Life and Other Inconveniences(18)

“It’s fine. I appreciate all your help, I do. I’ll pick her up at five.”

“Try to come earlier.”

“Will do.”

He got back in the car and sat there for a few seconds. He’d have to go home at lunch and clean up the disaster that was his house. Maybe take a nap. But since Ashley died, Miller felt as if he hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time. It wasn’t just Tess. It was reliving the last moments of his wife’s life. It was the helpless terror that one day he would hurt Tess in a moment of weakness or exhaustion, shake her or slap her, and if that happened, he would have to give her up, and he would’ve failed his wife and become a man who hurt a child, hurt his child, which was something he knew would ruin him more than he was already ruined.

It was guilt, because he suspected Tess knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the bone-deep belief that if Tess had a father who loved her, she would be a different child.





CHAPTER 6


    Genevieve


The first time I realized something was off was this past January.

It was Friday, and Friday meant cocktails with the Jamesons and Smiths, my neighbors, and Miller. Donelle was once again complaining of a swollen toe, so it was I who made the drinks. I suppose I didn’t mind. No one could make a better martini than I could, either, so really, the “swelling” served us all well.

My precious little Pomeranian, Minuet, lay on her red pillow on the window seat, watching the snow fall in the most adorable way, head cocked, her black-and-tan fur shining and clean, a perfect example of what a dog should be. The other dogs—Mac, Allegra, Carmen and Valkyrie—were all bigger and sloppier, and for cocktail hour, I banished them to their playroom in the basement. It was hardly prison—a carpeted room with seven dog beds, several dozen dog toys, a view of the lawn and, tonight, the full moon rising over the Sound.

Just last week Donelle had taken down the Christmas decorations—well, she watched as the people Miller had sent over took down the decorations. Miller himself was staring into a scotch, since the poor man didn’t appreciate a good martini.

I was feeling rather festive; ironically, the taking down of the holiday decorations always made me feel happy. Four Christmas trees, the garlanded mantels and doorways, wreaths on every door and window, candles galore, the trees along the drive all wrapped with white lights . . . simply overseeing that was a great deal of work. Christmastime was just one more thing I had to do. The expectations of my holiday décor were high, of course; just last year, Sheerwater had been featured in Martha Stewart Living. (Martha was such a dear, though I did not understand her affection for the man with the long hair and silly name. Sloopy? Snoopy?)

Sheerwater was also the pièce de résistance on the Stoningham Wassail Walk, in which dozens of local residents held candles and walked through town, caroling at certain stops, my home being the last. Donelle served spiced apple cider and donuts, and we let people in to gape at my house, which was, admittedly, impressive.

Then had come the dreaded Christmas dinner with Clark and what’s-her-name, his latest floozy. What was her name? He introduced her as his “girlfriend,” to which I’d said, “Really, Clark, you’re not fifteen, and she’s hardly a girl.” Amber. No, Topaz, that was it. Some cheap gemstone. At least they hadn’t stayed over, though dinner lasted an eternity. New Year’s Eve was a holiday I loathed, as it marked another year without Sheppard and Garrison, and yet I attended the historical society’s annual party as usual, making small talk, sipping champagne as if surviving the passage of time was something to be celebrated.

But now, the house was put back to order, and Minuet was entertaining us by simply being herself. The Smiths, an attractive younger couple who had the grace not to ask too many questions or be too familiar, which was why they were regulars on my guest list, had made themselves comfortable. They hadn’t known me when Sheppard was alive, so there was no demeaning sympathy in their eyes.

My boy had loved Christmas.

I was indescribably relieved not to have to listen to holiday music anymore. One can only stand Handel’s Messiah so many times, and certainly not by caterwauling pop stars who have no gift for phrasing. At the moment, Debussy’s piano trios were playing over the sound system (another favor from Miller), and the house felt clean and welcoming.

Donelle was regaling Kim and Mark with local gossip—new money buying the Josiah Green house and planning to tear off the back to make an all-glass wing. As if I’d allow that. I was president of the Stoningham Historical Society, and we’d never approve such a tacky addition. Anne and Alesia, the veterinarians, were coming a bit later, and the Talwars, who summered and spent the holidays in Stoningham, had returned to their home in New Haven, so it was a smaller group than usual.

“How are those martinis coming, Genevieve?” Mark asked. “Need any help?”

“Of course not, but thank you, dear,” I said. Mixing a good cocktail was an art form, and while Mark was a nice enough person, he did things like add fruit juices and, once, a maraschino cherry. I shuddered at the memory.

I looked down at the bar cart. The gin—Hendrick’s (far superior to any gin, really), the vermouth (Noilly Prat, of course), and a bowl of lemons.

Then something happened. I was holding an ice cube in one hand, a long-handled silver spoon in the other. There was a small pitcher half-filled with ice already. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure what I’d been doing. Who’d put all the ice in the pitcher? Had I? Why?