The Perfect Neighbors (17 page)

Kellie sipped her wine and picked at a little turkey and some of the vegetables, but she didn't have much of an appetite. She hadn't for weeks. She'd lost another six pounds recently, without even trying. She was taking more pride in her appearance, after years of schlubbing around in stretched-out yoga pants and T-shirts. The crush might actually be good for her. And it wasn't like Jason never talked to women at his job!

She wondered what Miller was doing at this exact moment.

He was with his family, of course. She could see Miller sitting at the head of the table, next to his wife, his cherubic children beaming alongside them. His wife would be beautiful, of course—sleek and charming, probably. And young. What if she were much younger than Kellie? What if she were a pediatric surgeon who selflessly worked to save the lives of children? That would be the worst thing imaginable. No, no, it would be worse if she was a Pilates instructor.

“Excuse me,” Kellie said, getting up from the table and hurrying into the kitchen.

She couldn't believe she'd never Googled Miller's wife before. She didn't know her name, but a quick investigation of Miller's Facebook page revealed it to be Jane.

Plain Jane. No, most of the Janes Kellie knew were pretty, as if in defiance of that old taunt.

She tried to access Jane's Facebook page, but the settings were private.
Do you know Jane?
Facebook asked her.

She couldn't friend her. That would be creepy.

But she could browse Miller's photos to see if he'd posted one of his wife. She began swiping through them. A house, another house . . . most of his pictures were of properties he was selling. There! A photo of a cute young woman with Miller and his two sons. Kellie squinted. That woman looked
to be about eighteen. Oh, thank God. Miller had written a caption: “Fun with the boys' cousin Emily!”

“Kellie?” Irene was calling. “Could you bring in another bottle of wine?”

“Sure thing,” Kellie said. A picture of a dog—Miller had mentioned his Lab before and she knew its name was Coop—and another of his kids on skis, perched atop a mountain. Miller was with them and so was a woman. But she was wearing bulky ski clothes, a hat, and goggles. She looked slender, and the hair spilling out from beneath her helmet was dark, but her features were indistinct. Kellie zoomed in, but the photo revealed nothing.

She'd die if Miller's wife was gorgeous, if he had a dozen photos of them together, his strong arms wrapped around her. She didn't want to see the pictures.

She had to see them.

“Kellie?”

“Hold
on
, Irene!” Kellie snapped. Maybe if she went back to last summer, there would be a beach shot. Damn it, why were so many of his pictures of houses . . .

“What are you doing?” Irene asked as she walked into the kitchen and snatched Kellie's phone out of her hand.

“Give it back!” Kellie shrieked. Irene danced backward and looked down at the screen. “Why are you staring at photos of houses for sale? No working at a family holiday dinner.”

“I'm not,” Kellie protested.

Irene ran into the dining room, still holding up the phone.

“I caught Kellie texting all her boyfriends,” she crowed.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Irene!” Kellie snapped. “Give me that. I wasn't texting anyone.”

Irene had always been immature and, truthfully, more than a little spoiled. Being the baby of the family could do that to you.

“Man,” Irene said as Kellie wrenched the phone out of her hand. “Can't anyone take a joke? And where's my wine?”

Irene was tipsy, Kellie realized. She seized the chance to change the subject.

“Are you sure you need another glass?” she asked. She made sure her tone was light but she didn't conceal her annoyance. It worked; everyone stopped thinking about Irene's stupid comment and resumed eating. Kellie saw her mother give her father a resigned look:
The girls are bickering again!

“I'm not driving anywhere,” Irene said.

“Fine,” Kellie said. “I'll get it for you.”

“Don't take an hour like last time,” Irene sang out.

Kellie turned off her phone and put it in her pocket, then brought out the bottle of Chardonnay. Jason was chatting with her mother and the kids were tearing into the chocolate turkey, having ignored everyone's suggestion that they wait a while.

“Here you go, wino,” she said as she poured Irene another glass. She had to sound irritated at Irene, to keep anyone from asking why she'd spent so long on the phone in the kitchen. And it
had
been a while—everyone had cleared their plates.

