The Perfect Neighbors (11 page)

Newport Cove's manager, Shannon Dockser, was the one who'd brought Susan and Daphne together. She'd cornered Susan during a weak moment and had convinced her to sign up for the neighborhood welcoming committee.

Two weeks later, Susan had knocked on Daphne's door.

Daphne had opened it, wearing cutoff jean shorts that revealed her long legs and a red bandanna tying back her dark curls. She had the best cheekbones Susan had ever seen. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but her face compelled your gaze.

Susan had handed Daphne a basket containing a warm coffee cake, paper plates, a bowl of hulled strawberries with mint, a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two packets of instant Starbucks coffee.

“The morning after a move is always so awful, when you can never find anything you need,” Susan had said. “So here's breakfast. Consider yourself officially welcomed to Newport Cove.”

“This is so nice of you. Come in!” Daphne had urged.

“No way,” Susan had said, laughing. “You've got enough to do without having an uninvited guest pop by. But my phone number's on the card. I live just a few blocks away. If you need anything, please call.”

“Mmm,” Daphne had said, inhaling the cinnamon coffee cake. “It smells divine. Did you make this? I'm a horrible cook . . . Would it be wrong if I ate this with some wine for dinner?”

“So wrong it's right,” Susan had said, instantly liking her
new neighbor. So technically, Susan had fallen for Daphne's charms first.

•  •  •

“I don't think I've ever seen her,” Tessa said.

“You'd remember,” Susan said. That supple, reedlike body. That voice. Those cheekbones, which Susan later learned were an inheritance from her half-Cherokee grandmother. Daphne made quite an impression.

But Susan had never thought Daphne would be Randall's type. He liked busty, darker-skinned women. Randall was just five foot nine, and he didn't even like it when Susan, who was five foot six, wore heels. But Daphne stood as tall as Randall in her bare feet. It made no sense at all.

Susan wiped her eyes. “Can you pour me another drink?”

•  •  •

A week later, Susan had run into Daphne while she was out walking Sparky.

“Hi, Sue!” Daphne had called, and for some reason, the nickname Susan had never before liked sounded good in Daphne's throaty voice. They'd chatted for a few minutes, then Susan had impulsively invited Daphne to lunch.

“Do you like sushi?” Susan had asked. It was her favorite but Randall hated it.

“Love it,” Daphne had said. “How about we go tomorrow?”

By the end of that meal, they'd talked about everything: Why Daphne had moved (a divorce). How she was adjusting to the new neighborhood (very well, the people were so friendly here). How much unpacking was left (quite a bit; did anyone ever get to the boxes they'd stuck in the basement? Did anyone even know what was in the boxes?).

There was one topic they didn't cover, though. Susan didn't say much about her husband at all.

She didn't tell Daphne that she hadn't made love with her husband in nearly four months.

Four months!

They'd hit an impasse in their relationship, and Susan didn't know what to do. Randall wanted more kids—maybe two. Susan had been an only child, and it felt right to her to have just one. Even if Susan could imagine going back to those early days of fractured sleep and exhausted arms from carrying around a ten-pound baby, she didn't want to risk it.

They'd learned when Cole was born that she and Randall both carried the gene for sickle-cell disease. Disproportionately common in African-Americans, the disease—named for misshapen red blood cells that prevent oxygen from traveling through the body—can cause health problems throughout a lifetime, including incidences of severe pain, organ damage, stroke, heart attacks . . . Had Cole inherited the gene from both of them, he would have required careful management. But he hadn't; like Susan and Randall, he had just one gene, which meant he was only a carrier.

Another child, though . . . Randall, the perpetual optimist, thought the risk was worth it, especially with the promise of medical advances. She didn't.

Besides, Cole was starting school and her business was taking off and her days already felt full to bursting. She'd heard that some people knew without a doubt that they didn't want to be mothers. There had to be other women like her, who definitively wanted a child but just one. Sweet, spectacular Cole, who'd inherited Randall's smile and her eyes, was all she needed.

