CHAPTER 4

ON THE SATURDAY morning before the start of the school year, Eric woke before dawn and made the four-hour drive to Montpelier, Vermont. When he pulled into the driveway, his younger brother, Andrew, and his older sister, Sarah, were sweeping off the front porch of the old farmhouse. Sarah set the broom down against the rail when she saw him and smiled broadly. “Hey, Eric!”

“Good to see you, Sarah.” He gave her a hug. Her blond hair smelled like that apple shampoo she liked.

“’Bout time,” Andrew said in a mock grumble, but came over to give Eric a one-armed hug and a few pats on the back. “I hope you had breakfast. I ate all the doughnuts.”

“Of course you did. You’re a cop.”

Andrew snickered at that, and Sarah rolled her eyes. “There’s plenty inside. And Mom’s in there. She has coffee. But don’t take too long—”

“I know, I know. We have an ambitious agenda.”

Every year at the end of summer, Eric, Sarah, and Andrew met in Montpelier to help their mom clean before the weather turned. His mom was still living in the same farmhouse he grew up in, a historic white structure with a plaque on the front that read Ezekiel Smith, 1789. Historic homes were charming to look at in every way, but the upkeep was a different matter. The wide floorboards weren’t level, so furniture legs had to be propped up. Dust settled in every corner, thanks in part to the unfinished basement. His mom had replaced the windows a few years ago and that helped with the winter draft, but the projects were endless. Repair the picket fence. Weed the flower garden. Reinsulate the attic. Repair the stone fence in front. Fix the old barn (a losing battle—the roof caved during a snowstorm five years ago and the structure had to be removed). Sarah lived in Burlington and visited frequently, so she’d e-mailed a list of tasks for that day to her brothers: Replace the rotted boards on the fence; bring summer furniture inside; bring air conditioners to the basement. And whatever else Mom needed.

When Eric entered the kitchen, his mom’s back was to him. She was looking out the window into the backyard. A few years ago she’d updated cabinets, counters, and appliances but kept the original brick oven. That was the point at which Eric realized that everything that irritated him about the old home was a reason why his mother loved it. “Mom?”

She turned from the window and her face warmed into a smile. “Eric. Hi, honey.” She set her hands aside his face and kissed him on each cheek, like she had when he was a child. “You look happy. You must love your new school.”

Did he? Eric gave a quick “Yeah, it’s great,” before he considered whether that was the truth.

Exhibit one, Gretchen. Last week he was in his office, unpacking, when she’d wandered in, sat herself on one of the visitor’s seats, and said, “There are some things you need to know about me if we’re going to work together, Eric.”

“Oh?” he said, and continued unpacking his books.

She crossed a meaty leg and set her hands on the armrests of the chair. “I have certain needs.” Eric froze, sure he was about to be propositioned, but she continued, “I demand excellence of my vice principal. Because, you see, the vice principal is a reflection of me.”

Slowly, he recovered. “Of course. That makes sense.” Even though it really didn’t.

“I work like an ox.” Gretchen lifted a hand to examine her fingernails. “First in my class at Miss Porter’s. That’s where Jackie Kennedy went to school, you know.” She lowered her hand and smoothed her skirt. “Summa cum laude at Vassar. With distinction. Then I received my doctorate from Harvard. So you see, I am accustomed to the highest standards. If I expect a lot from others, it’s only because I demand even more from myself.”

“That’s impressive, Gretchen.” Eric wished she would leave his office.

“What I’m asking is, can I count on you to be my right-hand man? Are you a person who believes in excellence?”

And he’d turned to her numbly, a copy of an abridged Oxford English Dictionary weighing down his arm, and he’d said, “Yes, absolutely, you can count on me.” It seemed to be the right answer, because she’d nodded her head solemnly and left a moment later.

Exhibit two, Lettie Osbourne, alias Matilda. The pretty teacher who thought he was a complete creep—and why wouldn’t she? He’d given penis lollipops to her niece and nephew, and apparently she wrote books about manners. Wonderful. She’d probably try to get him listed on a sex-offender registry.

Exhibit three, one of the administrative assistants—Sue—had the hairiest armpits he’d ever seen, and he’d accidentally stared at them. This had prompted her to wear a short skirt and bring in a plate of cookies the next day. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Eric,” she’d said, and he swore she winked.

So all things considered, things were going . . . weird. Just plain weird. And he was actually missing the middle school. But his mom didn’t need to hear about all of that. “How are you doing, Mom?”

