Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Missing Package
A UPS package that was supposed to be delivered to me today is missing from my front porch. I’ll be filing a police report, but wanted to let fellow Newport Cove residents know that we may have a thief targeting our community. —Betty West, Crabtree Lane
*Re: Missing Package
I have your package, Betty! I just got home from work and it was left on my front porch mistakenly. I’ll run it right over! —Polly Whelan, Crabtree Lane
*Re: Missing Package
Another wonderful reminder that we live in one of the twenty safest communities in the country! —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager
• • •
Kellie pulled the steak out of the refrigerator, where it had been resting in an olive oil, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce marinade, and checked the timer on the stove. Fifteen minutes until the baked potatoes were done; she’d start grilling the steaks now. A big green salad was waiting to be tossed with her homemade Caesar dressing, and for dessert, she’d baked snickerdoodles. She never wanted to eat brownies again.
It was chilly outside, with a drizzling rain, so she pulled on a coat and baseball cap and went to fire up the grill. She could’ve broiled the steaks, as she usually did during winter months, but Jason preferred them grilled.
As she waited for the meat to cook, she glanced up at the second-story bedroom window. Jason had gone straight into the bedroom after work. She wasn’t sure if he was watching television or showering or packing a suitcase, because he’d closed the door behind him. She wondered if he’d thrown away the lunch she’d prepared for him, the one with a thick turkey and cheese sandwich slathered with spicy mustard and a bag of barbeque chips and a Pepsi, which was Jason’s favorite guilty pleasure drink.
She’d thought about knocking and telling him what she’d done earlier that day, but in the end, she’d decided to let him be. He’d eventually learn that she’d removed the password from her iPhone, because she planned to leave it on the counter, unguarded, in case he ever wanted to check it.
She’d also called the office to say that she could no longer work there. “Family emergency,” she’d said, and had felt guilty when the motherly receptionist had expressed concern. She’d gotten two texts from Miller—the first read Everything okay? and the second, Give a call as soon as you can, worried about you.
She’d texted back, I’m fine. I just need some time to be alone with my family.
He hadn’t responded. She’d stared at the screen for a while, then she’d deleted the history of messages between the two of them, the ones she’d read so many times she’d committed them to memory, and she erased Miller’s contact information from her phone. She’d felt a tiny pang as the sweet, flirty messages had evaporated—Miller had called her babe in one, in a joking way, but the sexy term of endearment had made her heart flutter—but she reminded herself that she was missing a feeling, not a person.
When the steaks were nearly charred on the outside and pink on the inside, just the way Jason liked them, she went inside and climbed the stairs, knocking on the closed bedroom door.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, and held her breath. Jason might not feel like eating with her. If that was the case, she’d keep cooking his favorite dinners, every night, until he was ready.
But he opened the door, still in his work clothes, and came out. His hair was rumpled, sticking up over one ear like Noah’s sometimes did when he awoke, and Jason’s eyes looked tired. He passed her without a word and headed downstairs while she rounded up the kids.
The children had been a little subdued today, Kellie reflected as they gathered around the table. They must’ve picked up on the tension in the house. Even Mia’s voice was unaccustomedly soft.
She tried to offset any anxiety they might be feeling by chatting normally, asking the kids to tell the best and worst thing that had happened to them that day at school. She’d read about the ritual in a magazine—some celebrity parent claimed it was the way she connected with her kids—and had been meaning to try it.
“Best thing?” Mia asked. “One of the dumb boys tried to kick a football at recess and missed it and fell over on his back.”
“Like Charlie Brown,” Kellie said.
“Oh, wait, can I change my best thing?” Mia asked.
“No,” Noah said, but Mia ignored him: “The best thing is I’m going to be a patrol next year.”
Kellie could just imagine Mia striding into a crosswalk, holding up her raised palm, and giving a death-glare to cowed drivers while she shepherded younger kids across the street.
“Congratulations,” Kellie said. “You’ll do a great job. What about the worst thing?”
Mia shrugged. “We had to do work sheets in math.”
Oh, to be ten again, Kellie thought.
“My best thing was Dylan dropped an Oreo on the floor at lunch and didn’t want it so I ate it,” Noah said.
“You’re repulsive,” Mia told him.
“Mia,” Kellie admonished.
“He is,” Mia said. “He probably got leprosy from it.”
Jason was being quiet—too quiet. He was just chewing his food and watching the kids.
“What about you, Mom?” Noah asked. “What was your best and worst?”
