The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(12)

She was so content with her life. It was obvious from every post she wrote that she loved every minute she had on earth.

So what wasn’t she saying?

After her electronic conversation with A-Okay earlier, Landry had gone back through Meredith’s blog posts for the past several months, trying to read between the lines. This time she thought she detected a bit more wistfulness than usual; perhaps a melancholy undercurrent here and there . . .

Maybe she was just seeing what she needs to see, though, in her retrospective search for rhyme and reason.

A-Okay didn’t have any details, either, and Landry couldn’t get a response from the other two bloggers she’d tried to reach.

Jaycee, who writes PC BC, lives in New York City. Elena, whose blog bears the irreverent title The Boobless Wonder, is somewhere in New England—Rhode Island, maybe, or Massachusetts? Knowing it’s an hour later on the east coast, Landry figures she must not have caught either of them before their workdays began. Elena is an elementary schoolteacher, while Jaycee . . .

What does Jaycee do, anyway?

Some kind of business—maybe finance? She travels a lot, Landry knows. But Jaycee doesn’t spend much time writing about her personal life on her blog, and was the only one of the regulars who didn’t write a post about the day she received her initial diagnosis when they all decided to share their stories a few months back. She doesn’t even post a head shot on her page, just a pink ribbon with a circle around it and a slash across it. As her blog title indicates—PC as in Politically Correct—she’s one of the more politically aware bloggers, concerned with what she calls the Cancer Industry rather than day-to-day, postdiagnosis details. She’s only been around for a year, maybe a year and a half.

Carrying the basket of dirty clothes, Landry makes her way along the upstairs hall, her mind settling on her children.

Just five minutes ago, it seems, they were toddlers: blond, blue-eyed Tucker the picture of his handsome daddy yet with his mama’s laid back demeanor; Addison resembling Landry, with her delicate features, pale green eyes, and silky dark hair, but motivated and energetic as Rob from the moment she could walk and talk.

Now Addison is going to be a high school senior and Tucker a sophomore. Soon he’ll be driving, and she’ll be off to college. Life is careening along, a blessed string of ordinary—and extraordinary—days.

Addison’s door is open. The white plantation shutters are parted so that sunlight splashes in through the windows. The quilt, in patterned shades of Caribbean sea foam, is neatly spread over the white iron bed, pillows plumped just so. A pile of magazines aligns at right angles with the edges of the nightstand, and the toiletries clustered on the bureau are precisely arranged as always. Stacked on an adjacent worktable are half a dozen compartmentalized plastic containers that hold the colored glass and metallic beads Addison uses to make jewelry.

Ambitious and goal oriented, with a lifelong flair for aesthetics, Landry’s daughter is already certain about her future: she’s planning to apply to Savannah College of Art and Design this fall, and intends to build a career in architectural or interior design.

For now, she works a few days a week in the gift shop over at the Grand Hotel. She’s off Wednesdays, but she likes to get up early anyway—unlike her brother, who just started at the hotel as a summer busboy.

Across the hall, Tucker’s door is still closed, but his alarm should be going off any minute. Not that he’ll hear it.

Landry knocks on his door, then opens it a crack. “Tucker? It’s almost time to get up.”

No response. She crosses the shadowy room, stepping over piles of clothes on the floor, and opens the shutters. Daylight falls over the mess—not just clothes, but soda cans and snack wrappers on every surface, CDs and video games lying around without their cases, stray electronics cords and chargers tangled like heaps of black and white spaghetti on the desk and floor.

“Tucker?”

No movement from the lump beneath the covers. Only a few tufts of dark hair are visible between the quilt and the pillow.

“Tucker . . . ”

“Tucker.”

“TUCKER!”

Finally, a muffled sound from her son.

Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, Landry marches over to the bed and pulls the covers away from his face. “Come on. Up.”

He throws a tanned, muscular arm across his eyes, and she notes the fuzz in his armpit and on his upper lip. Her little boy is becoming a man. A man who often acts like a little boy.

“Aw, come on, Mom,” he rumbles. His voice changed months ago, but sometimes the low pitch still catches her off guard. “My alarm didn’t even go off yet.”

“It’s about to. Get busy. This room is a mess. You have a lot to do before you leave. Get it? Got it? Good.”

That’s their thing: Get it-got-it-good. She and Tucker have been saying it to each other, usually to add a hint of lightheartedness to no-nonsense conversations, since he was a little boy. It used to make him laugh. Now he doesn’t crack a smile.

She gives him another nudge and then another, waiting until his gigantic bare feet are squarely planted on the hardwood floor before heading downstairs.

The large living room is her favorite spot in the house. White woodwork contrasts with wide-board hardwoods and walls painted a muted, mossy shade of grayish green. Couches and chairs with cushy upholstery in soothing earth tones are clustered into several seating areas: near the fireplace, facing the flat screen television, and in a cozy nook lined with bookshelves. Paned glass windows and doors line the back wall, opening onto the lower level of the double-decker porch overlooking the landscaped yard and, beyond, the hundred-year-old boardwalk and the bay.