The Perfect Neighbors (20 page)

“Thank you,” Mr. Brannon said. “But it should stay there.”

He ate a little more of the soup, then had a few bites of the sandwich and sipped his water.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “This was very good . . . I just don't seem to have much of an appetite.”

“Don't you worry about a thing,” Susan said. She started to get up to remove the tray, but Mr. Brannon lifted a hand to stop her.

“I haven't seen Edward since he was eighteen years old,” Mr. Brannon said.

Susan sank back down onto the bed.

“It was my fault,” he repeated. “I . . . didn't understand things back then. I didn't understand him. Do you know what I'm saying?”

“I'm not sure,” Susan said.

“Edward was our only child,” Mr. Brannon said. “We wanted more, but it was not to be. It took us quite a while to have Edward. I was thirty-eight when he was born. My wife, she was younger, but still. We'd waited so long.”

He paused and sipped some water. “Even as a little boy, he was different. I'd dreamed of playing catch with my son. I wanted him to know how to change the oil in his car. To be a gentleman as well as a man's man.”

Susan nodded slowly.

“I was that way, you see,” Mr. Brannon said. “I thought Edward would follow in my footsteps. That he'd be just like me.”

“Yes,” Susan said.

“He didn't like to get dirty,” Mr. Brannon said. “He was shy. Didn't have many friends. But he liked to be around girls, more than he liked to be around boys, so I thought everything was okay. I was disappointed in him, but I figured maybe he'd change when he grew up. That he'd toughen up.”

“But he didn't,” Susan said, thinking,
He couldn't
.

“Now that I think about it, now that I've had so long to
think about it, I know he was scared to tell us,” Mr. Brannon said. “He did this nervous thing when he was a little boy, this twisting of his right leg so that his toe dug into the ground. Whenever he got in trouble, you could see that leg going. He was doing that when he said . . . You see, my boy was . . .”

“Gay?” Susan finished.

Susan wasn't sure if he'd expected her to be shocked, but she just gave him a gentle smile. Her old college roommate, Bobbi, whose mother was Susan's first unofficial client, was gay. She and Susan had talked about it for hours in their dorm room, both of them sharing the stories of how they'd felt like outsiders in high school.

“What happened after he told you?” Susan asked.

Mr. Brannon was in his eighties. If he'd been thirty-eight when he'd had Edward, that would have meant Edward would've turned eighteen in the 1980s, at a time when attitudes were beginning to change, prejudices slowly beginning to crumble away. But Mr. Brannon was probably still stuck in the mind-set of an earlier generation.

Mr. Brannon shut his eyes tightly. “I told him it was unacceptable. I told him he had to change. I told him he”—Mr. Brannon took in a shuddering breath—“that he was an embarrassment, that he didn't deserve to share my name.”

“Oh,” Susan breathed. She imagined that sensitive eighteen-year-old boy, twisting his toes against the ground, working up the courage to come out to his parents.

“You see, in the army, we used to joke about guys like that. We had names for them . . . Well, I shouldn't say the names,” Mr. Brannon said. “I didn't want that for him. My wife was upset, too, but not as much as me. She might've let him stay, but she still wanted him to change, too.”

“I'm sorry,” Susan said.
For all of you
, she thought.

Mr. Brannon shook his head. “I know he talked to my wife some through the years. On Mother's Day the phone would ring. But I never spoke to him again. He also came
to see her at the hospital at the end. One of the nurses mentioned it to me.”

“Did you ever try to reach him?” Susan asked. “To tell him you loved him, that you were wrong?”

Mr. Brannon sighed. “My wife told me I should try to see Edward. But I said not if he was still living that way.”

Mr. Brannon leaned back against his chair. His face was ashen. This had been too much for him, Susan thought. The singing children, the handprint, these old memories. He looked on the verge of collapse. She didn't condone what Mr. Brannon had done, but people changed, and she knew he was deeply regretful now.

“I sent him a letter,” Mr. Brannon said. “When I was moving out of the house. I wanted him to be able to find me, you see. I gave him my new address. I told him he could write back if he wanted to.”

“But he didn't?” Susan said.

Mr. Brannon shook his head once, stiffly, as if the movement pained him.

