“I don’t want to get stuck in mom mode,” Randi said softly, setting Adele back into the swing. “And I know Izzy isn’t that much younger than us. But I like her a lot. It would be helpful to know how worried we should be.”
“Two minutes, kids,” Clara called. Maddie had come away with the phone and was gumming it greedily. Thomas scowled at her, but she ignored him and turned back to Randi.
“Kristin’s sister came to see me,” Clara said. “She seemed to think we’re right to be worried.”
“Oh, God. Why?”
“Nothing definitive. She just … had suspicions all along.”
Randi shook her head. “You kind of keep getting pulled into this, don’t you?” There was sympathy in her voice, and Clara wondered why she hadn’t been spending more time here, with women who intuitively understood more of what she’d been feeling. Benny’s more distanced approach was practical, she knew, but it had left her sort of … well, alone. Ever since he’d brought up the idea of her going back to work, to find something else to focus her energies on, she’d tried not to mention Kristin. The subject of his suggestion hadn’t come up again, and she wanted to keep it that way.
“Kristin’s been gone five weeks, six?” Randi asked.
“Somewhere in between.”
Randi looked out across their backyards, and Clara followed her gaze toward Kristin’s pretty white Victorian. A strong wind had kicked up, pulling leaves from the suddenly skeletal tree branches with alarming speed. Clara hoped whoever had lit that fire she’d smelled earlier had extinguished all the sparks.
“It’s gone kind of quiet. Do you think they’re even still investigating?”
“Excellent question,” Clara said. “Maybe we’d better find out.”
33
Husband Drowns After Pulling Wife From Riptide|Heroin Epidemic a “Red Level Threat”|Fatal Maternity Ward Fire Raises Safety Questions|Protests Draw Crowds, but Not Change|No Sign of “Black Box” in Flight Wreckage|Famed Couple Announces Split After 20 Years|Failing Grades for Water Quality Were Not Disclosed|Consumer Data Hack Has Deeper Implications|U.S. Gun Violence Year to Date: An Infographic
—A string of email subject lines moved from Izzy’s work email in-box into her trash, unread
The irony was that she’d come to work just hours ago with Paul’s face in her mind, a smile on her lips. She’d been planning how she’d make her way over later, maybe with something homemade to share—was dinner too much? Or would dessert be better?
She’d gotten his note, but it had only made her feel awful. Though she’d promised Clara she’d think more carefully about Paul—and had thought of little but him in the week since their kiss—it wasn’t doubt or caution that kept her away. It was guilt. She couldn’t help feeling as if she’d betrayed him by so much as listening to the ugly comparisons Clara had drawn. She needed the cleanse of a little time, like a hot shower or a good night’s sleep.
Finally, this morning she’d felt ready. The sting of her own betrayal by proxy had faded enough for the tingle of possibility to take its place.
And then he’d gone and called Second Date Update.
It wasn’t the humiliation of being laid out like a buffet to Sonny and Day, though there was that too. Worse was the simple fact that he’d placed the call at all: glaring evidence that he didn’t know her in the least. Anyone who did would know there was nothing she’d have hated more.
The clarity cut sharply through the flush of self-consciousness. In all their conversations, he’d asked almost nothing about her life, or where she’d come from, or where she wanted to go. It was evident from his words that he was focused entirely on how she made him feel, not on what made her tick. And while that was understandable with what he was going through, it was also not likely to change anytime soon, and was not at all what she wanted.
Never mind the painful contrast with Josh, who knew her better than anyone else.
Paul was a smooth talker, she’d grant him that. Maybe’s Clara’s picture of him as a manipulator had a shade of truth in it after all. Or maybe not. It didn’t really matter, now that she was no longer interested.
She just had to figure out how to back out of it.
*
Izzy baked an entire batch of soft pumpkin cookies, the cakey ones she could never stop eating, then thought better of taking them with her. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking—only, she supposed, that when she’d awoken that day she’d had a mind to bring something homemade to Paul.
Back in college, she’d once delivered chocolate chip cookie bars to a boyfriend only to be dumped on the spot. Having planned to cut her loose, he was not about to be deterred by a sweet gesture, nor did he see anything wrong with asking, “Is it okay if I keep the cookies?” as she’d headed out the door. Stunned, she’d merely nodded and scurried away. Only when her roommates echoed their collective “What?” of disbelief around her dorm room did she have the presence of mind to be enraged too.
“We could be stress-eating them right now,” one of them had lamented.
“You should have thrown them in his face!” another chastised her.
No, cookies and breaking things off did not go together.
And how would she look to her new friends now? Randi and Rhoda had yet to miss a beat when it came to the radio show. She’d go from being the pitiful neighbor who was stuck on her brother-in-law to the third wheel in the domestic drama playing on the public stage. Just great. She felt a flash of annoyance at Paul for putting her in this position, and used it to propel herself across the street before she lost her nerve.
It was darker and colder than she’d expected as she made her diagonal to Paul’s. Soon they’d change the clocks and be plunged into blackness by dinnertime—but maybe this year, in her little nest of a house, she’d find the longer nights more cozy than depressing. She’d been thinking of enrolling in yoga at the studio where Randi and Rhoda had their meditation class; perhaps its warm glow would follow her home.
Paul’s face lit up to match the garish brightness of his foyer when he answered her knock, and she swallowed hard. “Are we doing the date now?” he asked, grinning. He seemed relaxed, in uncharacteristically worn jeans and a flannel, and she couldn’t help feeling a pang that she’d never seen him look so good. “The sooner the better.”
She steeled herself to stick to the script. “I was just hoping we could talk for a minute. Can I come in?”
If Paul sensed what was coming, he didn’t let on, merely stood to the side and gestured gallantly for her to enter.
Glancing into the dining room, Izzy stopped short. Large rubber storage bins were stacked on all sides between the table and the walls. Each was labeled in stereotypically messy doctor’s handwrit ing: Aaron clothes. Abby clothes. Kid books. Outdoor toys. “What’s all this?” she asked, unease hovering over her. Who packed up his kids’ stuff when they were missing? Her eyes flickered up the stairs, where cardboard boxes lined the hallway more haphazardly, with Kristin scrawled angrily across the sides in thick black marker.
“Sorry about the mess. Come around, into the kitchen.”
The dread that had been accumulating since morning collected in her throat as she followed him to the eat-in area adjoining the family room. Only then did Izzy realize she’d never been this far into the house before. Straight ahead, sliding glass doors were closed against the black nothingness beyond. The kitchen itself was cheery and appeared largely untouched—with the twins’ crayon and construction paper creations covering the fridge and a bulletin board. But she caught sight of a stack of empty bins on the other side of the couch, their lids propped against them, waiting to be popped into place as they were filled.
“Doing some housecleaning?” she asked, as he pulled out a chair for her.
“It’s what it looks like—packing,” he said. “Glass of chardonnay? Or an IPA, maybe?”