In the hall, she sees that Stacey’s door is closed and the bathroom is vacant. No sign of Keith. For once, no one knocks as she takes a long, hot shower, dries her hair, puts in her contacts, and applies light makeup. Back in the bedroom, she dresses in jeans and a zipped navy blue hoodie and makes the bed. It’s going on noon by the time she descends the stairs.
Keith is in the kitchen, cooking something on the stove and talking to someone. Not Stacey. Hearing a familiar voice on speaker, Nora realizes one of his sisters is on the phone. He has three, all married with children and living within a mile of each other and their parents.
“I’ll check the plane fares and see if we can make it work.”
It’s Sherri, his older sister. She’s the bossiest one, according to Keith, though they all fit that bill in Nora’s opinion.
“That would be great, Sher,” Keith says. “I just need to make sure . . .” Turning away from the stove to reach for something, he spots Nora. “Hey, Nora’s up. Let me talk to her about it and get back to you, okay?”
“Sure. Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Sherri calls.
“Good morning,” she calls back. “Say hello to everyone for me.”
“I will! See you soon! Bye, guys!”
She hangs up. Keith reaches for his phone, propped against the backsplash, and puts it into his pocket.
She catches his eye and raises a brow at him. “‘See you soon’?”
“Sherri wants to come for Thanksgiving.”
“Come here?”
“Right.” He turns back to the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron pan.
“They’ve never wanted to spend Thanksgiving with us.”
“That’s not true. They invite us every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“To Kansas.”
Before the girls were born, Keith and Nora had made a few holiday trips, but decided that it would be too difficult with babies and toddlers. They’d established their own traditions—Thanksgiving dinner for four at a Beverly Hills restaurant, and Christmas-week ski trips with friends.
“Your family never came when we invited them to visit us for the holidays—or ever,” she tells Keith.
“Because they don’t like LA. But they watch the Macy’s Parade on TV every year, and they want to see it in person.”
“Do they want to see us?”
“Of course they do! But if you don’t want them to come, I’ll call Sherri back before she gets the whole family all excited about it.”
“The whole family? Your other sisters, and your parents?”
“I’m hoping. It would be nice, don’t you think?”
“It would be really nice,” she agrees.
For you, and the girls. But they don’t like me.
From the start, the in-laws were cordial to Nora, but nothing more.
“Is it because they’re overprotective of you, or because I’m not from Kansas?” Nora asked Keith after their engagement.
“It’s because you’re a skinny blue-eyed blonde, and my sisters are jealous.”
No, that wasn’t it. His sisters are also blue-eyed blondes. The entire family has wholesome, sturdy, seemingly effortless good looks.
“They wouldn’t like anyone I married,” Keith claimed.
She didn’t buy that, either. She’d seen his old girlfriends in group family photos on his mother’s mantel.
But she wasn’t bothered that her in-laws didn’t embrace her. She didn’t need a trio of Midwestern girlfriends or a new set of parents. She only needed Keith, confident that if he ever had to choose between his family and her, he’d choose her.
That was long before the trouble last spring. Now . . . she’s not sure.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, sampling from the spoon.
“What is it?”
“Tofu stir-fry.”
“For breakfast?”
“Lunch. Breakfast was ham, egg, and cheese on a roll from that deli around the corner, and that was hours ago.”
“Wow. Guess your hangover was pretty awful.”
“What makes you think I had a hangover?”
“Classic remedy. Why else would a health nut touch a greasy gluten bomb?”
He smiles. “You know me so well. I’ve had my fill of cholesterol and carbs for at least a week. Oh, I got you one of those yogurt parfaits you like.”
“With the mango and chia seeds?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks. You know me so well,” she says, turning toward the fridge so that he can’t see her face.
Because really, even after two decades of marriage, you can only know what you see, and what the other person is willing—or able—to share.
Stacey
Yesterday afternoon, Stacey had been relieved when Lennon’s phone pinged a warning that Jules was on her way home.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the corpse photo and she wanted to get home and see for herself.
Plus, things were moving a little too fast between them.
That wasn’t entirely Lennon’s fault. Unaccustomed to physical relationships, she found herself careening like a thrill ride passenger even though she was perfectly capable of taking control and hitting the brakes.
When his mother’s imminent interruption loomed, Stacey leapt to her feet, adjusted her clothing, and grabbed her stuff.
Lennon, phone app in hand, told her to relax. “She’s still on Edgemont and she’s a slow walker.”
Stacey is a fast one. She made it all the way up the block without catching sight of Jules rounding the corner.
Mom wasn’t home, so she was able to take a closer look at the Victorian portrait above the stairs.
Lennon was right. If you know what you’re looking for, it’s pretty obvious that the girl is dead.
People had to stand still for a very long time to be photographed back then. The daughter’s image is precise, while the parents are slightly blurred. Her eyes are vacant, and there’s a mottled look to her skin.
Stacey retreated to her room to search the internet for information about memento mori and early residents of 104 Glover Street. She pretty much stayed there for the rest of the day. Night, too. She’d been planning to go to the park with Lennon, but the weather turned.
Don’t you like to walk in the rain? he’d texted as she sat in her room listening to the downpour hammering on the flat roof, punctuated by deafening thunderclaps.
This isn’t rain. It’s a monsoon.
He’d tried to convince her, saying they could go to the café, or she could go over to his house even though his moms were home, or he could come to hers.
My mom is home.
Sneak me into your room.
No way!!!! she replied, though she’s never been a fan of excessive punctuation.
Tomorrow, then. I have a guitar lesson at 2:30.
What time is it over?
Let’s hook up before. I’m not waiting that long to see you.
She slept restlessly, and every time she woke up, she thought about the binoculars she’d seen in his room. It makes sense that he’d use them to watch hockey, right?
It does now, in the bright light of day. Last night’s fears are forgotten and she’s looking forward to seeing him, eager to share what she uncovered last night about the people in the Victorian portrait.
It’s going on noon when she leaves her room wearing jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved black top. She used to wear a lumpy sweatshirt over it because it was too snug and low-cut. Now she likes the way it fits.