“Fabulous. I saw my doctor on Tuesday. She says I’m in perfect health.” She grasped his forearm gently while she spoke. “I walk twice a day, you know. It keeps me young.”

“Yes, I’ll bet it does. Walking is healthy.”

She told him her walking route, which was the same route she’d been taking for decades. She liked that it crossed a covered bridge. “They decorate it with flowers in the summer. It’s lovely.”

“Yes, I have that picture you gave me hanging in my office.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Her fingers flew to her forehead. “I forget. I’ve probably told you this a hundred times, haven’t I?”

Eric took in her graying brown shoulder-length hair and her parchment-paper skin and felt the sadness he always felt at these visits. He lived too far away, and his mom was lonely. Eric took her hand in his. He’d always felt so protective of her. “I was thinking, after we clean up, we should go get some flowers for the porch. Would you like to do that?”

Her face brightened. “Yes. There’s a farm around here that sells flowers.”

“Perfect. I’ll drive you.”

He helped himself to one of the blueberry muffins Sarah had set out and a cup of coffee, and then he headed outside. He’d start with the fence, warming to the idea of physical labor as a respite from using his brain all day every day.

THE SIBLINGS managed to accomplish their list by early afternoon. They drove downtown to have lunch, and then Eric brought his mom to a nearby farm. Even though it was only early September, the farm had a selection of autumn decorations. He followed his mother around as she selected purple mums, corn husks, and a few tiny decorative gourds. She chatted happily while they walked, pointing out the different colors and telling him where she would place everything. “I love the fall; I really do,” she said. “In Vermont, we have the most beautiful foliage.”

“I’ve always thought so.” He lifted a pot of mums from her hands and set it down on a cart.

“Are you coming back again this fall?”

Ugh, the guilt. She didn’t mean it that way, but to Eric it sounded like Are you really not going to be here for another six weeks?

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be back for winter prep. If not sooner,” he added.

They loaded up his SUV, and when they returned to the farmhouse, he helped her string up her corn husks and decorate her porch. It was early evening when he gave her a hug. “There. You’re the first house in the neighborhood to have fall decorations.”

“Thank you. I love them.” She kissed one cheek and patted the other.

“I’ll let you know I got home safely, okay?” She always asked for a call.

“Okay.”

She waited on the porch while he backed out of the driveway, and then she waved as he drove away.

Somewhere along the highway, his thoughts drifted to Lettie Osbourne. He couldn’t fix Gretchen, and he couldn’t change the bizarre culture at Noah Webster, but he could make things better where he’d messed them up. He’d formally apologize to Lettie before the school year was too far under way. It was the right thing to do, the right way to treat people. And Eric prided himself on doing things the right way.

I WAS DETERMINED to keep my erotica ambitions to myself, which was the normal course of things. When you don’t tell anyone that you’re about to try something new, it hurts less when you fail. Besides, writing erotica was a one-time gig to finish out my contract and pay my credit card bill. It was hardly a vocation.

Marcy had agreed to give me a few more weeks to come up with a novella. It was a popular format in erotica and, Marcy felt, a more manageable length for a newbie like myself. But even so, that didn’t leave me a lot of time. I had to get to work. After lunch I stopped at a local bookstore a few blocks away from my house. The Book Corner carried some new titles, but they also had a healthy collection of used books in the basement, and that was good for my wallet.

I entered the store with my head down, like I was studying the well-worn paths on the floorboards. There was an older woman behind the counter, someone I’d seen there before. She had short silver hair and dark-rimmed glasses that she wore on a beaded chain, and when she saw me, she smiled and said, “Let me know if you need any help today.”

I gave a little wave. “Thanks, just looking.”

She looked so wholesome. She probably loved Jane Austen and chamomile tea with a splash of cream. Whiskers on kittens and brown paper packages tied up with string. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her where she kept the smut.

The Book Corner had that wonderful, bookish smell of new paper and escapist potential. There were a few patrons browsing the new hardcovers, and some were curled up on the soft armchairs at the back of the store. Normally I’d visit the children’s section to see whether they’d sold any copies of Say Hello, Sweet Pea! Then I’d browse the new paperbacks and debate whether I should spend the money or put my name on the library waiting list. That day, however, I hurried down to the basement. I already knew there was no erotica section on the first floor. I’d been through those shelves a hundred times, so it was the basement for me.

The stairs creaked beneath my footsteps. The room was well lit for a basement, but the bookcases were crammed floor to ceiling and the used books themselves were arranged haphazardly. There was one section marked “Fiction, mostly male authors” and another marked “Romance, mostly female authors.” Those sections were separated by “Travel, United States and Asia.” I set my hands on my hips and scanned the room. It would be an adventure.

