The Perfect Neighbors (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Before Newport Cove

BREE WAS A LITTLE
more than a year old when the next incident occurred.

Harry had been away on another business trip. He'd been traveling more lately. Sometimes Tessa wondered if he wanted to escape their messy home, his unhappy wife, their strained life. She'd thought about asking him, but she was afraid of his answer.

That afternoon, she'd spent an hour trapped on the couch while Bree had dozed on her chest. Bree resisted sleep with the fervor of an escaped convict being dragged back to prison, so it had felt like a victory when she'd nodded off in Tessa's arms after her bottle. Tessa hadn't been able to transfer Bree to her crib, though, because it would have woken her. So even though Tessa had needed to flip the laundry from the washing machine into the dryer, and straighten the living room, and bundle up all the newspapers and magazines for the recycling truck that would come through tomorrow, she'd lain on the couch, her head at an uncomfortable angle, letting her daughter rest.

When Bree had finally awoken, Tessa had a kink in her neck and an uneasy mix of agitation and boredom churning through her body. She'd needed to get out of the house. She'd packed some cold drinks, since the day had been warm, bundled Bree into the stroller, and had taken her daughter to the park, thinking fresh air and the swings would do them both good. There was an elementary school nearby, and school had just let out, so the playground should have been empty.

As she'd approached the park, Tessa had noticed a group of kids at T-ball practice. The children were adorable; their team T-shirts must have been ordered in a size too large, making them resemble Charlie Brown and his gang. Tessa had settled Bree into a bucket swing. The gentle motion was one of the few things that soothed Bree, but it had to be a real swing. Naturally, the mechanical one Tessa had bought for their living room, the one that had cost a hundred dollars—and would free up her hands—only irritated Bree.

She'd been thinking about Harry, wondering what he was doing in California at that exact moment. It was late afternoon on this coast, which meant it was lunchtime there. Perhaps he was eating in a nice restaurant. Sushi, maybe. Tessa hadn't had sushi since before she'd gotten pregnant. It had always been her favorite splurge—the dash of searing wasabi, the tangy crunch of seaweed, the soft rice. After a good meal and then an afternoon of meetings, Harry would head back to his hotel room, where the newspaper would be crisp, the minibar filled with tempting treats, and the sheets on his bed snowy white. Perhaps he'd take off his shoes and flop on the bed and watch a little television, or sneak in a catnap. Maybe the maid had left him a minty piece of chocolate.

Sometimes she almost hated her husband.

Out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen a man coming from the direction of the parking lot. He was maybe in his sixties, with graying hair. He'd been moving slowly, weaving through the trees as he headed toward the T-ball field.

But then the man had stopped a few dozen yards away from the field. He'd positioned himself behind a tall, thick tree, leaning against it with his left hand while his right hand slipped into his pocket.

“Ma!” Bree had yelled at that moment.

Tessa would've liked to pretend that Bree was calling her, but she knew it was Bree's way of saying, “More!”

She'd reached out to give her daughter another gentle push, then she'd swiveled to fix her eyes on the man. He was a little disheveled-looking, now that she was getting a closer look. He wore a battered baseball cap, khaki pants, and a plain blue T-shirt.

There had been something in the hand that was coming out of his pocket. Something shiny that had glinted as the sun caught it.

A cell phone? No. A small video camera.

Tessa had glanced again at the children. A dozen or so little boys and girls, about five or six years old. The man had lifted the video camera to his eye as a little girl in a skirt walked to the batting tee.

The little girl's skirt hiked up, revealing her small, chubby thighs, as she swung for the ball and missed. Why was that creep hiding behind a tree, filming a little girl as she bent over?

A nanny had been pushing a child on the swing next to Bree's.

“Do you see that?” Tessa had asked. She'd pointed at the man. His hand was back in his pocket now.

The nanny had squinted and frowned. “What is he doing?”

“He's taking videos of those kids! He's a creep!”

“Is he a grandfather?”

“No!” Tessa had said. “Why would he be hiding? The parents can't see him because he's behind that tree.”

The nanny had shaken her head. “That's no good.”

