“THINGS ARE GOING TO start getting real now,” Zach said as he stood in front of Joe and Gigi on the couch. He cracked his knuckles and Gigi winced. She’d always hated that particular sound.
“We don’t have that long before the general election, and it’s going to be tight,” Zach said. He began pacing, and Gigi couldn’t help but feel as though he were a professor and she and Joe his students.
Zach stopped pacing and squatted down, his hands on his thighs. Now he’d transformed into a football coach, intent on securing victory in the big game.
“I need to know anything in your background that could come up during the campaign,” he said. He was looking directly at Gigi. “Ex-boyfriends who might make a stink? Drug use?”
She glanced at Joe, who frowned.
“Is this really relevant?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” Zach said. “The other party is searching for ways to discredit you as we speak. You’re squeaky clean, Joe”—except, Gigi thought, for that time when he was twenty-four and had nearly been arrested for public indecency for mooning a motorist who’d been stuck at a red light after the man had cut Joe off and nearly caused an accident; Joe had actually pressed his bare buttocks against the guy’s driver’s-side window—“so we have to be prepared for the possibility that they’re going to come after your wife, especially since she’s been pretty visible on the campaign trail. It’s better I know everything now.”
Joe stood up. “Tell you what, give us a few minutes alone,” he said.
Zach pressed his hands together like he was praying and gave a little bow—an odd gesture for so hyperactive a young man—and left the room, checking his iPhone as he walked.
Gigi reached for her mug of tea and took a sip. “It’s because of what happened on election night, isn’t it?” she said.
Joe shrugged and sat down beside Gigi. “Maybe. Who cares. Look, you got a little tipsy and tried to give a speech. It was funny.”
“Joe, come on,” Gigi said. “Melanie told me I was practically falling down. She said I was slurring my words. It was awful.”
“You were on muscle relaxants,” Joe said.
“You realize that sounds like the excuse every celebrity gives right before they check themselves into a hospital for ‘exhaustion,’ ” Gigi said. She put her mug back down on the table with a little thud and some tea sloshed over the side. She didn’t bother to clean it up. Suddenly, she was furious. “Are we really going to do this? Tell this kid about the abortion I had when I was eighteen? Tell him that yes, I smoke pot and I’ve tried mushrooms more than once? Does he want to test my tea to see if I spiked it with vodka?”
It was humiliating. Zach would know intimate things about her, things that even her kids and some of her friends didn’t know. And what would happen if he were stolen away by a competitor? People jumped ship all the time in political campaigns. Gigi wasn’t ashamed of her past, but she didn’t want it spread around.
The abortion: she’d been a freshman in college, and she’d made the choice that had seemed best for her, given the circumstances, which included the fact that her then-boyfriend had disappeared from her life as soon as he’d heard the news. The pot, the mushrooms: technically, she’d broken a few laws, but she hadn’t hurt anyone. She’d never driven while under the influence. And a little marijuana buzz seemed far less dangerous than things she’d seen on campus, like kids doing beer bongs until they passed out in their own vomit.
If Zach drew out her secrets, he’d have a file on Gigi. Maybe not an actual one tucked away in a secret drawer, but there would be notes saved on an iPhone, or in the mind of a twenty-two-year-old guy Gigi didn’t know very well, perhaps to be used in the future when he needed a favor. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold and exposed.
Joe was watching her. “Zach?” he called out.
Zach came back into the room so quickly Gigi wondered if he’d been hovering just beyond the doorway, trying to eavesdrop. Suddenly she felt a flash of distrust for Zach with his golden surfer-boy looks and cold blue eyes. She didn’t know him at all, yet he’d asked her to lay bare her history so he could pick through it like a salad bar.
“We’re not going to do this,” Joe said. “My wife’s private life will remain private. If Max Connor tries to dredge up something on her, we’re going to attack Max for having the low morals to go after a wonderful wife and mother.”
Zach nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “You’re the boss,” he said.
Gigi felt warmth creep back into her body as she felt Joe’s hand cover hers. She looked at him and he smiled at her and she felt a little flutter in her stomach. Put that in your file, Zach, she wanted to say. I’m still in love with my husband! In fact, I’d like to push him down on the couch and jump his bones right now! The decisiveness and moral courage voters had seen in Joe was real.
“We’ve got the Optimist Club meeting to drop by in thirty minutes,” Zach said. “Should I tell them we’re going to be late, or . . . ?”
“Nope, we’re done here,” Joe said. He kissed Gigi and got up and left the room.
She sat on the couch, watching him go. As she did, a hazy memory returned to her. She’d tried so hard not to think about election night. But something had happened after she’d gotten sick and had collapsed into bed.
She’d felt something against her forehead. The briefest flutter of a touch, like the wings of a bird grazing her skin. At first she’d thought it was Joe. But she’d opened her eyes, and she’d seen someone bending over to set a glass of water down on her nightstand.
Her daughter. Melanie.
• • •
Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Snow shoveler
I’m looking for someone to keep my sidewalk and driveway clear of snow, should we have any this winter. Will pay $3 per hour. Perfect way for a teenager to get a little extra exercise. —Tally White, Iris Lane
*Farts!
I love farts! —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way
*Re: Farts!
One of my sons got ahold of my laptop and sent that, obviously. Apologies to all. —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way
• • •
“Mom, my teacher said she sent you an email,” Cole announced as he stepped off the school bus.
“Great,” Susan said. It was probably about a book fair or fruit sale. “I’ll read it as soon as we get home. Should we make our own pizzas for dinner tonight?”
“Yes!” Cole shouted.
It was one of their traditions. They bought dough and sauce and cheese from the Italian deli, then Susan put out toppings in little bowls: pepperoni and onion, red peppers and pineapple. Cole liked to make every slice a different flavor.
