She’d borrowed her mother’s makeup, blown her hair dry straight and sleek, and perched a pair of sunglasses on her head the way her mom and Piper do. She’s not imitating them. It’s just a convenient way to keep the lenses from getting scratched until she needs to wear them.
Lennon wanted to meet her out front, same as usual, but she insisted on connecting in the park. She told him it was because she had to do a couple of neighborhood errands on the way, not wanting to admit it’s because her parents might see him.
They’re both home today, hanging around the house. She hears their voices in the kitchen as she descends the stairs, trying not to make a sound. She’s not sneaking out, exactly, but she doesn’t feel like answering any questions.
She resists the urge to pause and take another good look at the Victorian portrait, now that she knows what she knows.
“Stace? Is that you?” her father calls as she reaches the bottom step.
She pauses, offering the ceiling an eye roll and headshake as she calls back, “Yeah, it’s me.”
He appears in the archway, holding a wooden spatula. “I made stir-fry if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I’m going out for a while.”
“Where are you going?” her mother asks, popping up behind him.
So damned perfect, both of them. Golden, fit, and attractive, with cosmetic dermatologist–enhanced wrinkle-free faces and cosmetic dentist–enhanced smiles.
“I’m going for a walk, same as always.”
“Without Kato?”
Right. The dog.
“Where is he?” Stacey asks, as if she’d intended to grab him.
“He’s asleep. I took him out earlier. I’d be sleeping, too, if it weren’t such a beautiful day,” Dad says. “If you wait five minutes, I’ll go with you, Stace. Maybe we can go check out that—”
“I kind of just wanted to listen to music.” She waves her phone and earbuds.
“Oh, right. Go ahead.”
She hates that he looks disappointed, that she feels guilty, that she can’t just admit she’s meeting someone.
But Lennon didn’t make a great first impression on her parents the other night, or even on Stacey herself. She doesn’t feel like defending him, or her own choices, to a perfect couple whose lives are ridiculously uncomplicated compared to her own.
All right, maybe that’s not entirely the case. There had been a brief time back home, before the school year ended, when she’d been concerned that something might be wrong with one of her parents, or maybe between them. She can’t even remember what, specifically, triggered her speculation. Neither ever seemed sick, and it wasn’t like they were fighting. Her parents tended to have levelheaded discussions about disagreements, as opposed to full-blown arguments.
Whatever was going on, if anything at all, Stacey hadn’t expended much time or energy stressing about it. She had enough to deal with between her schoolwork, college boards prep, and diet and exercise program.
“Okay, well . . . I’ll see you guys later,” she says.
Mom nods. “You look nice. I like your hair that way.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a nice walk.” Her father drapes an arm over her mother’s shoulders. “How about you, Nora? You want to go to the park or something?”
“No, I’ve got to change the sheets and do the laundry.”
“Do it tomorrow.”
“You know I do it on Saturdays, Keith.”
Mom really needs to get a job or something. Just because they can afford for her not to work doesn’t mean she should be a housewife.
Stacey doesn’t hang around long enough to hear the rest of her parents’ conversation. She doesn’t care how they spend their Saturday, as long as they’re not going to the park.
Outside, she pauses on the stoop to put on the sunglasses, insert her earbuds, and start the new Beatles playlist she’d made last night. John Lennon drowns out the city sounds, crooning the sweet lyrics of “If I Fell” as she heads out into a sun-drenched, shade-dappled day.
A slight breeze stirs golden leaves from overhead branches and the ground is littered with them, blown down in the overnight storm. The block hums with leisure activity. Stacey passes a young couple with a helmeted child on a bike with training wheels, a couple of kids with ice cream cones, and a male couple wearing cardigans and strolling along holding hands.
She’s about to round the corner when someone steps into her path.
The man is middle-aged, a stranger with a dark crew cut, bushy eyebrows, and a razor-stubble-flecked face. His expression is urgent and he’s saying something to her.
Wide-eyed, Stacey yanks out an earbud in time to hear, “Anna!”
Nora
Sitting across the table from Keith, Nora toys with her yogurt while he eats his stir-fry and tells her about last night’s dinner.
“It was one of those old-school Manhattan steak houses where everything is expensive and all the sides are à la carte. I had the works—a New York strip, scalloped potatoes, creamed spinach, and then cheesecake for dessert.”
“You ate all that?”
He grins. “When in Rome, right? I probably should go for a run instead of a walk today. And we need to find a fitness club around here. Let’s go look for one this afternoon.”
“I can’t.”
His smile fades.
“Keith, I’d love to, but I’ve got a million things to do around here. I told you, the laundry, and I have errands . . .”
“I’ll help. I’ll go with you. I haven’t seen you all week. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but you don’t have to spend your day off doing chores and errands.” Seeing a familiar flicker of mistrust in his blue eyes, she adds, “Let’s go out to dinner tonight. Jules suggested a few places we should try.”
“Okay. That sounds good. How was your community garden meeting yesterday?”
“Urban farm. And Ricardo couldn’t make it. We’re rescheduling.”
“For when?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“If it’s on the weekend, I can come, too.”
“You want to volunteer?”
This time, he doesn’t grin or say when in Rome. He fixes her with a gaze that makes her want to get up, get away from him.
“Nora, don’t you think we should be trying to find things we can do together, after . . . ?”
After.
“Sure, but . . .” She lifts the yogurt cup again, stirring it even though she likes to eat it layer by layer, staring down at the unappetizing goo. “I mean, you don’t even like gardening. There are plenty of other things we can do.”
“Things that don’t involve Ricardo?”
She plunks down the yogurt container. The weight of the spoon topples it over, spilling yogurt onto the table. Ordinarily she’d jump up to clean it, but she stays put, eyes narrowed at her husband.
“I’ve never even met Ricardo, Keith.”
“But you did go to the café yesterday.”
“Yes, I went. With Jules. Why does it matter? And how do you know? Do you have me under surveillance or something?”
“Of course I don’t have you under surveillance. You used the debit card there. It’s a joint account. I had to move some money yesterday, so I noticed the transaction.”
“Seriously? And now you’re questioning me, like . . . like . . .”
Like you don’t trust me.
Heart racing, she can’t bring herself to say it.
“Come on, Nora . . . after everything we’ve been through, you can’t blame me if I’m a little . . .”
“What?”