Locust Lane(7)

But they would have never spent a whole night together. Not in high school. It was too much, even for second-semester seniors. There were rules, unwritten but indelible, and everyone needed to follow them, even a family as unconventional as Hannah’s. Celia would have to intervene. But she’d need to tread lightly. She didn’t want to jeopardize things. There was Jack’s temper to consider. And Hannah was proving good for her son. Unexpected, but good. Quiet and sweet. A bit passive, a bit poetic, perhaps. Not the prettiest girl in the world, but there was nothing wrong with that. And she certainly adored Jack. Frightening her off would be a mistake.

Truth be told, it wasn’t as if he had other choices. He’d never had much luck in the romance department. Drew and Scotty always had some loyal lissome creature who hung on their every utterance, but Jack never could attract much interest from girls. At first, she put it down to his youth. But then he sprouted to over six feet and his voice deepened and he was too old to be seen as being just young. As hard as it was for a mother to admit, he didn’t share the undeniable male beauty of his brothers and father. He was not-quite-handsome, which could be as bad as ugly. Eyes too close together, lips a little too thin, lacking his brothers’ grace when he moved. And there was something a little too spiky about his personality—that piercing laugh, and the way he resorted to sarcasm when nervous or insecure. She’d hoped that things had changed last year with Lexi. After that ended so disastrously, she was forced to consider the prospect that girls were going to be a long-term issue for her youngest son.

But then Hannah arrived and his girl troubles really did seem to be a thing of the past. She had the patience of a saint, seeing all his good qualities, putting up with the stubbornness and peculiar views and flashes of temper, smoothing out his rough edges with her gentleness and quiet manner. They really were a perfect young couple. It would be a mistake to upset their odd equilibrium. Celia would definitely have to finesse this one as she figured out a way to communicate to Jack that there were boundaries.

Her phone made one of its noises. It was Oliver, calling on Facetime. Which was unusual. She walked into the quieter living room before accepting the call. And there he was, his face too big for the tiny screen.

“Good morning from deepest darkest Connecticut,” he said. “What’s that unholy racket?”

“The men are here for the patio.”

“Oh, that’s right. How’s it looking?”

“They’re still in the destruction phase. How’s Stamford?”

He twisted the phone so she could see out his hotel room window. It looked like just about everything else down there.

“You look a little beat.”

“We were at it until midnight,” he said. “From boardroom to bar.”

“How’s the deal going?” she asked with trepidation.

Oliver was in the final phases of enabling his clients, a massive German conglomerate, to merge with a Connecticut-based machine-parts manufacturer. It had not been smooth sailing, which meant long hours worked, but also long hours billed. The Faustian bargain of his profession.

“We’re getting there. These guys are funny to socialize with. They tell terrible jokes. Everything basically comes down to passing wind and large breasts.”

“Hopefully not in the same joke.”

He laughed. That was better.

“So when will you be home?” she asked.

“Meetings all morning and then lunch. I’ll be there for dinner at the absolute latest.”

There was a brief pause. This was the part of the conversation where she should have told him about Jack’s absence, but there was no reason to pile anything else on his plate. She’d sort it out with her son first, then present it to her husband as a fait accompli tonight over Manhattans.

“Okay, I better get back to it. I’ll let you know when I set out.”

“I love you,” she said.

“I reciprocate,” he answered, their old mantra.

They broke the connection. She stayed where she was, fretting over her husband. He really shouldn’t be working so much, especially after that decidedly ambiguous read-out from last year’s treadmill test. But old habits die hard. As long as there was a child in the house, he would feel the obligation to provide, no matter how much money they had socked away. Possessed by the need to be everything his own father wasn’t. It was simply how he was built.

And then Jack walked through the front door, even though he usually used the garage. His expression was grim, somewhere between troubled and confused. His eyes were on the kitchen as he clung close to the far wall and started tiptoeing upstairs. He was trying to avoid her.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said after he’d taken two steps.

He turned in surprise.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Tired,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

The jackhammer started.

“Come on in here,” she said.

After releasing a theatrical sigh, he obeyed. He collapsed on the sofa opposite her.

“Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked, a sharp edge to his voice that she chose to ignore.

“You look upset.”

“Just tired.”

“What did you guys do last night?”