The Big Bang (19 page)

Before he managed a conversation-halting clear of the throat, or took a step closer to see what else he might overhear before he did, a barista appeared from behind the pastry case. “What can I do you for?”

Frank moved toward the counter and lowered his voice to avoid compromising whatever was left of his anonymity before he could fulfill his obligation, mandate even, to stop any entanglements taking root. “Grande, half-caf, skinny caramel macchiato.”

“Whipped cream?”

“Please, and a receipt.” He handed the barista the church Visa.

Hope’s voice rang through the crowded coffee shop, but with perfect clarity. “Frank!”

He tossed a quarter of his own into the tip mug, turned, and pretended to be surprised to discover the two of them seated too close, but slightly further apart on the love seat.

Hope waved.

Tim looked wolfish.

Both had managed to erase any telltale guilt from their body language.

With a perfunctory return wave, he headed toward their cozy nook.

“Hey Frank,” Hope said as he reached the table. “If I’d known you were coming by, I’d have brought the playground plans with me.”

“Your mention of coffee had me craving something I just couldn’t get at the rec center coffee machine,” he said, directing his attention to Tim.

Trautman raised his drink. “That Starbucks craving’s about impossible to ignore.”

Touché?

Had Frank not spotted the notebook of nursery plans, he’d have been tempted to deck the guy right then and there.

“Don’t tell my wife.” Trautman smiled.

He still wasn’t sure he shouldn’t punch him as a warning.

“Tim’s having me plan out the twins’ nursery as a Mother’s Day gift for Theresa.” Despite the touch of emotion in her voice, Hope’s expression was luminous. “Isn’t that about the nicest surprise you can imagine?”

Planning a nursery to surprise his wife. Planting pink flowers in advance of the birth of daughters. Was it possible the guy was just some kind of super-husband? Tempered by a clear view of Hope’s yellow pad of design notes, Frank decided it best, for the moment, to direct any aggression or suspicion into a spirited high-five. “Dude, you’re making the rest of us husbands look bad.”

“Easy to do.” Tim grinned at Hope. “Considering the expert help I’ve had.”

“So I assume that yard rumor must be true?”

“Couldn’t have picked all those beauties myself.”

Hope smiled.

With confirmation of her role in the planting, Frank felt the muscles in his neck and face relax. Besides, whatever she was doing for Trautman paled in comparison to the job he’d given her. “Wait until you see how she’s transforming the playgrounds.”

“I’ve only been fine-tuning what was already a spectacular project,” she said.

Spectacular
sounded that much more so from her lips. Frank tried not to smile too broadly. “I’m afraid it’s going to take up a lot of your time in the coming weeks.”

“I’m just enjoying being a part of the process,” she said.

“I’m just amazed at how smoothly this playground business evolved from what seemed to be a contested proposal to near completion with full community backing,” Tim said.

“You and me both,” Frank said.

“From my HOB experience, balancing best interests and specials interests like that takes real finesse.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, as humbly as possible and starting to wonder if he hadn’t partially misjudged the man and his motives. He was undeniably solicitous to his wife, taking an active interest in the community, and clearly understood the ongoing challenge that was P-C. “I do my best to make sure our most impassioned and outspoken community members walk away from these situations knowing their opinions are valued even when, as with Will Pierce-Cohn, the community voted overwhelmingly otherwise.”

“Which reminds me,” Hope said. “There is a detail I should probably run by you so I can make necessary changes to the plans before our meeting later.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we need to talk more about the landscaping behind the skate ramp at playground number three. Where it abuts that—”

“Grande, half-caf, skinny caramel macchiato,” echoed across the room.

“Hold that thought,” Frank said, “while I grab my drink.”

“I should probably run.” Tim looked at his watch. “Have to, actually.”

“Nice chatting with you, Tim,” Frank said.

“You too, Frank.” Tim met his shake and added an arm pat. “See you on Sunday.”

Had he not felt pushed, ever so slightly, in the direction of the front counter, he might not have hesitated or felt the need to amble a little more slowly to retrieve his beverage, just long enough to hear Tim ask, “What day next week works for you?”

Or, to hear Hope answer, “How about Wednesday?”

“Ten o’clock?” rang through Starbucks like the chime of a clock.

Frank picked up the beverage with X marks beside
half-caf
,
whipped cream
,
caramel
, and
nonfat.
Even if Tim’s motives were above board and Hope’s mind was solely on business, with Jim in and out of town, the responsibility to make sure continued to fall firmly upon his shoulders.

While the two of them finished up, he took his drink from the pickup counter, and took his time sliding a protective cardboard sleeve around the cup.

Frank made his way back to Hope and eased into Tim’s abandoned spot on the love seat. “Talk to me.”

***

Will spent the hour he used to spend at morning aerobics, that he’d never spend in an exercise class full of housewives again, composing a reply to the message sitting in his inbox.

He wanted to write back:
Anaphylactic shock, in all its painful and potentially fatal glory, was far preferable to what I think I may have heard just before I passed out.

Followed by:
Please tell me it isn’t true.

Or even something simpler along the lines of:

Part of me was already dead before I collapsed.

Instead, he sat in front of the computer typing and deleting woefully inadequate responses, until, all but accidentally, he pressed send on what turned out to be the final version:

A true statement of not much and, somehow, everything he could bring himself to say.