She couldn't have sex with Randall because she'd had a bad reaction to birth control pills. She had a diaphragm, but the last time she'd slipped out of his arms to go to the bathroom and put it in before lovemaking, he'd asked what she was doing. When she told him, he'd grabbed a pillow and quilt and had stormed off to the couch.

So Susan had begun to work late into the night instead of cuddling with Randall while they watched HBO. It was easy to avoid him now that she had so much work to do. She'd crawl into bed after he'd begun to snore, and she'd slip out from under the covers the instant the alarm sounded, before his arm could snake around her and pull her close.

She knew Randall was upset, but he'd refused to go to counseling when she'd suggested it. “There's nothing wrong with
me
,” he'd said.

“I'm not saying that, honey,” she'd said, her tone reasonable, because she knew Randall hated to be yelled at. His father had done so much of it while Randall had been growing up that Randall carried permanent scars; he even turned down the volume on the television when the football announcers got excited about a play and began screaming.

She kept hoping that Randall would come around, that he'd realize their little family was exactly the size it should be.

Susan had given him a beautiful, perfect son. They had a wonderful life.

Of course he'd come around.

•  •  •

“So she swooped in?” Tessa said, sitting up straighter and frowning. “Like a vulture?”

Susan shook her head. “No,” she said. “It was more complicated than that.”

“My ex and I were married for ten years before we got divorced,” Daphne had said with a sad smile over their lunch. “What about you? Have you been married long?”

Susan had looked down at her plate, toying with her chopsticks as her gold wedding band gleamed in the overhead light. “It's a little complicated now,” she'd said. “We're going through a rough patch.”

Daphne had nodded. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it . . .”

“Thanks,” Susan had said, thinking maybe she would confide in Daphne when she knew her a little better. But she made a decision to keep her voice light and steer the conversation in a new direction, asking about the Bikram Yoga class Daphne was taking.

Daphne didn't meet Randall for another two months. Later, Susan would replay the details in her mind hundreds of times, torturing herself with how easily it all could have been prevented. She and Randall could have bumped into Daphne at the supermarket, or on the sidewalk. They could've pulled up side by side at the same stoplight. There were so many missed opportunities for Daphne to have seen Randall, to know that he was Susan's husband.

Randall had been at a bar downtown with a group of buddies. Daphne was there, too, one stool over, waiting for a new friend from the health club she'd joined. One of Randall's pals had jostled Daphne's elbow, spilling her glass of wine. A round of tequila shots had been ordered as an apology. Randall's buddies had been calling him R.B.—his high school nickname.

Randall's friends had left first. Daphne's acquaintance ­texted to cancel when her sitter failed to show up. Randall and Daphne had stayed on alone.

They didn't touch, not that night. But they'd confided in each other, in an hours-long, deeply intimate talk. They'd stayed until the bar had closed. Randall had confessed in one of the mediation sessions that he'd fallen in love with Daphne instantly.

“I wasn't looking,” he'd said, seemingly bewildered. “I didn't mean for this to happen. It just . . . did.”

Daphne didn't know Randall—R.B.—was Susan's husband. He'd told her he was getting separated.

But he didn't ask Susan for a separation, not until two days later. By then Susan knew Daphne had met a guy. She'd written about it in an email:
I'll tell you everything over our next lunch, but he's incredible! All we did was talk but it was
like I'd known him forever. I've never felt this way about anyone before!

I'm so happy for you!
Susan had written back. She'd actually written those words.

The Monday after he'd met Daphne, Randall had stayed home from work. Susan had just gotten back from taking Cole to the bus stop. She'd shut the door, released the catch on Sparky's leash, slipped out of her shoes, and was walking down the hallway when she'd caught sight of him sitting on the living room couch. “Oh!” she'd said, putting a hand to her chest. “You startled me!”

Randall hadn't been watching television or reading the paper or checking his phone. He'd been motionless. Waiting for her.

But that wasn't the reason why her stomach had dropped. It was the look in his eyes.