“My best?” Kellie cleared her throat. Now was as good a time as any. “My best was telling my job I’m going to stop work so I can just be with my family,” she said. Jason was bending over his plate to cut off another piece of meat, but his head rose sharply and he looked at her, his hands still poised above his steak.
“Did you get fired?” Mia wanted to know.
“Nope,” Kellie said, shaking her head for extra emphasis. “It was my decision. I’ll be here with you guys every night and weekend now. No more going out to show houses. I might go back to work at a different office in a while, I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“Okay,” Noah said. “So what was your worst?”
She winced, hoping no one had noticed. The worst was hurting Miller. She imagined how she’d feel if she were on the receiving end of her blunt, unfriendly text. No, the worst was seeing Jason come home and knowing she wouldn’t feel his warm arms wrap around her in a hug. He’d hugged her every single day at the end of work, something she’d taken for granted until it was lost to her.
The kids were staring at her. “The worst was stepping in dog poop when I went to take out the trash,” Kellie fibbed.
Noah laughed, spitting out water on the table as he did so, which caused Mia to shriek, and Kellie jumped up to get paper towels.
“Dad’s turn,” Mia said.
“My best and worst?” Jason asked. He’d cleaned his plate, which made Kellie feel a little better.
“The best is being here with you kookaburras,” he said, reaching over to ruffle Noah’s hair and to wink at Mia.
“Tell the worst!” Mia said.
This wasn’t such a good game after all, Kellie realized, as Jason took a sip of water and the smile fell from his face. Kellie reached for more salad that she didn’t want, to give herself something to do.
“The worst?” Jason echoed.
Kellie’s stomach muscles contracted. She deserved whatever might be coming; she’d absorb whatever angry message he wanted to convey. Jason looked at her for the first time in days and she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I stepped in the same dog poop as Mom did,” Jason said.
The kids erupted into laughter, and Kellie released a small, relieved giggle, too.
“Is it still on your shoe?” Noah wanted to know.
“I dunno, want to sniff it?” Jason cracked, lifting up his foot.
“Eww!” Mia yelled.
“Keep your voice down, honey,” Kellie said. She’d never thought she’d be glad to repeat that particular admonishment.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” she asked, standing up and clearing the plates from the table, reaching for Jason’s first.
“Thank you,” he said.
She smiled, knowing her eyes reflected the words back to him.
• • •
Susan hadn’t planned to visit Mr. Brannon that day. Her Cole-free hours were already filled to bursting with a long list of business calls, a visit to a new client, and a consultation on her website redesign.
But when she checked her calendar, she noticed she hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks. So Susan packed the chicken salad she’d made for her own lunch into Tupperware, added a baguette, some pears, and two bottles of sparkling water, and headed for her car, where she could put on her Bluetooth headset and knock out some of the calls while she drove.
She made good time to Sunrise, but when she pulled into the parking lot, she realized she’d forgotten to let Mr. Brannon know she was coming. But she’d dropped by in the past without warning and he’d always been happy to see her. Mr. Brannon rarely left the nursing home, save for their outings.
She supposed it was part of the natural funneling of the end of a life, his geographical retreat. In his twenties, while serving in the army, Mr. Brannon had fearlessly traversed the world, devouring adventures. Now his journeys were confined to his mind, laced with regret and sadness. She wondered how much time he had left, and whether he was looking forward to that final release, hoping to see his wife again. To seek the forgiveness that had eluded him in this world.
“So I think this will really work,” Susan’s potential client was saying in her ear. The client, a man who lived in Miami, was concerned about his mother, who had been widowed the previous month. He wanted to hire Susan for what she’d termed “bridge services”—to help support his mom until she learned to do the things she’d relied on her husband for, like fill the car with gas. He also wanted to make sure his mother had an active social network, since she’d been consumed with taking care of her ailing spouse during the preceding year and seemed to have lost her way.
“We’ll help her get back on her feet again,” Susan promised as she turned off the car. “Maybe find a support group, or if she’d rather, we can look into local book clubs, things like that.”
“She loves to read,” the client said. Susan could hear the concern in his voice. Cole would grow up to be like this, she thought. He’d be caring and conscientious. That wasn’t just a reflection on her, or her parenting. It was also due to Randall.
“Good,” Susan said. “Her local library has a fiction group that meets the first Tuesday of every month. We can go with her the first time or two, if she’d be more comfortable. And another one of my clients joined recently; she’s a sweetheart and I know she’ll take your mother under her wing. In the meantime, I can send you over a contract later today, and once you review it, you can feel free to call me back with any questions.”