After three hours waiting to see if she answered, three Advil, and, finally, a jog to the rec center for whatever escape the mostly housewife-free afternoon spin class might provide, his head still throbbed. Avoiding the main staircase so as not to be stopped by a stray attendee of Laney’s now notorious party, he headed down the administrative wing for the back stairs.

As soon as he entered the hallway, a sneeze echoed down the hallway.

At least Griffin, who kept avoidably consistent hours by combining church and state with his 9–12 open-door policy for both his spiritual and secular constituencies, would be long gone.

“Bless you.”

Or not.

The blessing, slightly patronizing and familiar, came from behind Griffin’s door.

Will was about to turn back for the lobby and the far preferable reality of having to explain, for the eightieth time that,
Yes I’m totally fine now, and no, the doctors still aren’t sure what exactly caused the reaction
, when the feminine
thank you
that floated into the hall sent a paralyzing icicle down his spine.

“You sneezed on the truth, as they say,” Frank said, his words just audible through the crack in the door.

Will took an agonizing step toward the office.

“I really think you should also consider adding an extra drainage channel,” Hope said.

“The erosion resistant plants you’re suggesting won’t be enough to do the trick?”

Even with his heartbeat throbbing in his ears, their words jarred his brain like cymbals.

“I thought so, but I was reading the
Farmer’s Almanac
to figure out the best day to schedule the planting,” Hope said. “Did you know heavy rain’s predicted for June?”

There was no denying her involvement in the project now.

“Which may or may not mean anything.”

“But got me thinking…”

That the playground could end up looking like a multicolored, nonfunctional fountain in the middle of a lake?

That this whole satellite playground idea was appealing in theory but not so much in reality?

That Will was right?

“Given that hill, extra drainage really should have been written into the original blueprint,” she said.

Clearly, she’d given serious thought to some of the problems he had about playground site number one. Was there any possible way Hope really could have signed on because she believed there was something wrong with the playground land too but couldn’t prove it without accepting his offer to consult?

For the briefest of seconds, Will felt lighter, allowed his imagination to drift.

I did it for you.

What else are you going to do for me?

Anything.

Frank’s voice exploded his fantasy:

“With Pierce-Cohn so worked up, maybe I overstressed the first site and overlooked the second and third.”

“Understandable,” Hope said. “Given the scrutiny you faced.”

They shared a chuckle.

“The first playground’s got to be over-engineered at this point,” Frank said.

“I hope this one won’t be such a headache to correct, last minute and all, but one big rain and—”

“And I’d have been flooded with
I told you so’s
.”

They both groaned.

“Will means well,” she finally said.

“Maybe where you’re concerned.”

Will felt anything but well.

“I’m afraid this change is going to wipe out any fudge room,” Frank said over the shuffle of papers. “But we have to do what we have to do.”

“Maybe we can figure out something to offset any delays or unexpected costs,” she said.

“I really appreciate how enthusiastic and on top of things you’ve been.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Thank you,” Frank said. “You’ve been just great to collaborate with on this.”

Will felt like he couldn’t handle another word even before she added, “This opportunity has meant more to me than you know.”

Her words hung in the air as he tiptoed away down the hall and scrambled down the back stairs. Rushing past the cardio room, eyes straight ahead to avoid anyone else’s, he stopped at the spinning studio. Hoping that somehow an hour of physical pain might numb the mental, or at least ensure he wouldn’t run into Hope on the way out, he stepped into the spinning studio. As he adjusted to the low lighting and the moist heat of moving bodies, he scanned the small room for an open bike, but every one was taken except for the broken one in the corner with a missing saddle.

T
here was absolutely no way Laney should have gotten up and gone to Rise and Shine yoga. Not after spending half the night awake, rapid-cycling over how she could reschedule an afternoon of showings with an out-of-town buyer to finish her Mother’s Helpers’ training class so she could make it out to Highlands Ranch for her first party as a paid MH facilitator. That was, assuming Sarah found a babysitter or Randall’s last-minute meeting got cancelled so he could watch the kids and she could fill in for Laney at the May homeowner’s board meeting she’d promised Frank she wouldn’t miss, but had to if she was going to make her party.

Make the money she needed to make…

Laney pulled away from the community mailboxes and headed for the house.

She should have been home, working to clear her schedule, while she awaited responses to the
just-in-case-she-didn’t-make-it-to-the-meeting
report she’d sent Frank at 4
A.M.
, and the e-mails she’d sent to Sarah, Kitty, and her potential buyer. Not that the buyer had all that much potential, since he was the husband half of a couple relocating to one of four cities including Denver, but whose wife already had her heart set on Phoenix.

But all was cool.

The second she twisted her key in her mailbox and pulled out a commission check from Avon, Steve’s third-to-last severance check—the potentially negative significance of which she’d deal with later—and a customer loyalty coupon for $10 off at Old Navy, she knew the
Somehow It All Has to Work Out
plea she sent to The Universe over Sun Salutations was the only way to have handled her impossible day.

She pulled into the garage, grabbed a cup of coffee, and marched directly to her computer to see what else The Universe had in store.

Laughed out loud when she opened the first message:

TONIGHT’S MMR HOMEOWNER’S BOARD MEETING RESCHEDULED!!

Coffee cup raised to The Universe and Frank Griffin, she settled in to scan the details of problem solved Number One: