The Perfect Neighbors (13 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Re: Farts!

I love farts too! —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane

•  •  •

There were few things in life more disconcerting than being in your bathrobe, rubbing sleep from your eyes while you stumbled toward the coffeemaker, and nearly bumping into a man reading the paper at your kitchen table.

Gigi gave a little shriek, simultaneously releasing a small, unfortunate fart.

“Hi, Mrs. Kennedy,” Zach said, turning a page.

Had he heard? He acted like he hadn't heard. Gigi wasn't sure if she should be more embarrassed by the way she looked or the sound she'd made. She needed to buy a nicer bathrobe.

“I'm just . . .” She waved her hand around, unsure of why she was gesturing. She buried her head in the refrigerator and started taking out eggs, bread, and butter.

Joe came bounding down the stairs a moment later. He'd
taken a leave of absence from his job at the environmental agency so he could campaign full-time. Just as Zach had predicted, the results of the congressional election had narrowed the numbers separating the Republicans and Democrats in Congress. This seat wouldn't tip the balance either way, but it was still highly coveted by both parties.

They were talking about having Bill Clinton come in to do a campaign event for Joe. Bill Clinton!

“I'll be gone for the night,” Joe said. “We're hitting up the opening of a grocery store and a Rotary Club meeting. Then tomorrow morning we're going to diners to talk to retirees.”

“Where are you staying tonight?” Gigi asked.

“Holiday Inn,” Joe said.

“Don't get peed on by a baby,” Gigi said, and Joe smiled. It had actually happened during one campaign event, when a woman had thrust an infant into Joe's arms. “Who started the whole politicians kissing babies thing?” he'd asked later as he'd changed out of his still-damp shirt. “Isn't that kind of weird?”

“Better than them kissing their interns,” Gigi had said, just before Joe had tackled her onto the bed.

Now that Joe was the bona-fide Democratic nominee, more money had been made available to his campaign. He had to be careful how he spent it, and account for every penny, but almost a hundred thousand dollars had poured into his coffers immediately after the primary. Most of that would go for advertisements, but it would also cover his meals, gas money, and overnights at the Holiday Inn.

Joe picked up his stainless steel travel mug of coffee.

Zach picked up his stainless steel travel mug of coffee.

“Bye, honey,” Gigi said, giving Joe a kiss. Zach gave her a salute and headed out the door, the newspaper rolled up under his arm.

“Oh,” Gigi said.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

She decided to let it go. Maybe Zach was grabbing the paper
for Joe. “Nothing,” she said. She could pick up another when she was out running errands.

“I told the kids I'd be home early tomorrow,” Joe said. “Family movie night?”

“Sure,” she said.

She watched him go, then fixed her coffee and sat down on the chair Zach had just vacated, relishing the few minutes of quiet before she needed to wake up the kids. Melanie had been surprisingly cooperative about Zach moving in. Her only rule, Joe had reported, was that Zach never be allowed to enter the second floor of the house. And in particular, he couldn't go into her room.

“That's all she said?” Gigi had asked.

Joe had shrugged. “I have the feeling she has a crush on him.”

“I picked up on that, too,” Gigi had said. “That day of the photo shoot—I couldn't be sure but I thought she got upset when the photographer pointed out her pimple because Zach was there.”

“She could do worse,” Joe had said.

“Joe, he's too old for her,” Gigi had said sharply.

“That's not what I meant,” he'd said. “It's just that he's smart and hardworking and idealistic. If that's the kind of guy Melanie is attracted to, more power to her.”

“Idealistic?” That wasn't the word that came to mind. “Opportunistic,” maybe. But she didn't know Zach well. Maybe she'd gotten the wrong impression.

Still, the way he'd squatted down to her eye level when he'd asked Gigi about her secrets . . . The expression on his face had been friendly yet serious. But for the briefest of moments, something had revealed itself in his eyes. A gleam that was almost predatory.

A charred smell alerted her that her toast was burning. She stood up and tossed it in the trash; she was no longer hungry.