I walked slowly, scanning the titles down one aisle and then up the next. I confess I dawdled at the “Self-help—New Age” shelf because there were a few titles that promised me the key to reclaiming my self-esteem, and one book on colonic cleansing that was probably misplaced but still looked interesting. Focus, Lettie! I tore myself away. I had come with a purpose.

They were in the back, on shelves marked “Romance, adult content.” Book after book of bare male torsos, every now and then an image of something liquid splashing, or smoke or fire or something suggestive like that. Space aliens with large breasts and plants with hands. Ghosts. I realized immediately that I was going to have to make some choices. Would I be writing about human beings or werewolves? Gay or straight? Kink or vanilla? This was what I was contemplating when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Lettie? It’s Faye. Are you busy? I need you to come over.”

“Sure.” I hesitated. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, I just . . . I need to talk.”

There was something in her voice that concerned me. I picked up a book featuring a woman in fluffy black handcuffs and slipped it under my arm, only because I liked the black lace teddy she was wearing. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, but you know how it is. The kids are wild. Win’s heading to work. I need another adult.”

Faye worked as a nurse at a local hospital, but her hours could be unpredictable. It wasn’t unusual for her to call me to make last-minute plans. “I can be over in about half an hour.”

“That’s great. See you then.”

I grabbed a sampling of books and styles, stacked them into a neat pile, and pressed them against my chest. Then I hurried up the stairs, holding my breath as I thought about facing the nice old lady with the glasses. Sure enough, she was still behind the counter. She looked up and gave me a big smile. “All set?”

“Yes. Just these.”

I looked downward as I stacked my books on the counter. Bondage and the Beast. Deep Inside of Me. A Back-Door Neighbor. I swallowed, my cheeks burning as she flipped through each title and added it up on the register. Then she turned to me, still smiling sunshine, and said, “Anything else?”

I pulled a few bills out of my purse and set them on the counter. “Just a paper bag, please.”

I BROUGHT my purchase home before heading to my sister’s house. It would be just my luck that Portia would find the books and ask questions that I couldn’t answer. Faye was standing at the front door, waiting for me to arrive. “Thanks for coming,” she said. Her eyes were rimmed with red and slightly bloodshot, and she was holding a glass of rosé. “I’ve started drinking. You want a glass?”

“Absolutely.”

“Auntie Lettie!” Portia threw her arms around my legs like I’d been lost at sea. Not to be outdone, Blaise soon followed suit.

“Hey, sweethearts.” I patted their heads while they strangled my thighs. “How are you?”

“They’re feral.” Faye nodded at the twins. “Why don’t you two go play for a little while?”

We watched as the twins scampered off, and then she said, “Come on in.”

I followed her into the marzipan-hued kitchen and pulled up a seat at the white-and-gray granite breakfast bar. While Faye uncorked a new bottle of wine, I reached into the fruit bowl and picked off a few plump green grapes. Faye was obsessive about fruit washing, so I knew they were safe to eat. “They’re busy today, huh? The kids.”

She spun around, one hand on her hip. “Blaise was in hysterics about an hour ago. Complete meltdown. Why, you ask? Because last week, someone at summer camp told him there was no Santa Claus.”

“Aw, poor Blaise.”

“That’s not even all.” Faye blew a blond tendril out of her face. “So he’s telling me that this one child said Santa didn’t exist. And you know what I said? I said, ‘How do you think that makes Santa feel?’ ”

I snickered. “Hilarious.”

“Ridiculous, is what it is. I read these articles about teaching children empathy, and I end up telling my kid to consider a fat elf’s feelings. But on the bright side, it confused him enough that he stopped crying.” She finished off her glass of wine.

“You’re a good mom, Faye.” I meant it.

She shook her head as the twins came barreling through the kitchen. She watched them, resigned. “Don’t ever have children. Or a husband.”

“Well. No problem there.”

Faye winced and rubbed at her forehead. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless—”

“No, really. It’s fine. I’m fully committed to the single life.”

I wasn’t the little girl who dreamed about her wedding day, anyway. Maybe because my first marital memory is of my parents’ divorce, and specifically of my dad standing at the front door with a suitcase and patting me and Faye on the head. “Me and your mom. We gave it a shot,” he said with an aw-shucks grin. Notice he didn’t say they gave it their best shot. Even he knew that would have been a lie. They merely gave a single shot of indeterminate effort. But this is my lasting impression of that moment when I saw my family torn apart, which was only cemented by the James Incident: that marriage is generally risky and ill-advised, like steering a car with your feet or getting a Pap smear while sober. Sure, it’s “exhilarating” at first. Then comes the pain.

