Pretty Little Wife(5)

She was a one-woman neighborhood watch. Never mind that no one asked her to step up and take the position. Worse, it was as if Cassie sensed those rare occasions when Lila stepped outside for a moment of fresh air during the day and pounced, mindless chirpy greeting ready.

To be fair, Cassie likely was fine. Probably not all that offensive. Maybe even a decent neighbor because she’d be the first one to jump on 911 if she spied someone walking down the street whom she didn’t know. But Lila valued privacy and personal space, and Cassie had only a passing acquaintance with either.

“Are you thinking about doing some gardening?” Cassie winced. “Maybe not the best idea. You’re a bit out of season.”

Small talk. Lila’s least favorite thing.

“We need some color out here.” “We” meaning her. She liked color. What Aaron wanted didn’t really matter anymore.

Cassie fidgeted with the broken sign under the mailbox, as if simply rehanging it would fix the household’s problems.

“The bolt is cracked.”

“Hmm?” Cassie’s head shot up. “What?”

Lila refused to find a more descriptive way to say it. “No bolt.”

Cassie’s eyes widened. “Oh. I wonder what happened to it.”

Aaron had. But enough chatting. “I should head back inside.”

Lila didn’t get two steps before Cassie wound up again. “You look nice. Are you working today?”

“Today and every day.” Last week one of Aaron’s fellow teachers dropped something off at the house and joked about her barely working and then tried to cover with some drivel about her not needing to work. His grating nasal voice still rang in her ears. Her employment was one of those pressure points that made Lila grind her back teeth together. Leave it to Cassie to locate the exposed nerve then jump up and down on it. “But yes, I need to do some research.”

“It must be so interesting to check out all those different houses. Peek inside and see what’s really happening in there.”

She had to feel the conversation drag, right? Lila couldn’t imagine Cassie didn’t hear it . . . or see the attempt to escape back up the driveway and into the house.

The anxiety Lila wrestled with for decades trickled in. Her control skimmed along the far edge, but soon it would crack. Then the race and swirl would begin inside her. That need to be away from people. To speak, but only on her terms.

When she decided to be “on,” that was fine. She’d practiced the skill of pretending to be comfortable while the flight instinct kicked into high gear inside of her. She’d lower her voice, slow it down to sound more in control. Concentrate so that her hands wouldn’t shake.

But now was not one of the times for which she could win an acting award. Stress after stress piled up. She no longer had the reserves to act like everyone expected her to act.

She pulled the cell out of her pocket to stare at it again. Avoidance often helped, but still no calls. No viable excuse to transport her to somewhere else.

Why hadn’t the call come yet? What was taking so long?

“I guess you’re on the phone all the time.” Cassie let the comment sit there, but when Lila didn’t respond, Cassie rushed to fill the quiet. “Being a real estate agent, I mean. You’re usually on call, right?”

“It does feel that way.”

She got to work as much as she wanted. He gave that to her . . . or so Aaron claimed. He went to work, taught math to hormonal high schoolers who viewed calculus as a punishment, and she stayed home.

Some women in town once cornered her while getting coffee, those who enjoyed small talk and big gossip, told her in their voices, dripping with jealousy, how lucky she was to have a husband like Aaron. As if playing the role of pretty little wife were a gift and not a life sentence of boredom.

“Do you want to come over—”

The crunching sound of tires on gravel drowned out what sounded like an unwanted invitation for coffee. Lila had never been so happy for visitors. Never been happy about guests—period—until now.

She recognized the black sedan that said all of my self-esteem is bundled up in an inflated monthly car payment. Brent Little, Aaron’s golfing buddy, best friend, and the principal of the high school, slipped out. He wore a navy suit, looking every inch the guy who was on the hunt to find a girlfriend to replace the wife who’d left him after sixteen bumpy years of unhappy marriage.

He’d sported that put-together, exercised-to-exhaustion, fake-tanned outer shell for the last two years. Girlfriends would come and go, impressed by the flash and then, Lila assumed, horrified by the single-digit bank balance of a man paying alimony and child support under court order for a family living two states away.

Lila smiled, this time a genuine one because Brent trumped Cassie as the preferred companion. “Shouldn’t you be sending kids to detention and hiding in the faculty lounge at this time of day?”

Despite her light tone, Brent’s expression didn’t change. Eyebrows drawn together and mouth flattened into a thin line. His usual sunny smile gone and his steps halting instead of the rushing gait that carried him down the school hallways.

Finally. This was it. She’d been waiting all morning for a visit. She hadn’t expected it to be from him, but whatever.

He stopped in front of Lila, sparing only a glance in Cassie’s direction before he spoke. “Is Aaron home?”