A moment later she heard the sound of the shower turning on. Melanie must already be up. Gigi used to have to drag
Melanie out of bed, but she hadn't had to go into her daughter's room and shake her awake even once lately.

Gigi frowned, replaying Joe's words in her mind. He'd said Zach wasn't allowed to go into Melanie's room. Was that because she wanted privacy . . . or because she was hiding something?

Gigi crept up the stairs, hesitating at the landing. To the left was the running shower. To the right was Melanie's room. Her door was firmly shut, as always.

Gigi was convinced Melanie had installed security ­devices—pieces of tape stretched across the doorframe, maybe—­because the few times recently when Gigi had gone in there to put away laundry, Melanie had known.

But maybe Melanie didn't take precautions when she was just taking a quick shower.

Gigi twisted the door handle and entered her daughter's room. She'd just take a quick look around, Gigi told herself. This wasn't snooping. She was searching for clues to help her solve the mystery that was her daughter.

She scanned the items on Melanie's desk. God, she was a slob. There were a few Sanpellegrino cans, an empty chips bag, lots of paper and books, and assorted junk like pencils and pennies. A few bras hung over the back of a chair.

Nothing here. What she needed was a diary, or a slip of paper with an email account and password. She peered under the bed and found only a few shoes, dirty clothes, and a book titled
Melt Away 20 Pounds Overnight!

“Oh, Melanie,” Gigi whispered. She looked down at the photograph of a skinny woman in a bikini on the cover and felt her throat constrict. She put it back exactly where she'd found it and straightened up and walked over to Melanie's dresser. She began rummaging through the drawers: clothes, bras, underpants . . . Gigi frowned as she felt something hard hidden beneath a pair of socks. She pulled it out. A pack of Marlboro lights, with a few missing.

Gigi hadn't noticed cigarette smoke on Melanie, but that
didn't mean much. Melanie rarely got close enough for Gigi to smell her.

Gigi put the pack back. She'd be grateful if a few cigarettes were all she had to worry about. But there had to be something else. Melanie couldn't have changed, seemingly overnight, from her sweet daughter to this . . . this
stranger
 . . . without a reason. Gigi tore open the desk drawers. Nothing. Melanie's phone was on the floor, plugged into its charger, but it was password protected. She and Joe had never made rules about the kids' phones because they hadn't needed to. Melanie had talked to her until recently, sharing her problems with Gigi, wanting her mother's advice.

The shower turned off.

Gigi eased out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She went into Julia's room and switched on her closet light. The overhead one would be too bright and jarring for her sensitive girl. Julia had a Harry Styles poster on the wall and a Harry Potter wand in a prized position on her bookshelf. Gigi suddenly wondered if in another year or two, she'd find those accessories corny and embarrassing. If she'd find her mother corny and embarrassing, like Melanie did.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she said.

Julia opened her eyes, yawned, and pulled the pillow over her head.

Gigi heard Melanie come out of the bathroom and pad into her bedroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

“Do I have to get up?” Julia mumbled through the pillow.

“You can doze for just a few more minutes,” she said.

She sank down onto the bed, stroking Julia's long, soft hair, feeling inordinately grateful to be able to give her daughter a simple answer.

•  •  •

Experts insisted children needed to learn how to put themselves to sleep and should be taught to do so at a young age.
Screw the experts
, Susan thought as she lay with Cole in his racecar-shaped bed, rubbing his back. She was going to enjoy cuddling him and breathing in the lavender scent that clung to him after his bubble baths for as long as she could. She probably only had a few years left before he would no longer seek out her touch. Already, Cole was losing his baby fat and his facial features were becoming more defined. His complexion was a few shades lighter than hers—closer to Randall's skin tone—but he still had Susan's big, long-lashed eyes.

“Ava is the meanest girl in my class,” Cole announced.

“Why is that?” Susan asked.

“She hates everyone,” Cole said. “She probably hates squirrels. But I bet she likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.”

