The Neighbor's Secret(16)

For the wedding, however, Rachel had relaxed the self-imposed budget. This had to mean that Rachel was deliriously happy, didn’t it?

Marriage was a statement of optimism and Lena was relieved that Rachel was making it, even if Rachel’s choice of groom seemed safe, a little stale. That Evan Welnik-Boose called Lena dear in their brief video chats, like she was some decrepit aunt—Hello dear. How’s summer, dear?—seemed a tad creepy.

Maybe he thought Lena was a decrepit aunt. Who knew what he’d been told?

Evan’s parents, Samara Welnik, Ph.D., and Miles Boose, M.D., were lovely, cultured, accomplished people who lived twenty minutes from Rachel and Evan, when they weren’t at their beach house on Cape Cod. Miles was a pediatric something or other and Samara was a psychologist specializing in childhood trauma (neither Lena nor Rachel had articulated the ironies of that to each other), who sent Lena warm notes in a lovely cursive about what a blessing it was that their miraculous offspring had found each other.

The wedding was to be at their beach house, which meant something to Rachel and Evan, if not Lena. The current debate was whether the ceremony should be on the beach (too public?) or in the yard (private, but too small for a tent).

There was, in Lena’s yard, an expanse of lawn that had been literally designed to fit a party tent. And years ago, Lena had thought that the spot under the bough of the cottonwood tree, between the garden and the gate, with that view out to the snowcapped Rockies, would be perfect for a wedding ceremony.

Lena understood that the fantasy had been imagined for another life, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t notice the loss of it.

Lena’s own wedding to Tim, which her mother Alma had planned entirely, had been at Lena’s childhood church. Lena had worn Alma’s wedding dress, let out to fit Lena, and there had been a reception afterward in her parents’ backyard. She recalled no choices, only traditions to uphold.

She had also felt the tiniest bit like a dress-up doll.

The doorbell rang and Lena peeked over the stairwell.

Annie Perley peered through the window by the door, hand shielding her eyes in an attempt to see inside the house. Hank stood to her left carrying a plastic container, and the girl next to him, one lanky leg wound around the other like a contortionist flamingo, must be Laurel.

Lena inhaled sharply.

“What?” Rachel said. She leaned close to the phone camera, so Lena could only see the top half of her face: giant troubled eyes and forehead zigzagged with worry lines. “What’s happened?”

“Someone’s at the door,” Lena said.

“Who?”

In the years since Rachel had left, Lena had tried to be as honest with her as possible, but something had kept her from mentioning Annie Perley’s visits.

Rachel was, for the most part, functioning beautifully in the anonymity of a big city. She had the job, the fiancé, the big group of friends. Dragging her attention back to Cottonwood Estates might defeat the purpose of their sacrifices.

“Mom.” Rachel leaned so close to the camera that all Lena could see were panicked eyes. “You’re freaking me out. Who’s there?”

Just Annie Perley, and she has a daughter with long curly dark hair and a familiar innocent coltishness and if I squint, I can fool myself into thinking she looks like you did, back when we were like everyone else.

“Rudy about pruning the cottonwood,” Lena said, which was only a half lie because she did need to discuss it with him soon.

“I have to go anyway,” Rachel said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The words had come out hard. Lena desperately clutched for a joke, a funny story, something to smooth that worried brow, but nothing came to mind.



* * *



Lena waited until Annie was settled on the sofa before she presented her with the wrapped box.

“For you,” she said.

Annie eyed Lena suspiciously. “What have you done?”

“Open it.”

Lena sat down and clasped her hands in anticipation as she watched Annie carefully remove the wrapping paper.

“Lena.” Annie’s nose crinkled. She unfolded the tissue paper and looked accusingly from the box to Lena, who could wait no more. She leaned forward and snatched the peacock-blue cashmere wrap, held it up to Annie’s face.

“Your eyes pop,” she said with approval. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell online, but I had a feeling about this color.”

“I can’t keep this,” Annie pleaded. “I don’t own anything this nice, Lena.”

“All the more reason why you must.”

Annie lowered her voice, even though the kids were outside on the patio. “You’re doing too much for us. The baking, the sidewalk chalk for Hank—I know you bought it—the camera you just gave to Laurel.”

“It brings me joy,” Lena said simply.

Even before the accident, the act of giving had brought Lena a sense of connection and purpose.

And now?

She’d felt a shot of giddiness when ordering the wrap for Annie, and an explosion of joy when Hank had barreled inside the house to grab one of the homemade biscotti. The best I’ve ever had, he’d said in earnest.

“We’re here,” Annie said firmly, “because we enjoy your company, not to … acquire.”