The Neighbor's Secret(39)

“What happens if you don’t approve of their selections, though?” Rachel’s voice grew ominous. “Watch out, ladies of Cottonwood.”

When Rachel attempted jokes about how dangerous Lena was—never gracefully, never with any actual wit—Lena felt like snapping at her. But she hadn’t ever.

“Did you know anyone at book club?” Rachel’s voice was back to normal.

“Just Harriet Nessel, and she didn’t miss a beat. It felt like I saw her just last week. What time are you and Evan’s family meeting at their club for the big meal?”

“Seven. What time is Uncle Ernie coming over?”

“Four. He’s got an early flight tomorrow.”

Ernie apparently no longer felt sorry for Lena and had already grumbled at length: friends of theirs spent Thanksgiving Day in Hawaii. He didn’t understand why Lena was commanding him to stay here and go through the motions.

You’re a grown man, Lena replied. I can’t command you to do anything.

He and Rachel probably had long, unjustified conversations about how incorrigibly bossy Lena was.

Alma had had a very strong personality, and her mantra was: family is everything. That’s why Ernie was sticking around. It had nothing to do with Lena. And as far as Rachel went, Lena had called the shots fourteen years ago, in a moment of crisis.

It was the very definition of parenting, and Lena had always hoped that as Rachel matured, she’d understand that life wasn’t always so black and white. Sometimes, laws must be broken for a greater good.

But Rachel was already in her thirties. The lesson seemed to have eluded her.

“Do you remember the Thanksgivings we used to have?” Rachel said.

“I remember cooking for a full month before.”

They’d used to host almost fifty people—Alma and all of her relatives, a few locals from Tim’s side, plus whatever strays he’d dragged along.

And then suddenly there had been no one.

During Rachel’s angry years, Lena had forced herself to fly east for meals at hotel restaurants that never felt right. Once, Lena had arrived to find that she was being punished and Rachel had made other plans, so she’d ordered room service and eaten Thanksgiving dinner alone on her bed.

“Not the big family meals,” Rachel said, “how we used to go to the Bahamas. Just you and me.”

But that had only happened twice—a slippery attempt at a tradition in the years before Tim died, when it was still the two of them against the world. Lena opened her mouth, about to correct the memory before stopping herself.

There had been a time that Rachel had trusted Lena more than anyone or anything. Lena wondered if every parent had that window at some point, and if they all, inevitably, exploited it.

“I made a friend at book club,” Lena ventured. “Annie Perley. She’s older than you, but she said she’d been to our house for a swim-team dinner.”

“Annie Perley,” Rachel repeated. “Does she have brown hair?”

“Light chestnut,” Lena said. “Chin length. She’s pretty. Her face has very delicate bone structure.”

“Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.”

“I bet your paths didn’t really cross. Her husband owns a restaurant downtown and they’ve got these two kids—”

“Was she there the year we had paella? Or the year there was the big thunderstorm?”

“That wasn’t the same year?”

The skies had turned ocean gray, the wind tipped over the outdoor umbrella, melamine plates with food were rushed inside, and kids had grouped around the window to watch lightning flash over the mountains.

“Paella’s an odd thing to serve children,” Rachel said.

“People loved it.”

“If you say so.”

“You’d like Annie. She’s sharp. And kind. And closer to your age than mine.”

“But she—Annie—had already graduated when—” Rachel paused.

Hearing the familiar tremor in Rachel’s voice, Lena sprang into action. She’d mostly lost Rachel long ago, but there were still moments like this, of reliance.

“If Annie had any clue what I did, Rachel, do you think she’d want me at her book club?”

“Right.” Rachel’s laugh was small. “I don’t suppose she would.”



* * *



“He’s here!” Abe said. He had been stationed at their bay window for the past fifteen minutes, watching for Colin’s blue car.

“Colin’s here,” Jen repeated to Paul, who had the oven door open and was squinting suspiciously at the precooked turkey.

We barely know this kid, he’d said.

Paul wanted a Thanksgiving like they usually had: the three of them eating takeout on the couch, treating the holiday as a breather before the frantic bounce of Christmas—from Jen’s mom in northern California to Paul’s sister in the middle to Jen’s dad and young stepmother in Los Angeles, worrying all the way, ha, ha, ha, about whether Abe was going to behave, and were his cousins being little jerks.

The official arrangement with Colin, what he was being paid for, involved his driving Abe home after school four days a week and staying until dinner so that Jen could work. But Colin seemed desperate for family time and tended to stay longer. He ate with them most nights and always helped clean up afterward and had even volunteered to come over on any weekend, really, he was never doing anything anyway. Like them, he was relatively new in town and didn’t know many people.