Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(58)

“Holly, stop. Please. Listen.” He reached for her upper arms to center her attention, to get her to look at him, but she stepped back before he could touch her. “I’m sorry.” He pulled his hands back, holding them in the air in a sign of surrender. “About what I said. About you and Ella. And your mom. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to pay her gambling debts,” Holly spat. “I don’t enjoy that. But yes, I do want curtains—for privacy. For simple, basic privacy.” Collette? Holly wanted to pin her to a Pinterest board. For publicizing a front porch on social media. For making Holly feel inferior. “Worn-out bedsheets aren’t living room curtains, Jack. That’s what we have. A bedsheet in a window. I’m not a bad person.” It was all so stupid.

He turned to face the co-op gardens at the end of their street, giving Holly a chance to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. Her face felt hot. Her stomach felt twisted. She needed to switch gears and started thinking about . . . her neighbors’ . . . mulch. How it matched. How every single house on Petunia Lane was lined with the same expensive mulch. Mulch beds that swooped, dipped, and curved, forming tributaries of bark that collectively formed a sea of beautiful amber-brown cedar. Cheap mulch provided color and contrast. Expensive mulch provided color and contrast but also replaced nutrients to the soil, repelled insects, emitted a scent that was pleasant to humans, and, more importantly, increased property values through great curb appeal. All the mulch beds on Petunia Lane were exactly the same. From the same supplier, delivered the same day. Expensive. Now how’d that happen? Overzealous homeowners’ association? Perhaps. But it didn’t matter. When Penelope’s Feathered Nest “Mulch Alert” for the Petunia enclave came—and Holly knew it would—what if they couldn’t afford the amber-brown cedar? What then?

He took a shower at the gym. Why? He never does that. Was he even at the gym? She checked the expression on Jack’s face. What was he thinking? Was he about to admit it?

“We’re under federal investigation.”

What? “Who is?” Holly asked. “We are? You and me?”

“The company. And maybe me—for working there.” He released a long, slow exhale, like he’d just confessed something, like he was glad he’d finally gotten it off his chest. “Offshore shell companies.”

“Offshore what? What does this have to do with curtains?” Was this a dodge? Was he making this up? Because Holly had seen him. He was eating a hamburger. With Bethanny.

“Seven of our clients are under federal investigation for money laundering, insurance fraud, and tax evasion. Three of them live in Primm.”

“I’m so confused.” Holly covered her face. Took a moment. To think. To take this all in.

“I wanted to tell you, but I signed a confidentiality agreement.”

He was almost pleading with her. Why was he pleading with her? Was he apologizing about the agreement without actually apologizing?

“I’ve known this would be my new role when we moved. That I’d be working on something I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone about—not even you.” He looked bruised. Defeated. Run over by a bus. “I’ve known all along. I’m sorry.”

“We moved to the Village of Primm because you might be under federal investigation?”

“Sort of. I mean, I’m not in trouble, yet. At least I don’t think so.”

“Jack.” Holly could hardly form words. “I thought you were having an affair. You’re always working. You’re so secretive. You told me you were being promoted.”

“Well . . . I was. Being promoted. But not exactly. More like I’ve been given a chance to bail the company out of a tight spot. And hopefully save my job.”

“Your job?” They’d have no income. And then what?

“My job?” He laughed a laugh that was filled with disbelief. “More like my career. Everything I’ve ever worked for. If this doesn’t go our way, the company will be compromised, and everyone involved will be ruined. Tarnished reputations. It’ll hit the papers. And the evening news in most markets. I’ll be finished. No one will want to touch me.”

“We can’t afford this house without a job, Jack. Why did we do this? All of our savings.” The lawn mower sound Holly heard earlier stopped, the cutting complete. Holly needed to win the Wilhelm Klaus. She needed that prize money. Not that it would fix everything, but it would bridge the gap. Whatever that gap might be. Her thoughts trailed toward the cul-de-sac, toward Petunia’s community gardens. She wasn’t a Primm Mom or a Petunia Mom. She’d known that. But now, she’d give anything to be one. Anything. Rose-colored glasses? Yes, please. Holly didn’t want crabgrass. She wanted prim. She wanted proper. Topiaries. Gazebos with enclave flags. A thriving PTA. She wanted Ella catching Bus 13 every morning, on time. Because Holly got her there, backpack packed. Nutritious lunch inside. “We’ll have nothing,” Holly said. “We’ll lose everything.”

“I know.” He rubbed his temples. “It’s bad. It’s really bad, Holly. I can’t sleep. I take, like, twenty antacids—before breakfast.” He pressed his palm to his chest. “I get these . . . panic attacks. Like I can’t breathe.”

“I thought you were an auditor. Offshore shell companies? Tax evasion? Jack—you have a master’s degree in tax law. How could you let this happen?” She needed to sit, but her front porch was empty. Naked. But not barren—because they were talking. Not flat, desolate scrubland. But where was Collette’s wooden bench? Where were her pillows? Holly needed pillows with the number 12 and the words Petunia Lane embroidered on them. She needed pillows to anchor her. Seriously? Why didn’t Collette leave her freaking pillows? It wasn’t like she could even use them at her new address. “Are you in legal trouble?”