Patricia growls. She wanted money that she’s owed, and instead, she was given a job to do. Not even a job. A neighborly kindness. She won’t be paid. It’s just drudgery.
And they don’t have a gate in the fence between their properties, so she’ll have to walk all the way around the block. No one is walking these days. Even behind the neighborhood’s stone walls and six-foot iron fences, even through constant, roaming clouds of mosquito poison, the Violence can still get in. A mail carrier, a delivery person, a rogue pool boy. A quiet little old man like Miguel. But this task—she has to do it. Now is not the time to ignore someone who owes her several thousand dollars. She’ll have to leave Brooklyn here at the house and take the golf cart. And then schlep packages into someone else’s mudroom as if she were someone else’s maid.
An idea begins to form. A desperate, gritty, clawing thing, more Patty than Patricia.
She has the key. She has the code. She has a reason to be in the O’Malley house.
And the O’Malleys will be gone for months.
“Brooklyn, darling.”
No answer. She finds the child with her giant headphones over her tiny ears, firmly engaged with her silly tablet. No wonder it was so pleasantly quiet. She gets Brooklyn’s attention and, when the headphones are off, says, “I need you to sit right here and do exactly what you’re doing. Nana needs to just pop over to the neighbor’s house.”
Brooklyn’s eyes fly wide. “I’m not allowed to stay home alone. I’m too little.”
“Nonsense. I stayed home alone at five and so did your mother. And I’ll be so close! Just one house over. It won’t take even half an hour.” When Brooklyn chews her lip nervously, she adds, “I could leave you with some of Grandpa Randall’s candy so you’ll have something to do.”
Any worry disappears. “I like candy!” Brooklyn squeaks.
“Good girl.”
Patricia goes upstairs to the closed door of Randall’s office and stops. This room has always been forbidden, and honestly, Patricia never cared enough to snoop. Even when she glanced in here earlier, she didn’t step a single toe inside. But nothing is forbidden anymore, is it? She turns the knob, feeling a pleasant trill of boldness.
It’s always dark within. Randall had this room paneled in wood with built-in bookcases and a heavy, custom desk, almost like he’s trying to replicate his office at the courthouse. Patricia knows that he keeps sweets and snacks squirreled away up here somewhere. Heaven knows she doesn’t buy all the garbage that he compulsively gulps when he’s feeling stressed.
She starts with his desk, pulling out the most obvious drawer first and finding a rat’s nest of candy. Half-eaten bags of jelly beans, mostly the black ones left. Big candy bars with squares snapped off, their wrappers carefully folded and neatly clipped. Necco wafers, of all things. She wishes she’d brought a bag, but she can always take one thing and come back later if she needs to bribe the child further. She opts for an unopened bag of jelly beans, supposing that Brooklyn, like Randall, probably isn’t a fan of licorice.
The childlike glee she feels when closing that drawer with a bag of treasure in hand is addictive. She methodically goes through every nook and cranny of the grand desk, uncovering three hundred dollars in cash under the blotter, a ruby pendant that’s far too garish and small and obviously not meant for her, and a tasteful diamond anniversary ring that probably is, considering it fits her ring finger and their anniversary is next month.
Would’ve been next month?
She takes both pieces of jewelry and all the money.
Everything else is either cheap snacks or more of Randall’s paperwork. For all that he’s fastidious in his person, he’s an utter slob in the office, which is why always having a coterie of secretaries and aides is a great cover for his proclivities. Patricia almost wonders that she didn’t find a little black book, but then she remembers that Randall’s phone is always in his pocket and has a complex password. He would never leave something so precious behind.
Not like he left her behind.
Before closing the door, she breathes in deep, noting the odors of Randall’s cologne, his unfortunate body odor, a faint tinge of scotch, old books, new leather, and the clingy ghosts of his cigars that were never allowed inside. She will miss what Randall provided, the safety and comfort and legitimacy, but she won’t miss his actual presence.
She wonders if he feels the same about her.
He must, or he wouldn’t have taken this step. He arranged this theft, she’s certain. He’s the only one who knows her habits—and the security codes, even if he said he’d forgotten them. She knew the judge could hold a professional grudge, but she never thought he would stoop this low, be this needlessly cruel.
Back downstairs, she presents Brooklyn with the bag of jelly beans, to which the child responds, solemn and impressed, “The whole bag?”
Patricia smiles her Nana smile, indulgent and magical. “The whole bag. I’ll be right back.” She collects her phone and keys and a rather large tote and checks herself in the hall mirror, then backtracks. “And remember: No cooking, going in the pool, or doing anything dangerous.”
But the child is already plugged back into her tablet, happily dividing her sugar hoard into rainbow order. No point in distracting her. Time to go.
As it turns out, without Rosa and Miguel around, the golf cart battery is dead. Annoyed but undeterred, Patricia locks the front door behind her and heads for the sidewalk for the first time in months. It’s bright and hot outside, trademark Florida summer, and there’s not a soul in sight. No cars, no golf carts, no posh women walking posh dogs. The birds sing a mad riot, and the bugs are already howling. As Patricia marches up the clean but empty sidewalk, she swats a mosquito away, grateful that she’s already been vaccinated and will never experience Chelsea’s dilemma. The little fool. Patricia told her marrying David would be a mistake. His family wasn’t wealthy at all, and she detected something sinister under his Golden Boy charm, but did Chelsea listen? Of course not. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson.
At the corner, a car passes, and Patricia smiles blandly and waves at Marion Montrose, a gaudy widow in her flashy red Corvette. Of course Marion would stay here instead of heading up north; she probably considers the quarantine oodles of fun.
Patricia thinks she’s in the clear, but then Marion circles back around, Fleetwood Mac blaring from her sports car. The tinted window rolls down, and Marion lifts up her cat’s-eye glasses.
“Patricia! I thought you and the judge were headed off to Iceland.” Her eyes spark with the thought of scandal, and Patricia longs to slap that smug smile off her face.
“Alas, plans change. I’m surprised you haven’t jetted off to somewhere exciting yourself.”
Marion waves at the gorgeous day outside. “And leave this little slice of paradise? Although I’ve half a mind to drive down to Key West, if I can find a cute beach house. The islands are deliciously empty these days, I hear.”