“Can you watch her?” Tessa had said, gesturing to Bree. “I'm going to talk to him.”

The nanny had nodded and taken over pushing Bree. Tessa had moved three long strides toward the man before she'd frozen. What would happen if she confronted him? He might attack her. More likely, he would simply walk away. She'd never know where he came from, or who he was. He'd go prey on other children.

She'd reached into her pocket for her cell phone and had dialed 911.

“I'm at a playground and there's a strange man lurking around here,” Tessa had said, her voice sounding official. It was her job to protect her child—to protect all children. She was part of the village! “He's taking videos of a little girl. He doesn't seem to be with anyone.”

“Address, please?” the emergency operator had said, and Tessa had given her the name of the park and the precise location. She'd described the man and said she'd wait by the swings until a police officer arrived.

She'd kept a close watch on the man. He'd put the video camera away, but he was still staring at the children, hiding behind that tree, one hand resting on it as his face peered around the side. His other hand was still in his pocket. Tessa hadn't been able to see his face clearly, but she'd committed his general height, weight, and hair color to memory.

The police came within five minutes, the squad car's tires grinding against gravel as it pulled in to the parking lot. The lights and siren were off, but a male and female officer had gotten out quickly and walked toward the swings. Tessa had pulled a protesting Bree out of the bucket seat, settling her daughter on her hip as she went to meet them.

“I'm the one who called,” Tessa had said. She'd felt a little thrill of excitement—finally, something was interrupting her dull existence!—as she pointed to the man. “He's right there.”

“Please stay back here, ma'am,” the female officer had said. She was young but had a competent, no-nonsense air about her. The two officers began walking toward the man, spread
ing apart slightly, which Tessa had suspected was so that they'd be able to cover more angles in case he tried to bolt. He didn't even notice them until they came up beside him.

Tessa hadn't been able to hear what they said, but after a moment she'd seen the man spread out his arms, palms up.
I didn't do anything!
the gesture had seemed to say.

Check his video camera
, Tessa had thought with satisfaction.
You'll see exactly what he did.

She'd edged a little closer, despite the officer's warning. Most perverts were cowards; he wouldn't dare do anything to her now. Let him try! She'd sock him in the nose. The officers were still talking, and now the man was pulling his video camera out of his pocket and holding it up for them to see.

Tessa had stopped moving when she saw a woman running toward the pervert. The woman had put a hand on the old man's arm as she talked to the officers. Then the officers had stepped back, their posture relaxing. The woman had spoken to them for another minute, then looked over at Tessa. She'd shaken her head, her expression grim, and begun to walk over. Tessa's stomach had plummeted.

“Are you the one who called the police?” the woman had asked. Tessa had nodded mutely, her throat dry.

“My father fought in the first Persian Gulf war,” the woman had said. Her eyes were bright and her voice sharp. “He has an old injury. There wasn't anywhere for him to sit down and his leg was stiffening up so he leaned against the tree for support.”

Tessa had swallowed hard, feeling blood rush to her face. “I'm so sorry . . . ,” she'd begun.

“Look, I appreciate you trying to protect our kids, but you really jumped to conclusions,” the woman had said. Her voice had a little quaver in it and she was clutching her hands together tightly. By now the other parents at practice had all been looking toward the officers. “Why didn't you just ask my dad what he was doing? You embarrassed him.”

“I'm sorry,” Tessa had whispered again. She'd looked at the
nanny for support, but the nanny had quickly averted her eyes.

The little girl in the skirt had run over to the man, and he had bent over to give her a hug, and yes, Tessa had seen as he took a few steps, he was favoring his right leg with a limp. She hadn't noticed it when he'd been walking to the tree line.

The woman who'd confronted Tessa had walked away without a word. The grandfather had reached out to politely shake the hands of the police officers, a gesture that sealed Tessa's misery. He didn't look her way, not even for a moment.

