The Neighbor's Secret(67)

“The coffee,” Annie said. “What makes it so good? I can’t thank you enough. It’s a toss-up whether I’m more grateful for this or for Deb’s window guy. He’s doing the job for free, you know, because he owed Deb a favor. She’s a little vague on why, though.”

Jen didn’t even smile. Her gaze drifted over Annie’s shoulder to the broken bay window.

“Are you okay?” Annie said.

“Did Laurel say anything about last night?”

“No, but she had an early graduation rehearsal this morning and then a bunch of her classmates are having a goodbye-to-Sandstone picnic.”

“Apparently Abe asked her to leave last night, and I think they had a bit of a fight? I know he can be rude, unintentionally, he doesn’t intend to be—”

“Was she mean to him?” Annie asked. “She was so moody this year, and although it’s gotten better, you know what I think it’s been this whole time?”

Jen shook her head.

“Perfectionism. Yesterday I saw one of those vision boards, do you remember those? I had sort of an epiphany and I think because Laurel’s driven and quite intense, she can take it out on the rest of us, so for a kid who…” Annie trailed off because Jen had never opened up about Abe’s being on the spectrum. “… who’s a little younger, like Abe? Maybe it gets confusing?”

“Oh, well”—Jen’s smile was wan—“I wasn’t there.”

Annie wondered if it would be inappropriate to hug Jen. The way her thin cotton T-shirt exposed the undercurve of her breast made Annie want to bundle her in a sweatshirt.

Jen’s eyes blinked full of tears. “Maybe we should sit out the party.”

Annie reached out and placed her palms against Jen’s goose-bumped upper arms. “Laurel will be heartbroken if Abe’s not there and Lena and I will both be heartbroken if you’re not.”

“Do you mean that?” Jen said quietly. The tears had spilled over her lower eyelids. She didn’t even bother to swipe them away.

“Yes.” Annie squeezed Jen’s shoulders reassuringly. “Promise me you’ll be there.”

“Okay.” Jen gave a small, grateful smile. “I promise.”





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE



“I know Annie Perley.”

Rachel had called Lena from her future in-laws’ house on the Cape. She wore sunglasses and a big floppy sun hat. Behind her was a brilliantly blue sky. “And she acted like she knew me too.”

“She was just surprised.” Lena’s hands were sticky with fondant for Laurel’s cake, so she wiped back her bangs with her forearm. “Because you seemed so surprised.”

“Mom,” Rachel whispered urgently.

“I get paranoid sometimes too, Rachel, but Annie was just being friendly.”

Rachel looked over her shoulder warily. “What if she knows something?”

“Annie trusts me with her children. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Shh,” Rachel said.

“Babe.” Lena heard Evan’s voice. “My mom wants to know which bike you want to go into town?”

“I usually use the one with the flower basket,” Rachel said brightly. “Babe, I’m videoing my mom.”

“Oh, hello dear!” Evan pushed his face into the frame next to Rachel’s, straw hat against straw hat. “You look very blue over there. Is it an art project?”

“It’s cake fondant,” Rachel said.

“Wonderful!” Evan said. His fedora was a size too small. It sat atop his head like a fez.

“Does it look like the color of the ocean to you?” Lena held up the fondant. “Baja blue?”

“What will Laurel Perley know about Baja blue anyway?” Rachel said. “She’s in a landlocked state.”

“She wanted a beach theme.” Lena had kept things restrained, though: beach themes could so easily veer tacky.

“Awesome!” Evan said. “Who’s Laurel Perley?”

“A neighborhood kid,” Rachel said. “For some reason my mother is throwing her a massive party.”

Lena watched Evan’s face for a flinch or a protective glance. She often wondered what, if anything, Rachel had told him.

Not the truth: Evan wouldn’t be able to muster so many “dear”s for Lena if he knew that.

“Remember,” Evan said. “The whole point of a party is fun! So have fun!”

“Smart boy,” Lena said.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR



Jen, wobbling on her tiptoes on the stepstool, reached a hand into the top cabinet, blindly felt for the edges of the large serving platter.

Janine had banned takeout containers. She wanted the food to appear, she had instructed the group, as though it had been homemade with love.

The restaurant that Jen had ordered from, on the other side of the city, didn’t even have the roast pig that Jen barely remembered from childhood barbecues at her uncle’s house.

In a panic, she had rattled off a few unfamiliar names from the menu in front of her—lumpio, sure, and one of the bulalo and throw in a sisig, please. The women would stuff their faces on these dishes that meant nothing to Jen, to—what—prove how accepting they were?