Susan locked the car as she concluded her call and tucked her cell phone into her purse. It was a cloudless day and although the sun shone weakly in the sky, the promise of spring perfumed the air. Susan was ready for it. This winter had seemed unusually long.
The sliding doors automatically opened as Susan stepped onto the welcome mat, and she entered the reception area, waving a hello to the woman at the front desk.
“Oh, he isn’t here,” the receptionist called out.
Susan blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said.
“Mr. Brannon,” the receptionist said. “That’s who you’re here to see, isn’t it? He left about an hour ago.”
“Oh,” Susan said, thinking, He left? “Do you know where he went?”
“Sorry, I don’t,” the receptionist said.
Maybe he’d taken a cab to the bank, or the doctor’s, Susan thought. “Do you mind if I leave lunch for him in his room?” she asked.
“Go right ahead,” the receptionist said.
Susan took the elevator upstairs and was waylaid by Garth. She ended up giving him the half of the lunch Susan had intended for herself in order to escape. She left a note for Mr. Brannon, telling him she’d be by over the weekend for another visit and to call if he needed anything, then she headed back downstairs.
Maybe he had gone to the doctor. Now that she thought about it, she’d noticed a slowing in Mr. Brannon, a kind of winding down, ever since she’d given him the handprint. He’d been as sweet and gentlemanly as ever, but his face had looked drawn—almost collapsed into itself—the last time she’d seen him. She’d thought it was due to the new resurfacing of his old sorrow, but maybe he was physically ill.
Susan exited the building, frowning, thinking that she’d call him tonight to check in. She crossed behind a red Honda that had pulled up to the main doors and headed toward her car. When she reached it, though, something made her glance back. She saw Mr. Brannon get out of the Honda, moving slowly as he struggled to put his weight on his cane and pull himself upright. Susan hesitated, her keys in hand, wondering if she should go help him.
Then the driver’s-side door of the Honda opened and a man got out, hurrying around to Mr. Brannon’s side. The younger man steadied Mr. Brannon by the elbow and walked him to the front door. The two stood there, talking, then the man reached out a hand. Mr. Brannon took it, and held it for a long moment.
Not quite a hug, but much more than a handshake.
Susan felt the air leave her lungs as she watched.
She’d pictured Edward as a boy who would still fit into that small handprint, but he was a grown man now, of course. He looked so much like his father, with that tall, lanky frame and full head of hair that was beginning to turn silver around the ears.
Edward released his father’s hand, then reached over and patted him on the shoulder. Just once, but Susan could feel the warmth of that touch from dozens of yards away.
Edward reentered his car while Mr. Brannon stood by the entrance of the building, watching his son drive away. Then he looked up and saw Susan and beckoned to her. She hurried to his side.
“Did you see my son?” Mr. Brannon asked. “Edward came here!”
“I saw,” Susan said. “He looks just like you. But . . . how?”
“I’ve been writing to him since you gave me that handprint,” Mr. Brannon said. “Every single day . . .”
“He read your letters?” Susan asked.
“No, not at first,” Mr. Brannon said. “I knew I didn’t deserve his forgiveness, but I wanted to write the words, to say that I was wrong. So very wrong. I wanted to tell Edward I was sorry, that the greatest regret of my life was the way I’d treated him, and that I’d have given anything to change it. Even if he didn’t read the letters.”
“But he did,” Susan said. She blinked back tears. Mr. Brannon’s eyes were red, too, but he was smiling.
“Eventually,” Mr. Brannon said. “They stopped coming back to me after a couple of weeks. Oh, Miss Susan, I’m so lucky Edward has his mother’s heart . . . I told him I’d like to meet his partner sometime. And they have a little girl. They adopted her when she was just a baby.”
“You have a granddaughter!” Susan exclaimed.
“She’s eleven,” Mr. Brannon said. “Her name is Sara. I asked if it would be okay to send her a letter. Edward wasn’t sure, but he said maybe, if he read it first.”
“I’m so glad,” Susan whispered over the lump in her throat.
“To think that after all this time, I could have a family again . . . ,” he said. “When you get to the end of your life, you realize the only important thing is love.”
Susan took his arm, which felt soft and frail beneath her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I think Edward has your heart, too,” she said.
• • •
Once, Tessa had been called for jury duty, and although she’d just spent the day sitting around a waiting room, her juror number too high for her to be called in on a case, it had gotten her wondering: could she vote to impose the death penalty? She hadn’t been sure she could be part of a decision to take another person’s life, no matter how severe the crime. That reasoned, sensitive woman seemed like a stranger to her now.