Maybe one child was enough, Tessa had thought as she tried to get Bree into the stroller. She and Harry had discussed the possibility of another child, now that Bree was over her colic and most of her teething, but Tessa obviously had trouble managing just one. Bree had begun screaming because she wasn't ready to leave the swings, her arms and legs sticking out stiffly, and Tessa had to force her into the stroller. Now everyone who'd been staring at the old man was watching
her
. Judging her. She wasn't a natural as a mother; she was a crazy lady who couldn't comfort her baby and rushed her to the hospital when it wasn't necessary and called the police on an innocent grandfather. She wasn't any good at this!

They should just stick with one child, and hope they didn't mess her up too badly, Tessa had thought miserably.

The next month, Tessa discovered she was pregnant.

Chapter Eleven

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Re: Neighborhood Halloween Party & Parade

A cheery reminder that Halloween is right around the corner and there are still plenty of open slots for the activities committee and food committee for our neighborhood party! Please email Shannon Dockser to sign up—let's get all hands on deck! —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager

•  •  •

Early one Friday afternoon, Joe came home unexpectedly and announced that he wouldn't be campaigning at all that Sunday so they could have family time. “Maybe Chinese food and a movie?” he suggested. Then he handed Gigi a pint of salted caramel ice cream, which was her favorite.

“So,” she said after hiding the carton in the freezer, behind the frozen spinach, where the kids would never find it. “Are you planning to tell me what's going on?”

Joe tried to give her an innocent face, but she just arched an eyebrow. She'd seen him talk his way out of speeding tickets. She knew his innocent face.

“I know you're not going to like it,” he began, “but it would just be for a few months.”

“Go on,” Gigi said. This sounded like it was worth more than a measly pint of ice cream.

“Remember my new campaign manager?” Joe asked. He loosened the knot on his necktie and began to unravel the piece of silk.

Gigi thought back to the day of the photo shoot. “The young guy who looks like a surfer?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. He slung his tie over the back of a chair and Gigi automatically reached to straighten it out. “His name is Zach.”

“Right,” Gigi said.

“So even though he's been working for me for the experience, he can't do it for free much longer. He's been crashing with a buddy but the friend's girlfriend is sick of it. I was thinking about our basement. It's empty.” Joe began speaking more quickly now that he'd released the request. “You'd hardly even know he was here.”

“Oh, Joe,” Gigi said, folding her arms. “Really?”

She hated the idea of having a stranger in the house. And Joe's political campaign had already taken over so much of their lives. Already she'd tamed her hair and become the kind of woman who folded her arms when she was displeased with her husband. Did the campaign have to take over their home, too?

“It would just be for a little while,” Joe said. “Look on the bright side, if I lose the primary he'll be gone even sooner.”

“We'll have to ask the kids,” Gigi said.

“C'mon, you know Melanie's going to freak out,” Joe said. “She blows up when we tell her we're out of cereal. We can't present this as her choice. We either decide to do it and tell her, or we don't do it at all.”

“Okay,” Gigi said. “What if we don't do it at all?”

Joe exhaled. He looked exhausted. His eyes were red-
rimmed, and the skin beneath them sagged, Gigi saw as her heart softened. He was juggling two jobs now, since he was still working full-time for the environmental company, and the strain was showing. It was only going to get worse in the coming months.

“He's good, Gigi. There are a lot of races around the country. He could leave tomorrow and join another one,” Joe said. “I feel like I could actually win this thing. People are starting to recognize me.”

“So how long are we talking, exactly?” Gigi said.

“Just through the general election, max,” Joe said.

A few months, then. Definitely worth more than a pint of ice cream.

“Fine,” she said. “But you have to be the one to tell Melanie.”

Joe jumped up and came over to stand behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. He began to knead her shoulders, his thumbs seeking out knots of tension and digging into them. Joe could have another career as a masseuse; the man gave world-class back rubs. That reason alone could have cemented her decision to marry him.

“We're going to be on the road a lot,” Joe said. “He just needs a place to crash at night. If I get elected I'll have a salary for staff and then he can afford an apartment, but for now . . .”

“I know, I know,” Gigi said. She tilted back her head and let it rest against his chest as Joe's touch became lighter and his fingers came around to her front, grazing the tops of her breasts. Her breaths grew more shallow.

“Joe,” she said.

“Mmm?”