Lately I imagine there will come a time in the future when I’ll decide I’ve had a good run at normalcy, and to hell with it. From that point on, I’ll wear men’s trousers and a moth-eaten straw hat and ride around town on my bicycle, a capuchin monkey stowed away in the basket. I’ll smoke stogies and wear galoshes to the local pharmacy to pick up random items, like sewing thread, glycerin tablets, and Starlight mints. I’ll smell like a musty basement and children will fear me, and I think I’d be good at this—better than I would be at marriage or parenting.

I helped myself to a few more grapes, and Win walked into the kitchen while I was midchew. “Lettie. Good to see you.” He flung a black leather briefcase onto the counter and leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

The first time Faye brought Winston home, I disliked him. He’s a natural politician and everyone’s best friend, so he claps you on the shoulder and winks and laughs like you’ve said something hilarious, even if you’ve only suggested that it’s been raining too much lately. I can’t know this for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he walks through the halls of his law firm pointing to people and telling them to stay classy. But Faye seems to like him and they’re married, so there we are.

“Hey, Win,” I said coolly. I wasn’t quite over the inaccurate but hurtful cuckold comments.

“You ready for your big day?” Win gave the flab on my upper arm a good squeeze. “Sweet Pea Goes Back to School. That’s your next book right there.” He chuckled.

“That’s a great idea for a title. I’ll have to make a note.”

He pointed a finger at me and cocked his head. “Just remember it was my idea, right? Sixty-forty split.”

“Sure, that sounds fair.” I took a deep breath and smiled.

“Well, I gotta run.” He grabbed his briefcase and gave a little wave as he headed out of the kitchen. “I’ll be late, Faye. Don’t wait up.”

“All right. I never do,” she muttered.

After Win left the house, Faye slid a glass of rosé my way and sat on the stool beside me. “The twins enjoyed their visit with you on Wednesday.”

“Ah.”

I avoided her eyes and stared at my wineglass, wondering how much she already knew about the events of that afternoon. When I’d driven the twins home, I’d confiscated their lollipop sticks and said, “Let’s agree to never discuss this again.” But they were children, so who knew. “I always love my time with Portia and Blaise,” I gushed. “They’re so energetic. We had lots of fun.” I took a sip of the wine. It was cold and sweet.

“Hmm.” Faye held the stem of her glass and stared at the stainless steel refrigerator. “Do you think Portia is normal?”

The question caught me off guard. A little wine sputtered out of my mouth. “Normal? In what way?” I wiped my chin.

“Do you think she’s different from the other kids in your kindergarten class?”

“Why, because she talks to her vagina?” I sniffed and laughed a little at the same time, and it sounded like a snort. “She’s precocious, but she’s like the other kids in my class. She’s normal.”

“I worry about her, taking off her clothes and running around. She needs all my attention all the time—”

I set my hand gently on her arm. “Faye. She’s five years old. Trust me, she’s normal. She’s going to do great in school. You’ll see. She’s a leader.”

My sister smiled weakly and nodded. “You’re the expert. Oh, and I can’t believe I forgot to ask: Did the twins like your new book?”

“They loved it. Asked me to read it twice.”

“And your editor? You had lunch with her yesterday, right?”

I nodded while taking a generous sip of wine. “She wants a few changes. I may take it in a slightly different direction, but . . .” I gave her the thumbs-up. “It’s all good.”

“How exciting.”

She sounded like it was anything but. I eyed her as she toyed with the stem of her wineglass. Finally she spoke. “You’re probably wondering what’s wrong.” She took a breath. “Win and I have been having some challenges.”

“Ah.” I folded my hands in front of me. “You don’t need to tell me any—”

“It’s just . . . I think it’s what happens. Eight years of marriage, and things get stale, and it’s all only natural.” She smiled bravely. “At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.”

“Oh, Faye.” I pulled her into a big hug. She’d lost weight, and she didn’t have much to spare to begin with. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I know you understand how even the best things can unravel.”

Boy, did I ever. I tightened my arms. Her hair smelled like fruit. “But not us.”

She squeezed me back. “Not us.”

That was all she offered on the subject, and I didn’t ask any questions. But I vowed that if Win was cheating on my sister, I would have no choice but to take up mystery-novel writing and bring him to a violent, fictitious end.