•  •  •

“He moved out that day,” Susan told Tessa. “I was kind of a zombie. I sat in the living room for hours. Kellie stayed with me that first night, but when she had to leave the next morning to take care of her kids, I called Daphne.”

She gave a little laugh. “Can you believe we still didn't make the connection? Not then, anyway. But of course I didn't know Randall had met someone. I couldn't even talk. I just cried and Daphne made me tea with honey and brought a cold washcloth to put over my eyes. Then she went home before Randall came back so we could tell Cole. That was the worst moment. Even worse than when I realized who Randall had fallen in love with. It was seeing Cole's little face . . .”

Susan squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. “I still think we might've had a chance, if it hadn't been for Daphne. If they hadn't been so in love.” She tried to put a funny emphasis on the last two words, but it didn't work because her voice broke.

“When did she realize R.B. was Randall?” Tessa asked.

“A week or two later. She was over here and she picked up one of our family photos. She dropped it and the glass broke. Kind of a fitting metaphor, don't you think?”

“I'm so sorry,” Tessa said.

Susan nodded. “Me, too.”

Tessa didn't try to console Susan by telling her she'd meet another man, as so many others had done, and for that, Susan was grateful. She had instinctively known Tessa would understand—some things you couldn't fix, some wounds left forever scars.

Chapter Sixteen

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Joe Kennedy

Congratulations to Newport Cove's own Joe Kennedy on his victory in the primary nomination for Congress! We're all behind you, Joe! —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way

*Re: Joe Kennedy

Is the listserv supposed to be used for political messages? I seem to recall a rule about using this medium for personal gain. —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane

*Re: Joe Kennedy

I looked up the listserv's bylaws and am reposting Clause 10: “In order to keep the Newport Cove listserv primarily a discussion list, posting of ads is extremely restricted. Free ads may only be posted by people who live within the listserv boundaries and the ads must be non-commercial in nature and not too frequent. Non-commercial means you cannot advertise something that benefits you via a sale. Exceptions include teenaged babysitters or recommendations for housecleaners.” —Tally White, Iris Lane

*Re: Joe Kennedy

I don't see how the above clause relates to my message about Joe's primary vic
tory. It wasn't a political ad; I was simply congratulating my neighbor. —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way

*Re: Joe Kennedy

I'd be curious to know if those objecting are Republicans, and if their objections are in fact thinly veiled campaign strategies designed to promote their own candidate. —Ruth Smith, Blossom Street

*Re: Joe Kennedy

I resent your implication, Ruth. I assume you're a liberal Democrat? —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane

*Re: Joe Kennedy

Can we start talking about dog poop again? —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane

•  •  •

Gigi opened her eyes the morning after the primary election and enjoyed two peaceful seconds before being engulfed by a sense of doom. She'd experienced other wake-ups like this, mostly back in college when she'd had too much to drink: Once she'd kissed her roommate's ex-boyfriend, a man she'd never even been vaguely attracted to. Another time she'd streaked across the football field following a night game victory (she said a million prayers of gratitude that cell phones with cameras and Facebook hadn't been invented during her youth). But Gigi hadn't been drinking last night. She'd had, what, one glass of champagne? She frowned, wincing when the movement caused additional pain in her head.

Maybe two glasses, or two and a half, tops, but only because people had stuck the flutes in her hand and toasted Joe. She certainly hadn't been drunk.

But the muscle relaxants! You were not supposed to mix them with alcohol. She'd known that, but she'd hardly been pounding shots. Should those slim flutes of champagne really have affected her that much?

She had a vague recollection of trying to give a speech, and of seeing Joe's wide, worried eyes as he wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders and eased her out of the room.

Oh God. Gigi heaved her feet over the side of her bed and took in shallow breaths as she fought a wave of nausea.

Had Julia or Melanie seen? It would probably only make her older daughter hate her more.

The television camera had been there. That detail surfaced in Gigi's murky brain, making her stomach give another unfortunate lurch. She hadn't eaten much yesterday—or not at all? The muscle relaxants erased her appetite. No wonder the alcohol had hit her. She remembered a chipper young blonde clutching a microphone. Had the camera captured everything? What had she
said
?