“Is this what you expected?” she asked. “The campaign, I mean?”

His hands paused. “Some of the time,” he said. “I don't know . . .”

“What?” she prompted.

“The other night I was door-to-door canvassing and this guy invited me in and I got stuck talking to him for half an hour,” Joe said. “I couldn't figure out how to get the hell out of his house. And he was nuts. He kept telling me everything that was wrong with the government, and he made no sense, and whenever I tried to respond, he just talked over me. I finally started edging toward the door and escaped, but the whole time I'm thinking,
I'm missing a night with my family for
this
shit?
But I had to be polite. If I'd met that guy at a cocktail party a year ago, I would've blown him off after two seconds. But I can't do that anymore. I have to be more careful about offending people.”

Gigi nodded. “You know what I think it's like?” she said. “Having a baby.”

“My congressional campaign is our third child?” Joe asked.

“The expectations get too idealized,” Gigi explained. “It's like when you're pregnant for the first time. You pick out the cute outfits and you make a birth plan and you imagine this snuggly infant sleeping on your chest. You don't think about the fourteen diaper changes a day and the sleep deprivation and all that other crap.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Exactly. I kept thinking about being in the Capitol and casting an important vote. I didn't expect to spend hours talking to people who think Obama is an illegal immigrant. The other day I had to explain the concept of global warming to someone, who told me she hasn't voted in fifteen years and doesn't plan to anytime soon.”

“If you ever decide it's too much—if you ever want to quit—” Gigi began.

“I don't,” Joe said. He hesitated. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Gigi said. She sighed. “Julia will be fine with it. But do you really think Melanie's going to accept Zach moving in?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “She'll squawk a little but she'll be fine.”

But Joe didn't know how bad things could get with Melanie.
Melanie still adored her father. She reserved her worst rages for Gigi, for the moments when they were alone. Sometimes Joe would go into Melanie's room to say good night and Gigi would hear the murmur of Melanie's voice behind her closed door and she'd feel a spear of jealousy through her heart:
What are you telling him that you can't tell me?

Joe's fingertips resumed making slow, electric circles beneath her collarbone. Gigi tilted back her head to look at him, this man she still loved so passionately. Sometimes you crashed into people, propelled by a surge of chemistry, and sometimes you drifted into them. Her relationship with Joe had been a long, slow slide that began in friendship and turned into like, and then lust, and finally love. She adored him, but more than that, she believed in him. He supported raising the minimum wage—one of Gigi's pet causes—and he believed in a woman's right to choose, another one of her priorities. Maybe the voters saw a man giving a winning smile with bright new teeth, and speaking in the sound bites that were catnip to reporters, but she knew the real Joe. Her Joe. He was the man she was voting for.

She wondered what the voters would say if they knew that Joe had smoked pot in college. That Gigi
still
smoked pot sometimes, leaning her head out the bathroom window while the water ran into the tub and her scented candles burned.

She glanced at the clock over the stove. It showed they still had almost an hour before the girls would get home from school.

“Follow me,” she said, beckoning with her index finger.

She grabbed a spoon and the pint of ice cream, then beckoned for Joe to come upstairs, into the bathroom. She began running the water for the tub, then unbuckled his belt and tugged his slacks down over his slim hips. As Joe pulled his shirt over his head, Gigi lit her scented candle and reached for the Ziploc bag hidden behind an old electric toothbrush in the lowest drawer of her vanity.

She wiggled the bag in the air. Joe needed this; he was so stressed. After a joint and a soak in the tub and some sex, she'd convince him to take a long nap.

“For old times' sake?” she asked. “I can open a window to let the smell out. Pot and ice cream always was our favorite combination.”

Joe smiled and slid into the tub.

Let the campaign photographer get a glimpse of
this
, Gigi thought as she put the joint between her lips.

•  •  •

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Accountant

Can anyone recommend a good accountant? —Barry Newman, Forsythia Lane

*Re: Accountant

I highly recommend Randall Barrett as an accountant (he's the father of Cole, who's in my son David's 2nd grade class). Randall has been doing our taxes for years. You couldn't ask for a nicer guy! —Linda Hawthorne, Tulip Way

*Re: Accountant

TurboTax is also a helpful device, or so I've heard. —Tally White, Iris Lane

•  •  •

Susan's company, Your Other Daughter, was born when a sixty­-seven-year-old woman tripped over a library cart.

