The porch was in shadow, so she squinted harder, until the screaming kettle roused her, calling her attention not only to the boiled water, but also to the fact that she had been spying. She spun to face the stove top, pouring water into the press and crossing her arms as she waited for it to steep. She didn’t realize she had turned around again until she felt the cool glass of the window against her forehead.
Cursing, she ordered herself into the dining room and reached for the curtain. Before she could pull it closed, she saw a tall, thin shadow cross the window in Mrs. Saint’s unlit living room, and she wondered why Frédéric would show up early on such a day. Surely there would be little for him to do, few outdoor tasks for him to supervise and correct, given the rain.
At ten, she rose from the dining room table and her neat stacks of files and stretched her arms high, swiveling her head right, then left, to work out the kinks. In the kitchen, she transferred the remaining muffins from Mrs. Saint’s basket to a plastic container and peered outside. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had let up significantly. Crossing the wet lawn, she forced herself to fix her gaze straight ahead, not allowing a sideways glance into the porch. If coffee hour had taken place out there while she was working on the other side of her dining room curtain, she didn’t need to know about it.
Mrs. Saint answered the door. Markie was surprised—she had expected Ronda or Patty to answer.
“Only the others are gone,” Mrs. Saint said, noticing the look on her neighbor’s face. “I sent them out on the errands.”
Markie held out the basket. “I wanted to thank you again for this. And to thank Ronda.”
“You could come in and wait for her. They might not be long.” She stepped backward and opened the door wider.
Markie didn’t move, nor did she allow herself to peek inside. “Thank you, but I really have to get back to work,” she said. “And look, I forgot to do it when we talked the other day, but I also wanted to thank you for the idea to call about the cable. I checked with the leasing agent a few days after we moved in. You were right: it was included in the lease after all. Not in the actual document—I checked before I called. They somehow left it out. The leasing agent couldn’t say why. Anyway, Jesse was thrilled.”
Mrs. Saint nodded. “Except that sometimes I think it was a mistake to tell it to you. Because too much TV is going on. I did not realize how it would be.”
Markie cocked her head sideways, puzzled. “How would you know how much TV—?”
The old woman pointed across the fence to the egress window that led from Jesse’s basement bedroom to the side yard. “The lights from the TV. They do the . . .” She opened and closed her hands twice. “Into the too-late hours.”
Stop spying on him and you won’t have to be disappointed about how much TV he’s watching, Markie wanted to say. Instead, she went with, “Well, it’s only the first month of school, and they seem to be easing in pretty slowly. When his homework ramps up, the TV will go off. Although, like I’ve told him, the ability to work with noise in the background isn’t a bad one to have. TV, stereo, roommates talking, whatever. So even when his schoolwork starts getting harder, I can’t say I’ll be too strict about whether he keeps the set on, as long as he’s getting his assignments done.”
Mrs. Saint pursed her lips at this, and Markie could tell the other woman was deciding whether to argue the point now or leave it for later. Markie decided for her, stepping away from the doorway and turning for home while she forced herself to remain calm. Why had she bothered to offer the woman an explanation?
“Thanks again for the lovely basket,” she said with exaggerated cheer, raising her hand in a wave as she stepped lightly toward the bungalow. I will not storm across the lawn like an angry child.
“And have you met the boys who picked him up this morning?” Mrs. Saint asked.
“Nope,” Markie said, not turning, not stopping. “He’s in high school now. He doesn’t have to ask me every time he gets a ride from someone.”
“It is only that Frédéric is seeing those ones before, in the downtown. He recognizes the car.”
Markie refused to slow her pace. “I trust my son. He’s very responsible for his age, and he knows better than to—”
She clamped her mouth shut. She was done explaining herself, done defending her child to this woman, to her parents, or to anyone.
As she stepped inside the bungalow, she heard the creaking of Mrs. Saint’s door as the woman began to close it. Before Markie could congratulate herself for finally getting in the last word with her neighbor, Mrs. Saint said, “I am sure you already have rules for the special window.”
When Jesse got home, Markie asked about the friends who had driven him.
“Just Trevor and the guys.”
“I’d love to meet them sometime.”
He winced. “They’re not taking me to the prom, Mom.”
“Kids don’t meet their friends’ parents these days?”
“Uh, no.” He reached into the cupboard for a box of cereal.
“Well, maybe you want to have them over sometime. Just to hang out, not to meet me, specifically.”
He scanned the family room and kitchen and the doorway that led to the unfinished basement and his cramped bedroom. “Here?”
She was shocked by how much his question hurt. Or was it an accusation? She decided to leave it alone. She wanted to leave Mrs. Saint’s comments alone, too, especially after the smoking-in-the-yard fiasco, but she couldn’t.
“Mrs. Saint seems to have some concerns about them. Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”
Jesse thrust his hand into the cereal box and shoved a handful of honey-covered Os into his mouth. “None.”
“She said Frédéric ran into them downtown, and, I don’t know, saw them doing something he didn’t like, maybe? She didn’t give any details except that he recognized the car.”
He scoffed. “It’s a Ford Fusion. Do you have any idea how many of those there are around here? Wrong guys.” Carrying the box with him, he reached in for another handful as he walked to the basement door.
“Oh, hey,” Markie said, pretending a thought had come to her out of the blue and had no relationship to his friends or her chat with their neighbor. “I was thinking, do we need to talk about the egress window? Like, when and why you’d open it?”
Jesse stopped at the door. “What’s an egress window?”
“In the basement? The big one, in your room?”
“That thing opens?”
Markie was torn between feeling like a great mom for having such an un-devious child and feeling like a negligent parent for going so long without telling him how to save himself in the event of a fire.
Chapter Twelve