The kids were safely in the next room, parked in front of the television watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Not the old cartoon Rowan remembered from her childhood, but the recent movie with Jim Carrey. She’d bought the DVD the week before and intended to save it for Christmas, but pulled it out to occupy the kids while the adults were in the kitchen . . . baking cookies.
She finished telling him about her sister: “Whenever she wasn’t looking, I’d put an extra ball of dough on the baking sheet—-and then I’d snag the extra cookies for myself when they were done, and still have an even dozen.”
She remembers feeling his eyes on her as she put that last cookie sheet into the oven. Remembers the silence that fell between them and that she could hear Faith Hill singing “Where Are You, Christmas?” on TV in the next room. Remembers setting the timer for eight minutes.
Remembers . . .
Remembers how they wound up in the laundry room off the kitchen. They didn’t even notice the stove buzzer when it went off. But they certainly heard the blast of the smoke alarm ten, maybe twelve minutes later.
Thank God for that.
Saved by the bell.
The cookies were burned.
She dumped the batch into the kitchen garbage after he was safely out of the house. She remembers putting the closed white kitchen bag inside a black trash bag, closing that tightly, and putting it inside another bag before carrying it out to the trash can. She was uneasy about it being there for the next few days until garbage pickup, as if it would somehow incriminate her should Jake stumble across it.
Her heart stopped that night when he stood in the kitchen stomping the snow from his boots, sniffing the air, and asking her if she’d burned dinner.
“No,” she told him, “just toast, earlier.”
The lie rolled off her tongue as impulsively as it would have fifteen years earlier if her parents had caught her breaking curfew or if the vice principal had found her cutting class in the gazebo. Old habits—-shameful ones you’d worked hard to obliterate—-die hard.
That was the first lie—-and one of the few—-of their marriage, and such a silly, unnecessary one. She could have said cookies instead of toast. That simple truth wouldn’t have alerted him that while he was working his ass off to earn a living for them, she was in their next door neighbor’s arms.
Richard Walker.
She types the name into the search engine, heart pounding, and hits Enter.
The joy went out of Mick’s evening when Brianna Armbruster cashed out her tips and went home almost an hour ago, soon followed by Zach and just about everyone else. He’s more than ready to call it a night, but a -couple of solo diners are lingering and he can’t leave until they do.
They’re both alone at tables for two, and finished their meals long ago with dropped checks waiting to be paid. If they didn’t have their backs to each other, Mick might think they were interested in each other, each hoping the other might make a move. But they appear to be in their own little worlds: the guy is sipping bourbon and reading a book; the woman drinking tea and endlessly typing on an iPad.
Standing in the corner of the dining room with Patty, the waitress who’s stuck here with him, Mick is quickly running out of things to talk about. She’s a lot older than he is, and she’s not a sports fan, which eliminates most topics that come to mind.
“So . . . did you start your Christmas shopping yet?” he asks.
“Started and finished it on Black Friday, except a -couple of gift cards I need to pick up.”
“Gift cards—-thanks for reminding me!” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the money his mother gave him. “I need to get a gift certificate to Marrana’s for my mom.”
“No offense, but maybe you should get her something a little more personal. Does she like jewelry? Because they have those new Trinkettes over at Vernon’s Apothecary.”
“New what?”
“Trinkettes—-you know, the bead charm bracelets with the little stick figures. All the high school girls are wearing them.”