“The letter came back,” he said. “Someone had written on it, ‘Return to Sender.' ”

“But maybe he moved,” Susan said. “Maybe he never got your note.”

Her mind was spinning. She could track down Edward, and tell him how sorry his father was, and that Mr. Brannon probably didn't have much time left—

Mr. Brannon looked at her with eyes so bleak she instinctively stood up and rushed to his side.

“Just rest,” she said. She grabbed the blanket off the foot of the bed and tucked it around him. “We can talk more later.”

“He got the letter,” Mr. Brannon said, his voice barely a whisper. “On the back of the envelope, he wrote, ‘Don't try to contact me again.' I still recognize his handwriting.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Re: Dog Poop

Unbelievable! After a few blissful poop-free weeks, I stepped in it again this morning. Something HAS to be done about this! —Joy Reiserman, Daisy Way

*Re: Dog Poop

Shouldn't this fall under the purview of the Newport Cove Manager? Shannon, I'd like a written plan of action from you soonest. We shouldn't have to scour our surroundings with the vigilance of children conducting an Easter Egg hunt simply to make it to our cars unscathed in the morning. —Bob Welsh, Magnolia Street

*Re: Dog Poop

Thank you for the suggestion, Bob! —Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove ­Manager

*Re: Dog Poop

Would the trespooper please step forward? —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane

*Re: Remove me from listserv?

There's an unsubscribe link you can click on at the end of the digest, that should solve your problem. —Brandy Zapruder, Blossom Street

•  •  •

Gigi speared a piece of limp asparagus and wondered how she'd ended up here. She'd been asked to give a speech at an organization composed of chiropractors. Ostensibly, the organization was a charity and held auctions and other fund-­raisers. But Gigi was quickly suspecting it was actually an excuse for the members to get together and drink too much wine and socialize during a long, drawn-out dinner. Who knew chiropractors were such party animals?

She let the asparagus flop back onto her plate and discreetly checked the program in her lap.

“Forty-five minutes, max,” Zach had said when he'd suggested she attend the event. “We'll schedule it so you'll zip in after dinner has started, give your speech, shake hands, and zip right back out.”

Cocktail hour had gone on late, though, which meant Gigi had arrived when everyone was on their second martini or glass of wine instead of when the entrées were being served. She'd already been here ninety minutes, and dessert hadn't even made an appearance.

“We just love your husband,” the woman to Gigi's right confided.

“Thank you,” Gigi said, leaning back. The woman's breath smelled like Chardonnay, and she'd repeated the same exact sentiment twice before.

“He's so cute! Are you sure he's not related to the Kennedy family?” the woman asked. “I mean, that thick head of hair!” She was wearing a low-cut blouse and her boobs appeared in danger of falling out. Was this the kind of woman Joe came into contact with at campaign events? Surely most of them were professionals, but there were always groupies around politicians and athletes.
JohnEdwardsBillClintonAnthonyWeiner
, her mind murmured, before she shushed it.

Gigi laughed as if the woman were completely charming.
“Absolutely sure; it's a common last name,” she said. “And we appreciate your support.”

“It's too bad Joe couldn't make it tonight,” the man on Gigi's other side said. “Not that we don't appreciate you filling in.”

Gigi smiled and took a sip of ice water. Zach hadn't mentioned she was a fill-in when he'd suggested Gigi attend the event. But she wasn't surprised; Joe was the star attraction in their marriage.

“More wine?” the waiter asked.

“Ooh, yes!” squealed the woman with Chardonnay breath.

“Excuse me just a minute,” Gigi said. She stood up and dropped her napkin on her chair, then left the room. The dinner was being held in the conference room of a hotel, so Gigi bypassed the first bathroom she reached, where she'd be in danger of being cornered by another attendee, and walked down a long hallway until she discovered another restroom.

She went into a stall, closed the lid of the toilet, and sat down with a sigh. After a moment she pulled her cell phone out of her purse with the thought of playing a quick game of Boggle and saw she had a text from Julia.

R U Almost Done?

Gigi typed back:
About another hour. What's up? U OK?

Julia's response came a moment later:
Guess so.

