Neighborly(30)

“Are you going to lock them up?”

He smacks his forehead. “Right. Bike locks. I need to go back to the store.”

I realize he’s not kidding. “And what if it rains?”

He looks skyward in an exaggerated and comic fashion. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. I think we’re in the clear.”

“Have you remotely thought this through?”

His affable expression disappears. “How about having a little faith in your husband?”

As he starts to roll the first bike around the house, he jabs, “You think Val and Patrick are planning to steal some bikes tonight?”

Val and Patrick. Those are the names of the fanny-pack-wearing empty nesters with the golden retrievers. This time, I can’t let myself forget. It’s not Fanny; it’s Val, as in validate. Val, as in valuable. Val, as in property values. Yes, that’s it. That’ll stick.

To Doug’s back, I say, “And what about Hope next door, and her friends?”

He doesn’t answer, and I know I’ve scored a point. But I have a feeling I’m not going to win this game. He bought bikes that couldn’t be returned. He isn’t going to take no for an answer.

I feed Sadie a bottle and get her into fresh clothes. Doug doesn’t even set foot inside the house. We don’t speak as we cross the street.

Oliver and Gina’s Victorian is a dusky blue, all its windows and doorways edged in midnight, so it creates a dramatic effect, like a woman’s eyes outlined in charcoal. Gina opens the door and ushers us inside. She says that Lee and Riordan are playing upstairs, and we’ll have to meet them another time.

Without further ado, she launches into a well-practiced tour. “This used to be a duplex. We knocked down the walls so we could get nice big rooms. I love Victorians, but I hate small rooms.”

Then why do you love Victorians, if you hate one of their principal features?

I’m just being irritable. I don’t want to be here, and I resent Doug for making me.

As Andie said, the house is impeccable. The living room is light and airy, white everywhere, including whitewashed wood floors, with built-in bookshelves that are easily fourteen feet high. There’s a ladder on rollers against one corner, presumably to reach the highest shelves. Most of the books seem to be about architecture or interior design, and they’re as handsome as the room itself.

The dining room beyond is also white, with built-in cabinets and a bar. There’s a crystal chandelier above a rustic wooden table that could seat twelve. It looks like it should be in one of those Bay Area farm-to-table restaurants. Three dozen white lilies are in a glass vase at the center.

“The bar’s fully stocked,” Oliver says. “What can I fix you?”

“Water with lemon for me,” I say quickly.

“A glass of your best bourbon, please, sir,” Doug says.

Oliver smiles. “Good man.”

“A Manhattan for me, please,” Gina says. It looks like I’ll be the only teetotaler. Again. “I’ll show you the kitchen, Kat.”

I follow her in, Sadie feeling heavy in my arms. I should have brought the Bj?rn, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.

I can hear Doug and Oliver in the next room, already in the throes of energetic manly discourse. Oliver talks like Gina, I realize—with great authority. She has a masculine conversational style, full of strong opinions and proclamations. And she hasn’t paid Sadie a bit of mind, which is notable, because everyone pays attention to Sadie. Come to think of it, Oliver didn’t, either. Maybe they’re not baby people. But didn’t Oliver say that Gina was so taken with Sadie she was talking about having another kid?

“Are you sure you only want water?” Gina asks. “I could squeeze you some fresh juice. I remember I was always depleted when I was breastfeeding.”

“I’m good,” I say. “I’m not depleted.”

Then I notice the juicer. It’s an insane contraption, something out of Willy Wonka: large and orange with a protruding black metal snout that contains four oranges, loaded up like one of those machines that shoots out tennis balls. It’s next to an industrial pasta maker, a bread maker, and some other appliances I can’t even identify. Somehow, with all that, it still doesn’t seem crowded in here.

Gina starts chopping a lemon right on the countertop—it must be some invincible high-tech material—and Oliver brings in her Manhattan. Doug loiters between the rooms, uncertain how to approach me. He doesn’t want a scene, but then, neither do I. I just don’t want to have to be fake, either. I preferred having him in the other room.

“What do you think of the kitchen, Kat?” Oliver says.

“It’s beautiful. Space-age.”

He laughs. “I’m addicted to upgrades. Wherever I am, I look around and I can always see something that could use improving.”

We’re never inviting them to Crayola, that’s for sure.

But Doug is apparently thinking the opposite. “When we have you over, you can give us some ideas.” As if we have any money to implement Oliver’s ideas. Does Doug know something about our finances that I don’t?

“Funny you should say that.” Oliver leans against a counter and sips amber liquid from a highball glass. “I was actually one of the bidders on the house.”