He promised to try, and said he was finished discussing it.
Afterward, looking back, she found that tidy resolution telling. She knew he couldn’t just breeze on past her lie and confession to an extramarital affair. Nor could she overlook what he’d said about opportunities and temptation.
Throughout the spring and early summer, she wondered if she was imagining the scent of perfume on his clothes after late nights at the office, or flirtatious undertones when she overheard him on the phone with female colleagues.
Maybe she should have handled things differently.
Maybe, when he’d caught her in the lie, she shouldn’t have responded with more lies.
Maybe enough time had passed and it was safe to share her real story. Not every detail, but enough so that he’d understand who Teddy is, and who Nora really is.
Was.
“I’m not having an affair, Keith,” she could have said. “I’m—”
No.
Her hands clench the rake, and she stares down at the pile of fallen foliage.
That first September after she’d fled New York for California, she’d told Teddy she missed the Northeast’s gorgeous autumn tapestry.
“Maybe you won’t miss it so much if you remember that it’s just Mother Nature orchestrating an exquisite death scene. One last glorious burst of vibrant life, and then all those dying leaves turn brown and wither away into dust.”
Remember, you must die . . .
She leans her head back and closes her eyes, so damned tired. Tired of everything. Tired of this day, this life, the lies . . .
She sees herself picking flowers in Teddy’s long-ago garden, hears Teddy warning her about that provocative swath of forget-me-not blue.
“They’re insidious. They creep in and take over. I don’t know how they got here, but they don’t belong, and I can’t get rid of them.”
Nora opens her eyes.
A golden leaf dances from the blue sky. So lovely. So deceptive.
Gold . . . Blue . . .
Nora . . .
“I’m not Nora,” she hears herself telling her husband. “I’m . . . I was . . .”
No.
She blinks away tears as a whispering wind drifts dying leaves all around her.
Stacey
Calling herself in sick to school isn’t the worst thing Stacey has ever done, but it’s pretty damned close. Lennon, not even bothering to report his absence to his own school, points out that she’s a new student, and the woman who answered the office phone couldn’t know her voice from her mother’s.
Evidently it’s true, but it doesn’t sit well with Stacey anyway. “If I get caught—”
“You won’t get caught.”
“You don’t know that for sure, Lennon. They might call my mom to double-check that I’m home. Then what?”
“Then detention, like me. You’ll survive. And it’ll be worth it.”
“What will be?”
“What we’re doing. You’ll see.”
“I don’t even know where we are.”
“Just follow me.”
He’s still carrying both of their backpacks. The sidewalks in this neighborhood are narrow and crowded, making it mostly necessary for them to walk single file.
This is in an old part of the city, its narrow streets lined with low buildings, mostly storefronts. Plenty of bodegas, sprinkled with the ubiquitous Duane Reade drugstores, Starbucks, plus specialty shops and small trades—shoemakers and seamstresses, florists and butchers and . . .
“Here.” Lennon stops in front of a door tucked between a barbershop and a tattoo parlor.
Stacey leans in to read the placard. “Psychic Medium? Wait, what is this?”
“She’s really good.”
“We’re here to see a fortune-teller? But I don’t—”
“This isn’t a carnival, Stacey. She’s the real deal. I know her really well.”
“You know a psychic really well?”
“I’ve had readings with her. Jules comes to her sometimes, too.”
“Wait, did you tell her we were coming here?”
“Lisa?”
“What? Who’s Lisa?”
“The medium.”
“Her name is Lisa? Wow, that’s so . . .” Normal. “What I meant was, you didn’t tell Jules we were coming here, right?”
“No. And don’t worry, even if she knew, she wouldn’t tell your parents. She’s cool.”
“She is cool, but you don’t know that she wouldn’t tell my parents. They hang out.”
“So? Stop stressing. This is going to be good for you. Lisa can tell you what’s going on in that house, and with your Peeping Tom.”
Stacey doubts that. But they’re here. What does she have to lose?
Lennon reaches for the buzzer, but the door opens before he can press it.
The slender, attractive brunette is in her late thirties at most. Her hair is piled on top of her head and held with a banana clip. She’s wearing sherpa-cuffed boots, jeans, a New York Yankees T-shirt, and glasses with purple plastic frames.
“Hey, Lisa.”
“Hey.” She points at Lennon. “You’re—”
“Lennon.” He shoots a smug glance at Stacey: See? I told you I know her really well.
“I was going to say, ‘you’re not my bagel and coffee.’ I ordered it from the deli down the street, and it’s taking for-freaking-ever. I was just about to go down there and pick it up myself, but . . . Whatever.”
Lisa’s New York accent is thick. Coffee is cawffee and whatever is whateveh.
“Are you here for a reading . . . Lenny, did you say?”
“Lennon. This is my girlfriend, Stacey. She wants a reading.”
“Hey, girlfriend Stacey. I’m Lisa.” She holds the door wide open. “Come on up, guys. Let me just check the app and find out what’s going on with my breakfast, and we’ll go from there.”
They step into a dimly lit vestibule tiled in cracked black-and-white-hexagon mosaic. She leads them past a closed door marked 1A, and Stacey can hear a television game show blasting on the other side. At the top of a steep, creaky staircase, there’s another small hall and a door, presumably 2A. It’s ajar.
As they cross the threshold, a buzzer reverberates. “Oh, yay, bagel time. Make yourselves at home. Be right back.” Lisa pivots and sprints down the stairs.
Stacey follows Lennon into an apartment crammed with a mishmash of furniture. Some looks like it belongs in a medieval castle, some like it came from IKEA. Stacey takes in the stacks of books, collections of knickknacks, gym equipment, a huge TV, and an artist’s easel that holds a half-finished landscape.
“Cool, right?” Lennon asks.
She shakes her head. “I’m uncomfortable.”
“Why? I’m here. It’s fine. Don’t you want answers? Aren’t you wondering whether—”
Lisa’s footsteps pound back up the stairs and she’s back, holding a paper bag and a go-cup. “New delivery guy. He got lost. I’ll put this away for after the reading.”
“Oh, we didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast,” Stacey says. “We can come back another time, or something.”
“Nah. Business before breakfast! Come on. My study is in the back. So, Lenn . . . did you say Lennon? Like John?”
“Exactly like John. We’ve actually met a few times.”
“You and John Lennon?” She peers at him through her glasses. “How old are you?”
“I meant you and me.”