Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Joe Kennedy
Congratulations to Newport Cove’s own Joe Kennedy on his victory in the primary nomination for Congress! We’re all behind you, Joe! —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way
*Re: Joe Kennedy
Is the listserv supposed to be used for political messages? I seem to recall a rule about using this medium for personal gain. —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I looked up the listserv’s bylaws and am reposting Clause 10: “In order to keep the Newport Cove listserv primarily a discussion list, posting of ads is extremely restricted. Free ads may only be posted by people who live within the listserv boundaries and the ads must be non-commercial in nature and not too frequent. Non-commercial means you cannot advertise something that benefits you via a sale. Exceptions include teenaged babysitters or recommendations for housecleaners.” —Tally White, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I don’t see how the above clause relates to my message about Joe’s primary victory. It wasn’t a political ad; I was simply congratulating my neighbor. —Jeremy Kindish, Tulip Way
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I’d be curious to know if those objecting are Republicans, and if their objections are in fact thinly veiled campaign strategies designed to promote their own candidate. —Ruth Smith, Blossom Street
*Re: Joe Kennedy
I resent your implication, Ruth. I assume you’re a liberal Democrat? —Bethany Roberts, Iris Lane
*Re: Joe Kennedy
Can we start talking about dog poop again? —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane
• • •
Gigi opened her eyes the morning after the primary election and enjoyed two peaceful seconds before being engulfed by a sense of doom. She’d experienced other wake-ups like this, mostly back in college when she’d had too much to drink: Once she’d kissed her roommate’s ex-boyfriend, a man she’d never even been vaguely attracted to. Another time she’d streaked across the football field following a night game victory (she said a million prayers of gratitude that cell phones with cameras and Facebook hadn’t been invented during her youth). But Gigi hadn’t been drinking last night. She’d had, what, one glass of champagne? She frowned, wincing when the movement caused additional pain in her head.
Maybe two glasses, or two and a half, tops, but only because people had stuck the flutes in her hand and toasted Joe. She certainly hadn’t been drunk.
But the muscle relaxants! You were not supposed to mix them with alcohol. She’d known that, but she’d hardly been pounding shots. Should those slim flutes of champagne really have affected her that much?
She had a vague recollection of trying to give a speech, and of seeing Joe’s wide, worried eyes as he wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders and eased her out of the room.
Oh God. Gigi heaved her feet over the side of her bed and took in shallow breaths as she fought a wave of nausea.
Had Julia or Melanie seen? It would probably only make her older daughter hate her more.
The television camera had been there. That detail surfaced in Gigi’s murky brain, making her stomach give another unfortunate lurch. She hadn’t eaten much yesterday—or not at all? The muscle relaxants erased her appetite. No wonder the alcohol had hit her. She remembered a chipper young blonde clutching a microphone. Had the camera captured everything? What had she said?
She could hear Joe in the shower. He wasn’t singing.
She saw a glass of water on her nightstand and she reached for it and greedily gulped its contents.
Another horrifying memory flash: the cold bathroom tile beneath her knees, her stomach clenching and bucking. She’d made it to the toilet, though. No one had seen.
But what, exactly, had she done before she’d thrown up?
• • •
“Where are you going?” Jason asked, glancing over as Kellie laced up her boots.
“Out to check out some open houses, remember?” she said. “It’ll give me a better sense of the market and how to price my own listings. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
He was sitting on their couch, his feet up on the coffee table, watching a football game. Mia and Noah were sprawled on the carpet, both engrossed in handheld electronic games.
“Can you get the kids off those games?” she asked. “Don’t you think one screen is enough for them?”
“Yes!” Jason bellowed, pumping his fist into the air. His eyes were fixed on the television.
Kellie sighed and went into the kitchen. She’d made Jason and the kids pancakes that morning and the mixing bowl was still coated with batter and the plates, sticky with syrup, were piled up in the sink. A half-full carton of orange juice sat on the counter, along with part of a rapidly browning banana.
Kellie hated the smell of rotting bananas more than just about anything in the world. She felt irritation build within her as she picked up the slimy skin with two fingertips and dumped it into the trash can. “Yuck,” she said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She rinsed the glasses and plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, then she scrubbed down the counters.
She’d always done more around the house—a lot more—than Jason. It had made sense, when she was a stay-at-home mom. It wasn’t difficult to throw in a few loads of wash and run the vacuum cleaner while the kids were in preschool. But now she was working, trying to squeeze in cold calls and network and lure in clients. It would be nice if Jason stepped up. She’d asked him, and he’d cheerfully agreed—Jason was nothing if not agreeable—but he never seemed to see the messes until she pointed them out. He had a much higher tolerance for clutter than she did. She had to give him specific directions: Can you please switch the load in the washing machine into the dryer, then put away the clean stuff? And of course, the next morning Noah would put on sweatpants that were two sizes too big, because Jason had mixed up his clothes with Mia’s, and Kellie would notice it just as they were running late for the bus.
It was easier to do it all herself, she thought, banging the door of the dishwasher closed.
When the kitchen was clean, she went back into the living room. Jason’s chin and cheeks were coated with stubble and he was wearing his grubbiest jeans. Sometimes on Sundays, if they weren’t going anywhere other than his parents’ house for dinner, he skipped showering completely.
“Huh?” he asked. “Did you see that field goal? Forty-six yards.”
She was too annoyed to answer him. The kids were still engrossed in electronics, probably zapping their own brain cells along with zombies with every passing minute. She slipped out their front door, resisting the urge to slam it behind her, and got into her minivan. She typed the first listing’s address into her GPS and drove to the house.
Miller was already waiting by his car, squinting into the sunlight as he looked in her direction. He gave a little wave.
“Hi there,” she said as she got out of her van. Seeing him here, away from the office, felt very intimate.
“Hey, you,” Miller said. “What do you think they priced it at?”
Kellie squinted at the house, a brick Colonial with a generous yard. “Five seventy-five,” she guessed.
“I’m thinking five even,” Miller said. “Loser buys coffee.”
Kellie laughed. “Deal.”
They began to walk down the sidewalk, side by side, toward the house.
An older man walking his golden retriever approached and Miller stepped aside, behind Kellie, to let him pass. She could feel Miller’s presence as acutely as if electricity were arcing between their bodies.
“Gorgeous day,” the man said.
“Sure is,” Miller replied.
“Have a good one!” Kellie called as she and Miller turned up the front walk of the brick Colonial with the FOR SALE sign staked in the front yard.
Kellie wondered if the man thought she and Miller were married, if perhaps they were thinking of buying the house together. She turned her head to hide her smile.