An hour later, Susan was on the phone with her old college roommate, Bobbi, whose mother had broken her right hip and wrist in the fall. A librarian had called an ambulance, and Bobbi's mother had been taken to a hospital just twenty minutes away from Susan's home. Cole was two months old at the time, and Susan was still on maternity leave from her law firm.

“I hate to ask this,” Bobbi had said, her voice tight and frantic. She was in the back of a taxi, racing toward the airport.
“But she's going into surgery before I can get there, and she's absolutely terrified of hospitals—”

“I'm on my way,” Susan had said, already reaching for her car keys and Cole's diaper bag. Bobbi's mother had been warm and welcoming when she'd visited Bobbi at Duke; she'd invited Susan to join them for brunch, and had chatted with her whenever Susan answered the phone.

Bobbi had made it just in time to see her mother open her eyes in the recovery room after her doctors had placed three pins in her hip and encased her right arm in a cast. Susan had stepped away to give them some privacy, and when Bobbi had emerged into the hallway fifteen minutes later, she'd wrapped her arms around Susan. “Thank you,” Bobbi had whispered.

They'd sat down together on a bench and Susan had handed her old roommate a fresh cup of coffee from a vending machine.

“Precisely what I needed,” Bobbi said, taking off the lid and breathing in the steam. “You're a lifesaver.”

While Bobbi drank her coffee and Cole dozed in his car seat at her feet, Susan had tried to help her friend formulate a plan. She knew how difficult it was to think clearly in a crisis, when anxiety and stress twisted through your mind.

“The doctor told me she's going to be in a cast for eight weeks,” Bobbi had said, massaging her forehead with her free hand. “She'll need help bathing, and she'll need physical therapy. I can't stay that long . . . My job, the kids . . .”

Bobbi worked as a civil rights attorney in New York City, and she and her partner had twin sons who were toddlers. “And she can't come stay with us,” Bobbi continued. “We've got too many stairs and our place is so crammed she wouldn't be comfortable. The guilt is killing me, Susan. How can I stick my mom in a rehab hospital?”

“Some of them are quite good,” Susan had said. She'd reached out to touch Bobbi's arm, knowing her friend was close to tears. “And you can call her every day.”

Bobbi had shaken her head. “She took care of me for eighteen years. After my dad left, she didn't even date until I'd moved away to go to college. This is the first time she's really needed me. She just looked so . . . so fragile in that hospital gown . . . She's getting old, Susan. How did she get old so quickly?”

Susan had rubbed Bobbi's back while tears had rolled down Bobbi's cheeks. The solution was simple: It was a relatively quick drive for her. She still had another two months of maternity leave, and Randall had a flexible schedule since he owned his business and set his own hours. She looked at her friend's anguished face and made a quick decision.

“So let me be there for you,” Susan had said. “I'll visit her every other day. You can come for a weekend every two weeks or so. I'll bring her treats and talk to her doctors and make sure she's okay.”

Bobbi had lifted her head. “You would do that?” she'd whispered.

And Susan had smiled and squeezed her friend's hand. “Of course I would.”

It was a favor for a dear friend, not the inspiration for a business plan. But one afternoon after delivering a new book on tape and a slice of fresh apple pie to Bobbi's mother, Susan had stepped into the elevator to find a woman brushing away tears. Susan had given her a sympathetic smile, and suddenly, they were sharing a bench outside the rehab hospital, with Susan rubbing the woman's back just as she had Bobbi's. The woman's story had poured out—people had always seemed to want to confide in Susan; Kellie swore it was because Susan had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen—and her dilemma was remarkably similar to Bobbi's. She lived five hours away, had a family of her own, and could only come to visit her ailing father every other weekend.

“Would you—?” the woman had begun, then she'd stopped and gathered herself. “If you're willing, I'd like to hire you,” she said.