Jason reached for her hand and she smiled.

“Good mashed potatoes, honey,” he said, patting his stomach.

“I'm glad you liked them,” she said.

She wasn't doing anything wrong, technically. But what if Irene had glanced down and seen Miller's Facebook page?

Tonight, she'd go into the settings on her phone and install a password, just in case.

•  •  •

What was one more lie, in the grand scheme of things?

Susan had told Kellie she had plans for today, and she sort of did. Earlier she'd gone to Sunrise Assisted Living to have a noontime meal with Mr. Brannon. Her evening plans involved HBO, a sandwich, and possibly a Xanax, which she normally took only when she flew on an airplane.

Cole was spending Thanksgiving with Randall and fertile Daphne. He was sleeping in the little bedroom Randall had prepared for him. It had a baseball lamp, and Fathead stickers of famous athletes on the walls, and a cozy rug where Randall's puppy curled up to sleep. Randall's parents were flying in from Florida, and possibly Daphne's family was in town, too. Daphne had two older brothers, and they both had kids. Maybe everyone would play football in the yard, and Cole would catch the winning touchdown, and Randall would toss him into the air while everyone beamed.

That would be good, of course, because Cole would be happy.

During their sessions with Judy the mediator, they'd planned out holidays. Susan wanted Cole for Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day (though he would visit Randall for three hours in the middle of the day), so she'd conceded Thanksgiving. She hadn't thought it would matter. Thanksgiving was about food and gratitude, and she could just skip both of those concepts and make it like any other night. But as she walked home from Kellie's, her hands tucked deep in her pockets, her shoulders huddled, loneliness pierced her. Usually she could count on seeing other people out and about in the neighborhood in the late afternoons. Neighbors walked dogs, parents ran out to their cars to do the school pickup runs, nannies held the hands of toddlers as they made slow progress down the sidewalk.

But tonight the streets were silent.

She kept walking, past her house, knowing where she was going but helpless to stop herself, the way an addict keeps reaching for a cigarette. She hadn't dressed warmly enough for such a long walk, but she continued on, her feet growing cold in her thin boots, her cheeks feeling pinched. She turned down Randall's street and stopped. She wondered what the inside of the house looked like. She'd never seen it. She imagined he'd have Cole's artwork displayed on the re
frigerator, like she did. There would be photos of Cole on the mantel, and some of Randall and Daphne, too. She wondered if Daphne would get pregnancy photos done, with Randall standing behind her, his hands wrapped around her belly.

She leaned back against a tree and closed her eyes.

She'd never been good at confrontation. She'd seen people erupt into rages at the slightest provocation—say, someone cutting in front of them in line—but that wasn't part of her emotional makeup. That's why what had happened with Kellie the other night had been so shocking. She'd never blown up like that at a friend before. She tended to think first, react much later.

Her parents had been a lawyer and a doctor, and they were calm, patient, almost overly formal people. Susan had never seen her father in his pajamas—when she was growing up, he'd always gone straight from bed into the shower and come downstairs dressed in a suit, or on casual days, an Oxford shirt with a vest over it. Her mother had liked classical music and she was an anesthesiologist. Her job centered around keeping things steady—breathing, blood pressure, vital signs. Over dinner they discussed current events and Susan's schoolwork and activities. She'd never had a sibling to squabble with; she'd never learned to fight.

Maybe if she and Randall had seen a counselor to talk about their differences before he'd met Daphne they would've stayed together. But the issue didn't seem to have any gray area. Randall wanted more kids. She didn't. She'd hoped that he'd come around, that he'd see her point of view. He'd hoped just as fervently for the opposite. And the truth was, she was so busy with work and with Cole that it became easier to push the issue aside, to ignore it and hope it would dissolve. To let their cold war stretch out, pretend it was just an ordinary marital dispute, like a squabble over their preferred settings on the thermostat.

