dining room, where she'd heard voices. She recognized one as belonging to
Joe's press secretary, Devon, a slight young woman with a pixie haircut who'd just graduated from Dartmouth with a degree in political science. Gigi was continually amazed at the credentials of the people who'd volunteered to work for Joe. Zach had a double major in political science and world studies. Their faith in Joe, more than anything, made her realize what had seemed like an impulsive idea a few short months ago was rapidly becoming a very real possibility.

“Where should I put the extra brochures?” Devon was asking.

Gigi had almost reached the room when she heard Zach answer: “Right here on the dining room table. No, move those flowers. Just stick them on a chair.”

“Hi,” Gigi said from the doorway. She saw Devon's eyes flit up to the top of her head and Gigi reached up to tame her spiky bangs. Why had she ever allowed herself to be talked into this haircut?

“Actually,” Gigi said, “those flowers were just delivered this morning from Joe's parents. Can you put them back and maybe just put the brochures over there?” She gestured to a little table under the window.

Zach frowned. “The thing is, it would be great if people could pick up a few pieces of literature. That way they'll have them on hand if anyone needs to know more about Joe. They can pass them out at the supermarket.” Zach made a little gesture with his arm, as if he were giving someone a brochure. It reminded Gigi of Vanna and she bit back a giggle (oh, those muscle relaxants were gorgeous).

“I understand,” Gigi said. “It's just that this is a thank-you party. I don't want to seem pushy when everyone has already done so much for us.”

“Yeah,” Zach said. “Except if we win tonight—”

“
When
we win!” Devon interrupted spiritedly, pumping her fist in the air. Zach didn't even look at her and Gigi realized from the red flush spreading across Devon's cheeks that the young woman had a crush on him.

“—we're going to need to go full speed into getting ready for the general election,” Zach continued. “Max Connor is going to get the Republican nomination; he's sewn it up. So it's going to be him against Joe. Both parties are going to want this seat, bad. All the predictions are that Congress is going to be nearly evenly split after the election tonight. So we're going to get an infusion from the DCCC, and we can allocate those funds . . .”

Zach talked until Gigi was reduced to nodding. By then she could not have cared less about the flowers. Maybe that was his strategy.

“I've got to get back out,” Zach said. “We've still got a few hours before polls close and I need to check on our volunteers at the library and elementary school—they're going to see a lot of traffic tonight and I have to make sure everyone's on message. Could I grab a sandwich or something? I'm starving.”

“Sure,” Gigi said. Wait—Zach wasn't going to expect her to put together meals for him when he lived here, was he? It would only be until the general election, she reminded herself. And if Joe lost the primary, Zach would be back on his friend's couch within days, but Gigi wouldn't let herself hope for that outcome.

“Help yourself,” she said. “Food's in the kitchen.”

She glanced at her cell phone and realized Melanie hadn't come directly home after school. She sent her daughter a text:
Are you okay? Don't forget the party tonight for Dad's campaign!

Needy. She sounded far too needy. But it was too late to erase the text and the embarrassing smiley face she'd added at the end of it.

Devon was looking down at her own cell phone. “Someone from the Channel 6 news wants to be here to get live footage when the returns come in,” she said. “This is awesome. I have to go tell Zach!”

She hurried off, slamming the door behind her.

“Um . . . okay,” Gigi said. It would've been nice if Devon had at least checked to see if it was okay to bring in a camera crew. This was her home, after all.

But then another thought struck her. If a TV station was sending a cameraman, it might mean early reports from the polls were tilting in Joe's favor. They wouldn't waste all that time and personnel on someone who was destined to lose, would they?

It wasn't that Gigi had thought Joe would fail.

It just hadn't truly hit her until now that he was probably going to win.

•  •  •

Susan and Cole climbed the front steps to Gigi and Joe's home, both carrying heaping platters of her special buffalo wings. “You're our guest,” Gigi had protested when Susan had offered to bring some food. “You're bedridden,” Susan had countered.

Susan gave a little knock on the front door, but suspected no one would hear, since it sounded like the entire neighborhood was packed inside. She eased her way through the door, apologizing for bumping into Frank Fitzgibbons, who'd been animatedly chatting with one of the neighborhood au pairs, a comely twentysomething from Brazil (seriously, that man was trouble).

“Hey, Susan! Hiya, Cole!” Kellie said as she approached. “The other kids are in the living room scarfing down cookies,” she told Cole, who handed Kellie his platter and took off like a rocket.

“This is amazing,” Susan said, looking around as she followed Kellie into the kitchen, where they deposited the wings on the counter. “Everyone's here.”

Joe swooped in, cutting through the crowd, and greeted Susan with a kiss on the cheek. The color was high in his face and his eyes were bright. He still wore a suit, but he'd loosened the knot of his red-and-blue-striped tie. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

“My pleasure, Mr. Congressman,” she joked.