Gigi frowned and hit the button to call home.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Eating pizza,” she said. “Melanie ordered it.”

“Okay,” Gigi said. Something was off in Julia's tone.

“Is Melanie being nice to you?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Can I talk to her a minute?” Gigi asked.

“She isn't here,” Julia said.

“What?” Gigi asked. “Where'd she go?”

“I don't know,” Julia said.

“Honey, listen, I know she probably told you not to say anything”—threatened was more like it—“but I need to know what happened. Did someone pick her up?”

“Yeah,” Julia said. “I think it was that guy. Raven.”

One mystery solved
, Gigi thought. “Okay, can you do me a favor? Go and make sure all the doors are locked.”

Gigi listened to the sounds of Julia moving around the house.

“Okay,” she said. “They already were.”

At least Melanie had taken that precaution. But she shouldn't have left her twelve-year-old sister alone at night without at least telling Gigi. Plus it was a school night, and it was nearly nine o'clock, which wasn't that late in the grand scheme of things, but Melanie had to be up at six. She had a curfew of ten on school nights, but Melanie rarely exercised it. She didn't go out much.

“I'm going to text her and tell her she needs to be home by ten, okay?” Gigi said. “And I should be home around then, too. Just call me if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mommy,” Julia said.

“I love you, sweetie,” Gigi said. “Did you do all your homework?”

“Yes, I finished it in study hall today,” Julia said. “Oh, and I got an A on my math test.”

“That's wonderful,” Gigi said.

After she hung up, she quickly typed a text to Melanie:
I thought you were going to stay home with Julia tonight. I need you back by 10, sooner if possible.

She sent it, then waited, but there was no response.

Fuck it
, Gigi thought. Melanie was almost sixteen, and they didn't ask much of her. She rarely did chores around the house and her bedroom was a pit. She shouldn't have snuck out tonight. Maybe the problem was Gigi had been too soft on her.

She dialed Melanie's number and waited through the four rings before it went to voice mail.

“This is Mom,” she began unnecessarily. “I need you to call me immediately and let me know where you are and what
time you'll be home. I was counting on you to be home with Julia.”

She hung up and waited a minute, then called back. This time her call went right to voice mail.

“Dammit!” Gigi said aloud.

She was tempted to walk out of this event—half the people were so sloshed they wouldn't miss her—but her name was on the program and it would look bad for Joe. There was something else bothering Gigi. A few days earlier, she'd gone to light up the bag of weed she kept hidden in the old vanity, and she'd noticed the bag was visible behind the electric toothbrush. Gigi was always careful to keep it hidden, just in case one of the kids or a cleaning person opened the vanity.
Melanie
, Gigi had thought. Maybe her daughter had progressed from cigarettes to pot. But Gigi couldn't be sure, so she'd taken a snapshot of the bag in order to better gauge the contents level. She'd check it when she got home.

She stood up and straightened her skirt, then reapplied lipstick in the mirror before she headed back to her table. She kept her cell phone on vibrate so she'd know the minute a text or call came in.

But all through the next interminable hour, while dessert was served and Gigi was finally introduced and gave her speech and stopped to chat with a half dozen people on the way to the exit, her phone remained still.

By eleven, Gigi was back at home, tucking Julia into bed. Julia would be exhausted tomorrow, but she was too scared to fall asleep when she was the only one in the house.

By eleven thirty, she'd called Melanie five more times and Joe twice.

By midnight, Joe had come home. But Melanie hadn't.

•  •  •

Jason suspected something. Kellie was certain of it.

First, there was the iPhone incident. And yesterday, he'd
asked about her coworkers: “Anyone you've become friends with?” Jason had been pulling a pair of socks out of a drawer, but he'd paused and turned to look at her.

The phrasing of his question seemed deliberate, as did his sudden scrutiny. “Oh, everyone in the office is great, it's a nice group,” Kellie had responded, not untruthfully. But she was aware she'd evaded the specifics of his inquiry.

Perhaps he'd read the same magazine article she had, titled “Is Your Spouse a Cheater?” Apparently if your husband or wife began dressing better and losing weight, you should be worried. And if he or she disappeared at odd hours and became unusually protective of his or her cell phone? Then you were in big trouble.

