Then
Saturday, August 14
Woodstock, New York
I want ice cream,” Poppy cried. “You promised ice cream!”
I held Poppy close to me as I booked it away from the Woodstock flea market, where Mary had just confronted me. Didn’t stop walking until we were back on the main drag. The sun was bright. Poppy was shielding her eyes with her hands. My heart was racing. Brutally.
It had been just over a month since I’d met Rich and Poppy on that train headed north. Since I’d made the split-second decision to become a part of their lives. And it had been a good month. Rich was kind. Poppy was adorable. The buyer for the jewelry was still being lined up, and their home was a safe place to crash until everything was a go.
George had texted and called shortly after I left Brooklyn but must have tired of the effort. I never responded once. The only reason I didn’t block him was because I wanted to get a window into his thoughts, if he did decide to take action. So far, he hadn’t. There was no real chance of him coming here, either. He preferred Montauk, the Hamptons—classic old money. Yes, I knew there were lots of people from the city up here. That hiding in plain sight was a risk. But my dalliance with George had been secret; I doubted anyone besides Henry and Alex’s nanny even knew.
Not to mention, I made a point of not making real friends in the city.
Mary had been my one exception.
I made my way down Tinker Street, Poppy heavy on my hip. Should have brought the damn stroller.
Mary had said she didn’t even like this part of upstate. Thought it was a bougie extension of the city. She missed Old Forge. Her family. So why was she here now?
The streets were teeming with people as I carried Poppy past the bakery. Past the hippie bookstore. I felt suddenly exposed. Wished I had those ridiculous sunglasses I’d been wearing when I’d met Rich. Even with dark hair and different clothes, Mary had picked me out easily. Was there a chance she’d bought my lie? Doubtful.
What if, against all odds, she’d gone back to George? What if he’d told her all about me, what I’d done? What if he somehow found me, got the jewelry back? I still had the whole trove in Rich’s house. Fuck.
“You okay, Annie?” Poppy asked.
I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Poppy was the most empathetic little girl. I cared for her truly. She could always sense when something wasn’t right.
“I’m all right,” I said, forcing some cheer into my voice. “A little worried, that’s all.”
“About what?” she asked plainly.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself about, sweetheart,” I said, squeezing her chubby thigh.
She squirmed in my arms. “I want to walk.”
“Okay,” I said, setting her down.
She took my hand, hers giving mine warmth. I tried to focus on the sun, the feeling of her little fingers in mine. Tried to calm myself down.
All this was a wake-up call. I couldn’t get too comfortable here. Had to get things moving. Had to put the pressure on.
This is fine.
Poppy walked slowly, but we made our way up the block. Past the town parking lot. Toward the pub on the corner, inhabitants loud and vivacious, spilling out onto the summer streets. Taking advantage of this lovely August weather. Drinking craft beers made in towns ten or twenty miles away.
I’d avoid Mary for as long as she was up here. Soon, it would all be behind me. I’d be nothing more than a memory to this sweet little girl.
Sad, I knew, but she was going back to her mother at the end of the summer. It wasn’t my fault that Rich had invited me into his life so quickly. I doubted his ex even knew the extent of our arrangement. That I was actually living with the two of them.
This is fine, I told myself again. Meanwhile, Poppy hopped over a crack in the sidewalk.
In front of the pub, Poppy stopped. “There’s a rock in my shoe,” she said, her voice already turning to a whine.
“Okay,” I said, kneeling down. She balanced on my shoulder, and together we took care of the rock.
When I stood up, there was George.
I did a double take, making sure. It was him, all right. Sitting in the corner, facing us. A beer in front of him. Flicking through his phone.
He looked up as I grabbed Poppy’s hand. I pulled her forward, frantic, and she protested loudly—“Wait, wait, I wanna walk, I don’t wanna hold your hand!”
I scooped her up, and she writhed in my arms. Let out a screeching wail, announcing her discomfort to every resident within a mile radius.
I kept walking, never turning back, knowing that already I’d played it wrong. Her tantrum would draw more attention, not less.
I didn’t turn back until I was at the crosswalk. Until I was making a right onto the street that would take us home.
“No,” Poppy cried. “You said I could have ice cream. You promised.”
“We have to find your daddy first,” I said.
I set her down, and her wails ceased the instant her little feet hit the sidewalk.
Tucked behind the oversized hibiscus plant in front of the noodle shop, I let myself look for any sign of George. As far as I could see, he wasn’t there. He hadn’t followed.
I didn’t know if he’d recognized me or not.
But I knew one thing without a doubt: if he had, it could change everything.
I pulled out my phone, shot off a quick text.
I fucked up.