“Oh, don't call me that,” Joe said. “Sir Congressman is fine.”

A young woman was tugging on Joe's sleeve. “The TV crew wants a shot of you watching the early returns come in,” she said.

“Sorry,” Joe said to Susan and Kellie. “Gigi's over there—I know she wants to see you.”

Kellie waved him away. “Go, go, Your Excellency. I know you're busy tonight. Just give us a tax break to make up for it.”

Susan poured wine into a small plastic cup, then watched as a cluster of neighbors formed a half circle behind the television camera as it filmed Joe. Joe was staring at the television set, watching numbers pop up on-screen.

“Shepherd is putting Joe Kennedy ahead of Rich Sappiro by five percentage points with forty-six percent of the precinct reporting,” a newscaster was saying.

A cheer went up and someone began leading a chant: “Joe! Joe! Joe!”

“He's really going to do this, isn't he?” Susan said.

“Looks like it,” Kellie said.

Susan felt a hand lightly touch her shoulder from behind and she looked back, a smile already forming on her face, expecting to see Gigi.

But Daphne was standing there.

“Hi,” Daphne said. “I saw you come in. I just thought I should, um, say hello.”

Susan took a step back. She felt the air rush out of her lungs.

“What are you doing here?” Susan asked.

“Joe invited us,” Daphne said. That voice. How Randall must love hearing that low, sexy voice late at night when they were in bed. “Sue, I know Randall told you about the baby—”

Susan felt, rather than heard, Kellie's gasp, as her friend moved closer to her.

“—and I just thought maybe we could go out for a cup of tea. Or talk. It's been so long since we've talked. I wish . . .”

Susan shook her head. She felt tears pooling in her eyes.

“Will you think about it?” Daphne asked. “It would be good for Cole if we tried to reduce the tension between us.”

Fury swelled in Susan. “Are you telling me what's good for my son? What gives you any right—any right at all—”

Daphne swallowed and lowered her eyes. Her face grew pinched and she blinked a few times.

“I'm sorry,” Daphne said. “I shouldn't have said that.”

Susan's body began to tremble. “You were my friend,” she said, her voice cracking. “You were my friend first!”

She was aware of Tally White edging closer to watch, and a few other neighbors turning around, picking up on the uncomfortable new undercurrent churning through the party.

“I know,” Daphne said softly. “Please. Will you just talk to me?”

Susan shook her head. She had to get out. The night was ruined. Her life was ruined.

Kellie was there, stepping between them. “Susan said she didn't want to talk right now,” Kellie said, her voice low and firm. “I think you should leave her alone.”

Daphne nodded, just once, and walked away, her head low. As she turned and Susan saw her profile, she realized Daphne was already beginning to show, just a tiny bit. Her stomach was swollen with Randall's baby. An ache pierced the middle of Susan's chest and she released a small, involuntary sound.

“Oh, honey,” Kellie said. Her hand was warm on Susan's shoulder.

“I need to go,” Susan whispered.

“Are you sure?” Kellie said. She must've read the answer in Susan's eyes. “Okay. Do you want me to come with you? Or should I bring Cole home for you later?”

“Can you bring him later?” Susan asked. Kellie nodded and
Susan pushed her way to the front door. She needed to be outside, where she could fill her lungs with cold air.

Just before she reached the front door, she saw Randall. He was about to bite into one of the buffalo wings—
her
buffalo wings!—as he talked to a neighbor. He looked up and saw her expression and dropped the wing back onto his plate.

•  •  •

Tessa was walking toward Gigi's house when she saw someone burst out the door and run down the walk. She could tell it was a woman, but she didn't realize it was Susan until they'd nearly crossed paths.

Susan ducked her head, but not before Tessa realized her lovely face was streaked with tears.

“Are you okay?” Tessa asked instinctively. Dumb question—anyone could see Susan was in terrible pain.

“Here,” Tessa said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a little pack of Kleenex. “What can I do? Do you want me to call someone?”

“I'm fine,” Susan said, but she wrapped her arms around her stomach and bent over.

Tessa reached out and patted her back while Susan's shoulders shook.

“Want me to walk you home?” she asked.

Susan straightened up and blew her nose. She hesitated, then nodded.

•  •  •

They were settled in the kitchen at Susan's house, a bottle of Baileys and two steaming mugs of decaf coffee on the table before them. There was a reason the kitchen was called the heart of the house, Susan thought. How many confessions had been aired in snug little spots like this, while a teakettle whistled or a cork was coaxed out of a bottle? It felt so cozy to be
sitting here on two stools, the rectangular knotted rug beneath their feet, the dishrag hanging on the sink, the little window by their table steamy from the contrast of cold outside and warmth within.

“Okay,” Susan said. She sighed. “Here's what happened.”

•  •  •