Every Last Secret(8)

“Yeah, I’d like it if you could put eyes on him.” He moved forward and kissed me.

I tried to be disappointed in his refusal to come, but Mac was always a volatile guest. I once came home to find him in our master bedroom, naked and facedown on the bed, vomit spewed over the expensive duvet.

The beep sounded again, and William glanced toward the noise. “They already moving in next door?”

“Yep.” I pulled two sets of silverware out of the drawer and stacked each on the plate. “I can’t believe they’re bringing furniture in with it in that condition.”

“It’s not uninhabitable. It’s neglected.” He cracked a grin, and maybe the conversation with Mac wouldn’t ruin his day. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten that cramped apartment I pulled you from. Your shower handle was held together with a rubber band.”

I picked up both plates and headed around the marble island. “You pulled me from? I was an unpaid college intern. I was doing just fine on student loans and fast food. You’re lucky I gave all that up to move in with you.”

“Oh, sure.” He blocked my way, taking the plates, and leaned forward, asking for a kiss. “You were an angel to sacrifice all that just for me.”

“Better.” I accepted his kiss. “And hey—my tiny apartment had charm.”

“Well, compared to it, they’re moving into a palace.” He turned. “We eating outside or in?”

“Outside.” I returned to the kitchen’s window and could see Neena, standing in the driveway in cutoff shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, directing traffic. I let my eyes drift over the home’s brick exterior, the wide porches and double fireplaces. William was right—it wasn’t uninhabitable, just dated and dirty. Fifteen years ago, I would have considered it a castle, but a decade as Mrs. Winthorpe had made me a snob, one who now thought of heated towels and ironed sheets as a necessity.

Neena yelled something at the driver, and I thought of the day I’d moved into this house. The wedding-ring set was still unexpectedly heavy on my finger. All my belongings would take up a laughably small portion of the massive closet. I had stooped to lift a box of personal items from the trunk of my brand-new Maserati, and William had stopped me with one gentle shake of his head. “Do you see this?” He’d pulled at my hand, bringing the diamond up between us. “This means that you don’t move your own things. You’re Mrs. Winthorpe now, and everyone bows and caters to you.”

“Even you?” I had said saucily, even as the thrill of power had swept giddily through me.

He had laughed and never answered the question. I hadn’t cared. I had stepped into this house and devoured every opulent inch of it. I had settled, immediately and comfortably, on my throne and never lifted a box again.

In contrast, Neena staggered around the back of the truck, her arms wrapped around a heavy cardboard box. She squatted, setting the box carefully on the ground, then stood and brushed off her palms. Turning to the side, she examined our house. From this distance, across the manicured gardens and behind a row of Italian cypress trees, I felt protected, even as her stare lengthened. I didn’t blame her. There was a reason that cars lined the street to see our Christmas decorations, and Architectural Digest had devoted a center spread to our home. It was stare-worthy. Gawk-worthy. I watched as her gaze cataloged the stone framework, the modern lines, the copper roof and glass railings.

William moved beside me, following my line of vision. “Should we go over? Welcome them to the neighborhood?”

“Not yet.” I watched her, waiting for her to turn, but she kept in place, her gaze locked on our house. “She’s just staring over here.”

He shrugged and began to wash his hands.

“It’s a little creepy.”

“It’s a big house, babe. Lots to look at.”

“How was she this week? Does the team like her?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t met with all of them yet. I’ve gotten a few hostile comments and a few supportive ones. Some think she’s a little too rah-rah.” Using the back of his wrist, he turned off the water.

I grinned. “Let me guess: Harris?” The Nigerian scientist was the sort to scowl when words like teamwork or cohesion were used. His annual evaluations always garnered the lowest scores from fellow team members on communication skills but the highest on aptitude.

“Yep. I think his exact quote was, ‘We don’t need the Kumbaya stuff to save lives.’ Which”—he pulled a hand towel off the rack—“I agree with. I told Neena to steer clear of him.”

Neena. No longer Dr. Ryder. I notated it, then dismissed it, aware that everyone at Winthorpe was on a first-name basis. Even the janitorial staff referred to William by name.

He tossed the towel beside the sink. “Come on. Steaks are almost ready.”

I remained a moment longer, waiting until she turned away from our house and back to hers. Her husband appeared in the open garage door, and she pointed to the box. I folded the hand towel into thirds and placed it back in its position. Pulling a Pellegrino from the cooler, I glanced out the window. She was gone, swallowed by the house. At a second-story window, I watched a maid spray cleaner on the glass and wipe a cloth across the surface.

I didn’t understand anyone moving into a dirty house. It was like skipping past blank pages in a notebook and then starting your story on one that was already half-full. It was bad karma.