Cole's mind reminded her of a Twitter feed—random thoughts scrolled by, some connected and some completely off the wall. Actually, everyone's mind probably worked that way, Susan thought. Kids just hadn't learned to censor themselves yet, to streamline their thoughts into a defined channel for the sake of appropriateness. It was one of the things she loved best about their bedtime conversations, chasing the tail ends of his imaginings, trying to puzzle out all the pieces that formed her son.

“I bet she does,” Susan agreed. “Everyone likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

“We should buy some,” Cole said.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Susan said.

“Plus I won at dodgeball,” Cole said. “Ava wanted to win and she got really mad at me.”

“Sounds like she was a sore loser,” Susan said. She gave Cole's hair another stroke and he nestled against her like a baby koala, wrapping his arms and legs around her.

“Sweetie?” Susan said. “I have a question for you. Why did you tell Ms. Klopson that I was going to marry your soccer coach?”

Cole had been rubbing his feet together, but he suddenly went still.

“I'm not mad at you,” Susan said quickly. “I'm just curious. Do you really like Steve?”

“Do you like him?” Cole asked, and Susan quashed a smile.

“He's very nice,” Susan said. “And I think he's a good coach. I'm not going to marry him, though. I don't even know him that well.”

“Oh,” Cole said in a small voice.

“Are you worried I might get married to someone else?” Susan asked. “Someone you don't like?”

Cole shook his head.

“Do you know why you said that in the first place?” Susan asked. “About me marrying Steve?”

“I just thought maybe you would,” Cole said.

Susan decided to let it go. They talked about a few other things—where fireflies came from (“I think Canada,” Cole decided) and whether Cole should ask Santa for a fish or a frog for Christmas (“How about a stuffed frog?” Susan suggested, knowing the battle had already begun and that she was destined to lose it)—then Cole's chatter eased and his breaths turned soft and even. Susan held him for another moment, then she eased out of bed, leaving him bathed in the gentle glow of his night-light.

She crept downstairs to the dining room table where a pile of paperwork awaited. She paid taxes quarterly as a small business owner, so she needed to gather her receipts and calculate things like her estimated business mileage. But she found herself unable to focus. She picked up a receipt for a client's takeout lunch (chicken and mashed potatoes, Mrs. Anderson, in the hospital for three weeks following a heart procedure), then realized she was staring at the slip of paper.

Her mind kept circling back to the phone conversation with Ms. Klopson. Cole had been very specific about the things he'd said Steve was doing at their house. Raking leaves. Changing a lightbulb.

Actually, Susan had raked most of the leaves coating their
lawn while Cole was at Randall's. She'd stuffed them into the huge paper bags provided by Newport Cove. She'd saved some for Cole, though; her parents had been firm believers in chores, and Susan was, too. She'd pointed out the neat row of bags she'd done by herself, then she'd said, “We have to do the last two bags together. I did most of them, but I need your help now.”

And that bit about Steve changing the lightbulb—that detail was rooted in something that had actually happened, too. The bulb in the hallway had burned out and Susan had climbed onto a chair to change it, but the fixture was just beyond her reach. Cole had watched her struggle to touch it. She recalled making a joke about wishing she were taller, but she didn't remember if he'd responded. She'd gone into the garage and brought out the stepladder and climbed onto it. Cole had watched, warning her to be careful. He seemed worried she'd fall, even though she'd assured him she wouldn't.

“See?” she'd said as she'd untwisted the bulb. And that had been the end of that completely unremarkable incident.

But apparently Cole had thought about these moments, adding and subtracting details before spinning them into something else entirely.

She pulled out more receipts, absently sorting them into piles. She'd almost worked her way through the stack when it hit her.

Cole wasn't looking for another father figure. He was worried about
her
. He wanted Susan to have a partner—someone to help her. Susan hadn't realized she was lonely, but her perceptive little boy had picked up on it.

She dropped the rest of the receipts and rubbed her eyes. She'd worked to model good behavior for Cole. She'd acted positive and strong, telling herself she was making the most of their little life together. She'd thought it had been enough—her son, her work, her friends. But Cole had seen deep inside of her and he'd known she was lonely. Maybe he even suspected she wanted Randall back.