She could hear Joe in the shower. He wasn't singing.

She saw a glass of water on her nightstand and she reached for it and greedily gulped its contents.

Another horrifying memory flash: the cold bathroom tile beneath her knees, her stomach clenching and bucking. She'd made it to the toilet, though. No one had seen.

But what, exactly, had she done before she'd thrown up?

•  •  •

“Where are you going?” Jason asked, glancing over as Kellie laced up her boots.

“Out to check out some open houses, remember?” she said. “It'll give me a better sense of the market and how to price my own listings. I'll be back in a couple hours.”

He was sitting on their couch, his feet up on the coffee table, watching a football game. Mia and Noah were sprawled on the carpet, both engrossed in handheld electronic games.

“Can you get the kids off those games?” she asked. “Don't you think one screen is enough for them?”

“Yes!” Jason bellowed, pumping his fist into the air. His eyes were fixed on the television.

Kellie sighed and went into the kitchen. She'd made Jason and the kids pancakes that morning and the mixing bowl was still coated with batter and the plates, sticky with syrup, were piled up in the sink. A half-full carton of orange juice sat on the counter, along with part of a rapidly browning banana.

Kellie hated the smell of rotting bananas more than just about anything in the world. She felt irritation build within her as she picked up the slimy skin with two fingertips and dumped it into the trash can. “Yuck,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She rinsed the glasses and plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, then she scrubbed down the counters.

She'd always done more around the house—a lot more—than Jason. It had made sense, when she was a stay-at-home mom. It wasn't difficult to throw in a few loads of wash and run the vacuum cleaner while the kids were in preschool. But now she was working, trying to squeeze in cold calls and network and lure in clients. It would be nice if Jason stepped up. She'd asked him, and he'd cheerfully agreed—Jason was nothing if not agreeable—but he never seemed to see the messes until she pointed them out. He had a much higher tolerance for clutter than she did. She had to give him specific directions:
Can you please switch the load in the washing machine into the dryer, then put away the clean stuff?
And of course, the next morning Noah would put on sweatpants that were two sizes too big, because Jason had mixed up his clothes with Mia's, and Kellie would notice it just as they were running late for the bus.

It was easier to do it all herself, she thought, banging the door of the dishwasher closed.

When the kitchen was clean, she went back into the living room. Jason's chin and cheeks were coated with stubble and he was wearing his grubbiest jeans. Sometimes on Sundays, if they weren't going anywhere other than his parents' house for dinner, he skipped showering completely.

“See you soon,” she said.

“Huh?” he asked. “Did you see that field goal? Forty-six yards.”

She was too annoyed to answer him. The kids were still engrossed in electronics, probably zapping their own brain cells along with zombies with every passing minute. She slipped out their front door, resisting the urge to slam it behind her, and got into her minivan. She typed the first listing's address into her GPS and drove to the house.

Miller was already waiting by his car, squinting into the sunlight as he looked in her direction. He gave a little wave.

“Hi there,” she said as she got out of her van. Seeing him here, away from the office, felt very intimate.

“Hey, you,” Miller said. “What do you think they priced it at?”

Kellie squinted at the house, a brick Colonial with a generous yard. “Five seventy-five,” she guessed.

“I'm thinking five even,” Miller said. “Loser buys coffee.”

Kellie laughed. “Deal.”

They began to walk down the sidewalk, side by side, toward the house.

An older man walking his golden retriever approached and Miller stepped aside, behind Kellie, to let him pass. She could feel Miller's presence as acutely as if electricity were arcing between their bodies.

“Gorgeous day,” the man said.

“Sure is,” Miller replied.

“Have a good one!” Kellie called as she and Miller turned up the front walk of the brick Colonial with the
FOR SALE
sign staked in the front yard.

Kellie wondered if the man thought she and Miller were married, if perhaps they were thinking of buying the house together. She turned her head to hide her smile.