The Neighbor's Secret(42)
Lena’s guilty eyes made clear she had heard, if not all of the story, the tail end.
Annie sidled close to her and squeezed her arm and started babbling something about all the boxes and Jen chimed in and then Deb said she had egg whites waiting inside to froth for the drink, and was desperate for Lena’s help with getting the spices right and it’s so cold, what are we doing out here, let’s all go inside.
* * *
Deb Gallegos’s hands were a whirl of measuring and pouring. Every few minutes she shoved a shot glass filled with test cocktail at Lena: too sweet/bland/weak?
Lena wanted to comfort her, and all of the other women, so sweetly frantic in their attempts to make her feel better. They thought they’d hurt her feelings, but she’d been riveted.
“The Story”—Lena’s story—had been reshaped into a neat little package: beginning, middle, end.
It wasn’t the first time Lena had heard a version of it. It’s a small town, Dr. Friendly had admitted in their initial consultation. I already know what you’ve been through.
In Dr. Friendly’s reverent retelling, Lena had sounded like a movie heroine: the burdened widow with an impossible choice! Her family … or the greater good?
In the gossipy neighborhood version, though, Lena had sounded more like a victim. And a little mad with grief, thanks to Harriet’s graphic detail about her wild animal eyes.
Lena felt the teensiest bit defensive hearing the part about how Rachel stormed off to the East Coast in a huff, angry at Lena for unintentionally killing her father. It made Rachel sound like some immature brat who couldn’t cope, when in truth, her anger was righteous and complicated. If they had only seen Rachel’s hysterics when Lena had dropped her off in New Hampshire.
Lena could never correct them, though. If people thought they knew The Story, it meant they had accepted it, plot holes and all.
There had been not quite four hours between when the last guest had left Lena’s party and the police officers knocked on her door looking for Tim. They were the defining moments of Lena’s life.
The fewer questions about them the better.
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER, 12:01 A.M.
Jett the bartender was the last to go, with a fat tip in his pocket. He had nodded tiredly when Lena slipped it to him, as if in agreement that he’d earned every last cent.
Lena leaned against the front door, stepped out of her heels. Always such a bittersweet feeling when a party finally ended, a little relief, a little sadness mingled with the contentment.
She surveyed the kitchen. Alma used to say you could gauge an event’s success by the mess, in which case tonight had been epic: wineglasses and stacked dirty plates and half-empty platters covered the countertops.
Lena stole a cube of Manchego from a platter on the island and popped it in her mouth before going upstairs.
Behind the door of her room, Rachel sang along to loud music in an unselfconscious falsetto. Lena thought against knocking, did not want to ruin the carefree moment.
In her bathroom, Lena smeared cold cream on her face, carefully slipped off her dress and pulled on a nightgown, sat down at her vanity to sponge off the cream.
She heard the mechanical whir of the garage door.
Through the years she would agonize: Why hadn’t she really listened?
She’d have realized that Tim was in no position to drive, and she could have run downstairs to stop him, stop all of it.
Because Lena was too selfish to see past her own happiness to care about anyone else, too filled with thoughts of how, right before Gary had left to drive his son to meet friends, he’d said a casual I’ll call later, twisted his pinky finger around hers and held it a little too long.
She pressed in her face oil with light upward sweeps of her finger, climbed between the sheets and fell into a dreamless heavy sleep that was interrupted by the ring of her phone.
The clock said 1:15. Her heart sprinting, she fumbled the cordless receiver off its stand, pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” Lena lied. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Indulgently, she stretched her arms above her head. “What are you doing up?”
“Waiting for my son to call for a ride home,” Gary said. “Want to sneak out and wait with me?”
Lena paused.
“Don’t say no.”
Lena didn’t. She was already getting out of bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do you think Colin is gay?”
Paul ignored Jen’s question. He took a sip of wine, swallowed. Carefully cut another bite and pushed it onto his fork and slid it onto her plate.
“You have to try the lamb,” he said.
They were at a restaurant that had once been a ranch house, and was perched atop a winding road on acres of farmland, deep in the Foothills. Paul and Jen were in front of the giant stone fireplace, with a view outside to the rows of evergreens, Christmas lights strung through their branches.
Jen had decided they should split a bottle of champagne. Since book club started in the fall, she’d found herself adopting the club’s attitude to alcohol, which she could best describe as: Why not? I deserve it!
And it was true. A glass of something now and then made everyone seem more fun and every problem a little more bearable. Even Jen’s mother couldn’t find the worry in her new habit.