She tilted her head back and felt two tears trickle down her cheeks. She knew she should get away from this place, she
understood that what she was doing was intensifying her pain, but she was so tired. She wouldn't be able to sleep, though, and she didn't want to go into her empty house and watch television until it was time to go to bed.

She opened her eyes and noticed Randall had already strung up white Christmas lights in the trees, and the lamp mounted over his front door cast a golden glow across the porch. The house looked snug and cozy. Susan was glad she'd never been inside, because that would make the images in her head more vivid.

She hoped Randall had given Cole a drumstick, and let him pull the wishbone, and served him a big piece of apple pie that was still warm. Randall probably had done all of those things and more. He was a wonderful father, after all. And he'd been such a good husband, too.

When she was so cold she could think of nothing else but her discomfort, she turned, shivering, and made her slow way back home.

•  •  •

“Green beans?” Tessa asked, holding up a spoonful.

“Sure,” said Addison. He was her good eater, the kid who never met a casserole or quesadilla he didn't like.

Tessa ladled some onto his plate. She knew better than to ask Bree if she wanted a portion. Bree was still a prickly child. She hated the little lines that ran across the tops of socks, so Tessa had to special order ones without seams. She didn't like mushy foods. She startled easily at loud noises, and she was afraid of the dark. But she'd mellowed out considerably since her early, colicky months.

Tessa had decided to fly her family to her hometown in Colorado for the holiday. The past few months had been so draining that when her sister had called and said, “So what's the plan for Thanksgiving?” Tessa had immediately responded, “We'd love to come to see you all.”

Claire had sounded taken aback, but she'd recovered quickly. “That would be great,” she'd said. “I'll set up the guest room for you and Harry. Do you guys still prefer firm pillows?”

Only Claire would ask for the pillow preference of her guests. She'd also make their mother's green bean casserole with fried onions on top, because that was tradition, and she'd light candles with the holders that had been in their family for three generations. She'd assign everyone seats, too, and make sure they all knew how much work she'd put into the meal, but suddenly, Tessa didn't mind. Her older sister was bossy but loving, and sometimes Tessa focused too much on the former instead of the latter.

“I can't wait,” Tessa said, and was surprised to find herself meaning it, and not just because Colorado seemed like another escape.

They'd been crammed onto an overly full plane on the runway for ninety minutes before they took off, and a cold snap had overtaken Colorado, causing them to lament not bringing warmer clothes, but it was good to see her family again, Tessa realized. Bree and Addison had spent the day playing with their cousins, and Harry had watched football with Claire's husband, their feet up on the coffee table, cans of beer in hand.

“Tessa?” Claire was asking. “More stuffing?”

“I'm good, but thanks,” Tessa said.

“Are you sure? You look so thin!” Claire said. “You and Harry both. Is your new town a secret dieting destination?”

Tessa laughed it off. “We do a lot of biking and walking, because the weather's better,” she said. “It's easier to stay active.”

“Well, that's one good reason for moving there,” Tessa's mother said.

“Although it seemed so sudden,” Claire added.

Tessa had prepared for this. It was the first time she'd seen her family since the move, and she knew they'd have questions.

“It was,” Tessa agreed. She'd said all this before, in phone conversations, of course. “We drove down there on a whim—we just felt like getting out of town—and we saw this house for sale in the perfect neighborhood. Everything fell into place.”

“You'll have to come visit,” Harry said.

Tessa nodded, wanting to kick him under the table. The last thing she wanted was for her family to come to their new town. She could see Claire going for a walk and bumping into neighbors and chatting. Claire was careful to avoid mentioning Danny Briggs around the children, but she might let something slip about his death to another adult, and then Tessa would have to face the very sorts of questions she'd fled.

“I miss my friends, though,” Addison said.

“Oh, sweetie,” Tessa said. “But you've made lots of new friends, haven't you? Noah, and Cole . . .”

“What about you, Bree? Do you miss your friends, too?” Claire asked.

“Sometimes,” Bree said. “But we still Skype and stuff.”