If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(3)

Laughter caught my attention. Hannah was being folksy with Barb and Sandy, completely comfortable in her own skin. I could envy her for that, but for some reason it didn’t niggle me as much with her as it did with my sister.

On her way out of the store, Barb called to me, “See you at drop-off tomorrow!”

I smiled and waved, while Hannah busied herself with the coffee maker.

After savoring my final swig of coffee, I took the empty plate and cup to the counter. “Have a great day, Hannah.”

“You too.” She waved before shuffling to the far end of her display case to straighten a tray of popovers.

And then, because Lyle’s hypocrisy irked me, I added, “See you soon.”

Outside, the brisk air fended off a food coma. I inhaled deeply and turned right to finish my walk home. Unlike the east end of town—where I’d grown up—the west side boasted herringbone brickwork sidewalks and iron lampposts with ivy-stuffed hanging baskets. The recent upgrades were part of an expansion due to increased tourism. Lyle and I loved the trendy shops and restaurants, but traffic on Saturdays wasn’t ideal.

As I left the commercial district and meandered onto Nukquit Lane, the uniformity of the new residential development relaxed me. We lived on Naeez Court. Each of the five streets that made up our little neighborhood came from the Nanticoke words for one through five. Better yet, the homes, while not identical, were all roughly the same size and style, each set in the center of a well-manicured half-acre lot.

Logic and structure made life easier to navigate.

The older areas where my mom and Erin still lived were populated with 1940s ranch-, cape-, and cottage-style homes, and weak zoning restrictions. Not that I’d noticed when I was young. When I hadn’t been at one of Kevin’s Little League games or helping my mom bake cookies, I’d been reading books in the hammock or running through the neighborhood on warm summer evenings. But as I grew up, my preference for order over chaos solidified. I’d worked hard and made smart choices to help afford a home on this side of town.

In contrast to my place, Erin’s antiquated brick apartment building resembled a crumbling fort, but even that looked more impressive than her cramped apartment. Some nights I’d sit straight up in bed, concerned about how she’d escape that mousetrap in a fire. But anytime I offered to reorganize the clutter or suggested she brighten it up with fresh paint, she’d smile and dismiss me. The pretty Pottery Barn drapes I’d picked up for her this past Christmas remained in a box buried somewhere in that mess.

Despite my best intentions, I never quite did the right thing where she was concerned.

I entered my home through the garage. We’d bought it almost five months ago, yet hadn’t nearly finished decorating. Lyle had suggested we get rid of the mishmash of his old-condo furnishings and the things I’d kept from my apartment once we’d married. But our fiscally responsible nature restricted us to purchasing only the essentials to date—a kitchen table and chairs, a Restoration Hardware sofa set from the Maddox Collection and the flat-screen TV that hung above the fireplace, bedroom furniture from Lillian August, and two area rugs to help muffle the echo of the hardwood, tile, and glass throughout the home. We’d selected crisp, clean lines and colors—white, gray, navy. Soothing.

Usually. Today it seemed a little cold and empty.

I twisted my neck from side to side, then sat at the kitchen table and dialed Lyle’s number. Straight to voice mail, like it had earlier this morning. I glanced through the french doors that led to the deck and firepit. The night before he’d left, we’d sat by the blaze, discussing baby names.

I’d lobbied for “Willa” in honor of my late father, William Turner. It broke my heart that, thanks to an unexpected heart attack last summer, he wouldn’t be part of my growing family. And aside from Willa also being an adorable name, it’d be unique. As a teacher, I’d met more than my fair share of Caitlins, Katies, and Ellies.

Lyle had simply raised his brow at me and pushed for “Penelope,” which he thought better suited the blonde curls and blue eyes he expected our daughter to inherit from me.

Penelope Foster . . . Penny. No matter how often I turned that over in my head, it didn’t sound right.

Still no word from Lyle, so I called his friend Tom, with whom he was staying while in Miami.

A woman answered, “Hello.”

“I’m sorry.” I paused. “I might’ve misdialed. I’m trying to reach Tom Cantor.”

“This is Tom’s phone, but he just ran out. Can I take a message?” The woman sounded younger—maybe twenty-three or twenty-five.

Not once all week had Lyle mentioned any women at the house. “Um, well, I’m actually trying to track down Lyle Foster. He’s staying with Tom.”

“Yeah, I know Lyle, but you missed him. He and Ebba left yesterday afternoon.”

I blinked. Ebba? I’d heard that name only once before in my life.

“Hello?” came the younger woman’s voice.

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head in a futile effort to settle my spinning thoughts. “May I ask with whom I am speaking?”

“Gigi . . . Tom’s girlfriend.” She sounded bored and slightly annoyed, like I’d interrupted her while she was painting her nails.

“Oh.” All morning I’d been worried about my husband, but now my thoughts veered in a different, more disturbing direction. “Is Ebba working on the deal with Lyle?”