The Neighbor's Secret(19)

Beyond that, Lena had her books and her shows, her online shopping and her maintenance projects and a rotating cast of paid friends necessary to dispatch them—landscapers, cleaners, Gregoire for her hair, and every few years, the painters and architect and the renovation crews—all of whom were legitimately good company.

There were bad months that sometimes stretched into bad years: Rachel’s off-and-on anger, palpable even across the country, Lena’s intermittent fear of travel and the panic attacks, which usually yielded to sessions with Dr. Friendly, a local therapist, and occasionally required prescriptions.

But all in all, the soundlessness diet had been effective. Lena’s life shrank down to something manageable. That this worked for her—as an appeasement of guilt, as punishment, as a method of forgetting—she could barely explain to herself, let alone another person.

Annie was still leaned forward, elbows on knees, number-eleven wrinkles even more pronounced between her eyebrows. (Should Lena offer Annie Botox? She had a delightful woman who came to the house every three months.)

Lena didn’t honestly believe one book club meeting would turn her into a social maniac.

What, exactly, was she worried about?

Neighborhood gossip and angering the gods and upsetting the balance by not respecting the thick red line that bisects my life into Before and After.

“I don’t really like to go out,” Lena said finally. I’m supposed to have a shell of a life now.

“It’s not going out. It’s like this.” Annie’s open-palmed gesture swept over their china teacups. “Cozy. And November’s book is a laugh riot. There’s suspense and sex and we’ll just all have Deb’s drinks and giggle about it.”

Annie had once mentioned a Deb Gallegos cocktail concoction: pepper-infused vodka. The thing was that Lena could see herself on a sofa, sipping it, nodding in response to Deb’s or Priya’s point, asking Deb for the recipe.

“And Harriet Nessel, bless her, will try to bring the discussion back to the book.”

“That sounds just like Harriet.”

Harriet had been the first to arrive to all of Lena’s summer parties, and her hostess gifts were inevitably regifted molded hand soaps in holiday themes. Once, Lena had made the mistake of opening the box in front of Harriet. Two out of the four Christmas trees had been missing.

Lena had been mortified on Harriet’s behalf, but Harriet was only outraged at the rudeness of her cousin Amity, who had apparently been the original giver. “Who does that,” Harriet had fumed, “who removes the soaps first?”

Lena’s stomach quivered, her arm hairs stood at attention, as the memory of Harriet’s face—stern eyes, pursed lips—swam in front of her. Odd that her body was behaving like she missed Harriet Nessel.

“Harriet can’t wait to see you, by the way. I mean everyone can’t, but she’s very fond of you.”

“That’s nice.”

“There has to be a quid pro quo, Lena.” Annie stroked the cashmere throw around her neck. “I’ll accept all of your ridiculous generosity, but then you have to do this one thing. You’ll love book club. I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise.”

If Lena were to play devil’s advocate, she would ask herself: Hadn’t she already breached the social diet by opening the door to Annie, or to Gregoire, who usually stayed for dinner after ministering to Lena’s highlights, or to Tommy the UPS man, who occasionally came in for coffee (black with so much sugar stirred in that Lena worried about his teeth)?

But on the other hand, Lena knew to ignore that grabby little voice piping up in her head: You deserve, you want, take it, what’s the harm?

“It’s all book nerds,” Annie said. “Empathetic, openhearted readers. Our people, Lena.”

Lena really wanted to go, was the thing.

“Come once. If you don’t enjoy it, that’s— Oh, Hank,” Annie moaned. Annie’s son had smushed his freckled face against the window, then pulled it away and smiled with delight at the greasy foggy smear he’d left: I did that!

“Lena, I’ll clean that right up.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lena said. “Let’s go see the art.”

Hank had drawn beautiful pastel mermaids with their hair flying behind them across Lena’s patio, and after Lena admired them, they all went out to Waterfall Rock.

Lena made a big show of handing Hank the key to the gate and talking him through how to unlock it. They walked single-file down the hint of the path, which was nearly obscured by fallen pine needles, until they reached the large flat rock overlooking the falls.

Hank walked to the edge and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hello,” he shouted over the rushing water.

“There’s no echoes in a waterfall,” Laurel said. “That’s caves.” The dummy was implied.

“Such an amazing view, huh?” Annie placed a hand on Laurel’s shoulder and pointed with the other in the direction of the western valley below them, where the aspens’ waving golden leaves covered the hills like fire.

“Please stop touching me,” Laurel said. She shrugged out from under Annie’s grip.

Watching Annie’s face flush, Lena felt a sympathetic catch in her throat. It was something about the girl’s profile—the sweet plane of cheek interrupted by those pinpoint round dimples. Lena had always loved Rachel’s dimples, which broke up her default expression of sternness.