Harry had handled everything. He’d touched Danny’s body, tried and failed to find a pulse. He’d taken his own outfit along with Tessa’s clothing and shoes, even the towel she’d used after showering, to a Dumpster behind a hardware store. He’d created the alibi by changing the clock and waking up Bree. He’d cleaned up the blood he’d tracked into their house on his shoe.
Harry had also found a television show he’d TiVo’d and insisted the two of them watch it together the next morning while the kids were still asleep. “That’s what we were doing that night,” he’d said. “Stick to the truth when possible. We ate pasta. I did the crossword puzzle. We watched Game of Thrones. Remember the plot. But don’t give away too many details, act like you’re searching your memory for what we did at first. And don’t mention Bree waking up. That’s our ace in the hole, if we need it.”
Tessa had turned her head away from the television, shuddering. Blood had never bothered her before—Bree and Addison had had their share of nosebleeds and scraped knees, and Tessa had briskly dealt with the cleanup—but the gory battle playing out on-screen had made bile rise in her throat.
“But I must have left behind some evidence!” she’d said. “A fingerprint, or some clothing fiber . . .”
Harry had shaken his head. “You’ve—we’ve—visited the house before. Remember the barbeque Danny held a few weeks ago for the Young Rangers and their families?”
When Detective Robinson had come by the house—“Just a formality, we’re interviewing everyone who knew Danny,” she’d said—Tessa’s raw nerves had been cocooned by a Xanax. By then, she imagined, Danny’s body had been removed from the driveway and autopsied. Maybe the detective already had clues.
“It’s horrible,” Tessa had said, sitting next to Harry on the couch and clasping her hands together to keep them steady. “Who would want to kill Danny?”
“Did your son ever mention anything about Danny touching him inappropriately?” the detective had asked.
“What? No! Why?” Tessa had asked.
“There were some photographs in the house . . . ,” Detective Robinson began.
“Oh, no,” Tessa had said. “Addison was never alone with Danny. He just saw him at the meetings.”
Her focus was wrong, Tessa had realized. She should’ve acted more concerned about the photos, less on the details of the uniform transfer.
“Wait, what kind of pictures?” she’d asked quickly.
“I can’t give out that information. But we’re suggesting all parents have their children talk to a psychologist, even though there’s no evidence of any physical contact,” Detective Robinson had said.
Tessa had nodded. “Of course, we’ll do that.” And she would, down the line. But she knew Danny had been alone with Addison just that one time. Addison wasn’t at risk.
Next to her on the couch, Harry had fidgeted, his foot tapping out a rat-tat-tat. Tessa had watched as the detective’s eyes had tracked to Harry’s shoe.
Tessa had leaned forward, gently bumping Harry’s leg with her arm, as if it was an accidental touch. “I didn’t know much about Danny,” she’d said. “Did he have a girlfriend? Or was he in financial trouble?”
The detective had looked at her sharply, her attention drawn away from Harry.
“Why do you ask?” the detective had said.
“Just curious,” Tessa had said. “I read a lot of mystery novels . . . Isn’t it usually the spouse or romantic interest who does something like this?”
She’d widened her eyes, hoping she looked like a bored suburban housewife, eager for some drama to brighten her day. Harry had saved her when she needed it; now it was her turn to be the steady one, to guide them through the crisis.
A few minutes later, after handing Tessa her card, the detective had left.
“Call me if you think of anything relevant,” the detective had said, pausing at the door, holding her black steno notebook. Tessa was desperate to see what she’d written down. “Even a little thing.”
“Of course,” Tessa had said, willing Harry to say something, to erase the blank expression on his face. But at least empty eyes were less suspicious than guilt-filled ones.
At night, Tessa lay in the darkness, sensing Harry’s wakefulness next to her. She couldn’t get over how he’d transformed into someone she didn’t recognize to protect her. It was a side of her bespectacled, absentminded husband that Tessa had never imagined existed.
But then, she’d also revealed a side of herself she’d never thought possible.
I murdered a man, she’d thought.
When Harry began to crumble—when the weight fell off, when his insomnia struck—she moved into the breach, keeping their family going, arranging for the purchase of the house in Newport Cove. Fighting for their survival.
Sometimes, while she was engaged in the most mundane of activities, like plucking an errant gray hair from her head, or washing her hands, the thought would seize her mind, stealing away her breath: I’m a killer.