Cole bounced along beside her, chatting about what had happened at recess (apparently there was a flagrant violation of the rules at dodgeball that, shockingly, went unnoticed by the playground aide) and the silly book about a snorting pug dog that his teacher had read aloud. Cole loved his teacher. He loved Sparky. He loved this neighborhood. He loved Randall, and he loved his mama. Susan was proud of the fact that she’d never said a single negative thing about Randall or Daphne in his presence. Difficult moments kept piling up, like the one a few weeks earlier, when Cole had brought home a drawing. There was a little stick figure of Cole, and one of Susan holding his hand. On the other side of Cole was Randall and Daphne with a round stomach.
“MY FAMILY,” he’d written in block letters.
As much as it pained Susan to see that sketch, there was some sweet running through the bitter. Her little boy was adjusting well. He was excited about having a new sibling—he was positive it would be a boy and he was coming up with a list of names. Susan had learned to clench her jaw so she wouldn’t say, “Actually, he would be your half brother.” The distinction would be important only to her, and Cole might pick up something in her tone that could distress him.
She’d run through fire for her son. Fling herself in front of a speeding truck to push him out of the way. So she could do this. She could speak well of his father, and smile when Cole talked about the adventures he had at Randall and Daphne’s house. She’d turn away and pretend to cough so Cole wouldn’t see the look on her face when he talked about building a gingerbread house with them (although she’d just bought gingerbread and icing and gumdrops for them to build a house together. That was their tradition, the thing she always did with Cole).
When they got home, she sliced a Granny Smith apple and spread peanut butter over four saltines, then poured a glass of lemonade and set Cole’s snack out on the kitchen table.
“After you finish, we’ve got to run out to get stuff for the pizzas,” she said. She took his backpack to the sink and pulled out his lunchbox, giving it a quick rinse to remove all the crumbs and tossing his crumpled milk box and uneaten cheese stick into the trash.
“Don’t forget the email,” Cole said.
“Right,” Susan said, flipping open the laptop she’d left on the kitchen table. She frowned. It wasn’t a flyer.
Mrs. Barrett,
Would you mind giving me a call at your earliest convenience?
Thank you!
Ms. Klopson
Susan glanced at Cole, who was swinging his feet on his stool as he plowed through his crackers, spewing crumbs all over the table. Despite the breezy exclamation point at the end of the note, an anxious knot formed in her stomach. She picked up the cordless phone.
“I’m going to check on the laundry,” she said. “Give me a yell if you need anything.”
She went into the basement and turned on the dryer, even though it contained no clothes. The noise would mask her side of the conversation.
She dialed the number at the bottom of the email. The area code was unfamiliar and she assumed it was Ms. Klopson’s cell phone number, which seemed to add to the sense of urgency. She couldn’t imagine teachers gave those out freely.
“Hi, this is Susan Barrett, Cole’s mom,” she said. “I just got your note.”
“Oh, thank you for calling,” Ms. Klopson said. She was a young woman of about twenty-five, exuberant and smiling—exactly the type of person you’d want teaching your second-grader. “It’s nothing urgent, but a few little things have come up with Cole and I thought you should know. I’m a big believer in parent-teacher communication.”
“Good,” Susan said. “So am I.”
“On the playground today, there was a little incident,” Ms. Klopson said. “Cole mentioned your new relationship, and a few of the kids were teasing him, and I thought you’d want to know because he did get very upset, and it’s my policy to call parents whenever a child cries.”
“Cole cried?” Susan blinked. “About my new relationship?”
Ms. Klopson misunderstood her tone. “I mean, it’s certainly none of my business who you’re engaged to, and I—”
“No, no,” Susan interrupted. “I’m not engaged to anyone. That’s why I was confused. What exactly did Cole say?”
“Oh dear,” Ms. Klopson said. “I should know by now not to believe everything little kids say. They have such rich imaginations! Well, Cole has been telling the other kids that you’re going to marry Steve Kerr.”
“Steve Kerr . . . his soccer coach?” Susan said, refraining from saying, That kid? Ms. Klopson was just a few years older than him.
“Cole has been very convincing,” Ms. Klopson said. “He may have a future as a novelist. He says you all raked leaves together last night, and that Steve helped you change a lightbulb that you couldn’t reach.”
“Cole told you all that?” Susan couldn’t believe it. It was one thing to fib. It was another to construct a multilayered, elaborate fantasy.
“I’m sure it’s just a phase,” Ms. Klopson said. “I just felt badly for Cole because one of the older boys told Cole that you were too”—Ms. Klopson cut herself off and readjusted her words—“that the age difference between you and Steve was too great, and he ran off the playground crying. I found him hiding in the closet in the classroom.”
Cole had cried, and she hadn’t been there to comfort him? Susan felt a pang in her chest.
“He didn’t mention anything about that,” Susan said. “He was in a great mood when he got home.”
“Kids tend to live in the moment,” Ms. Klopson said. “Most of them, anyway. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“Thank you,” Susan said, and she slowly put down the phone.
She stayed frozen in place for a while. If Cole hadn’t had a father in his life, she’d understand why he seemed to be trying to procure one. But Randall was very present. Cole spent one full weekend day and night with Randall, usually Saturdays, and Cole also slept over at Randall’s every Tuesday night. Plus Randall volunteered in Cole’s classroom every Thursday. Randall phoned every night at bedtime to read Cole a story. Cole and Randall spent more time together than some other fathers and sons who lived in the same house.
It couldn’t be simple hero worship of their soccer coach. Susan attended a lot of practices, and while the kids all liked Steve, Cole barely mentioned him.
What else could it be?
Susan turned the question over in her mind while beside her the dryer tumbled in fruitless circles, too.
Cole was grappling with something, but what?