Kellie had done all of those things. But she'd never even kissed Miller, let alone slept with him. They'd shared one dance, a few outings, and lots of eye contact and conversation.

An emotional affair could be every bit as damaging as a physical one, the article had said. And it was true; she'd fallen into obsessive thoughts about Miller. She drifted off to sleep imagining being in his arms. She dreamed about him while she was caring for the children and cooking dinner and watching television with Jason. She stared into the mirror, wondering what her skin would feel like under his hands. She checked her cell phone constantly to see if he'd texted, feeling an electric jolt when she saw a new message. She'd read about that sensation; apparently it was due to a chemical called dopamine that was released in your brain—that pleasurable, unpredictable rush was the basis of the science casinos employed to keep people pulling the slot machine handles hour after hour.

She was addicted to Miller.

Thoughts of him consumed her, leaving her alternately euphoric and agitated and jittery. She constantly wondered what he was doing, if he was thinking of her, or laughing with his wife. Or making love to his wife. Jealousy would surge within
Kellie, only to be extinguished by a smile from Miller, or a text, which would spin her into a new daydream. She woke up thinking about him, and imagined it was Miller's hands on her instead of Jason's at night. Guilt and desire and confusion battered her like a hurricane.

She had to stop this, she thought as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. That night at the bar—if Susan hadn't intervened, something might have happened. If she and Miller had found themselves in a dark corner, and he'd leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she'd turned so that their lips were close together . . . Would one of them have broken that final barrier?

She covered her mouth with her hand to prevent a small, sad noise from escaping. It made her feel physically ill to think about hurting Jason or their kids. She'd made a commitment to Jason when she'd been in high school, and she'd been faithful to it, to
him
, for more than twenty years. She'd worn his letter jacket proudly. They'd gone to the same nearby college, even though Kellie's sister, Irene, had scoffed at her: “Don't you want to date lots of guys?” But Kellie hadn't. Jason was the only man she'd ever wanted. She'd watched friends cry over boys, and chase after them, and break hearts and have theirs broken in return, and all the while she'd felt lucky. Jason adored her. He brought her roses on Valentine's Day and kissed her every single day.

This wasn't his fault. Jason hadn't changed.

She had, though.

She and Miller had fallen into the habit of going to A Piece of Cake every Friday afternoon. They'd share a treat, sip coffee, and talk.

They discussed their kids, and though she never mentioned Jason, Miller had brought up his wife once. “It's nice to be able to talk to you about business,” he'd said. “My wife . . . Well, she's more interested in shopping.” He'd given a little laugh, and Kellie had smiled, too.

She knew what she'd say to a friend if one had come to her seeking advice on this identical problem:
Can you imagine inviting him over for dinner with your family and watching him talk to your husband?
If the answer was no, there was a ­problem.

Kellie had a problem. Her relationship with Miller existed in a gossamer bubble. It could never drift into her real life. She couldn't fathom the idea of him watching her wipe down kitchen counters and screech at her kids to stop arguing. She couldn't imagine ever walking into the bathroom and interrupting him on the toilet reading the sports page, like she had with Jason earlier this week.

It was a fantasy, that was all. She had to shake it loose, reclaim her brain.

Had anyone noticed their attraction? She was pretty sure Maria, a senior agent who loved to gossip, suspected something. A couple of weeks back, Kellie had been leaning toward Miller at their table in A Piece of Cake, their eyes locked together, smiling as he told a story about his college fraternity days. A tap on the window had startled her, and Kellie had jerked back. Maria was standing there, inches away. She'd given a little wave, then had continued walking.

Maria's smile had seemed knowing. Or maybe that was just Kellie's guilty conscience.

Today was Friday. When Miller came to her desk and asked, “Ready?” she would shake her head.

“I'm sorry,” she'd say. “I'm completely swamped.”

She imagined surprise, even hurt, filling his light brown eyes. “Sure,” he'd say. “Another time.”

But there wouldn't be another time, she told herself as she smoothed lotion over her face and neck. She wouldn't see him outside the office again. She'd keep their interactions warmly professional. She'd treat him the same way she did the matronly receptionist.