I stand in the window, feeling tired and rattled. The cops just left.
They showed up early, before I’d even made coffee. Luckily, they didn’t stay long and asked no tough questions. They came to tell me there’s been a lead: a man resembling Stan was seen hitchhiking near Santa Fe. Reported by a “credible witness.”
What a farce! I stare, lost in thought, out at the garden.
Beneath the terraced lawns, the maples are reddening in the Japanese garden. In the sun, the ocean shines navy. Two white sailboats chase each other past the islands. Closer in, seagulls hover.
I used to love this view. Now, I shudder. The sea’s an ugly reminder of Stan. A seagull dives low, squawking. It sounds harsh and accusing.
I should yank the drapes shut, block it all out. But it’s too much effort. There are too many windows.
I turn my back on the sea and take a deep breath. Today’s tough. It’s been a whole week, seven days of jumping at the phone ringing and listening for a knock on the door. Seven days of little food and no real sleep. I can’t focus.
Coffee in hand, I collapse on the sofa. I pinch my forehead, trying to picture Stan as a hitchhiker, thumb out beside some desert freeway. This new Stan’s not glued to his tablet. He doesn’t care about the stock market or his son getting into Harvard. He’s like a young man on an adventure.
I want to join him. I want to get suntanned and dusty . . .
As if, snaps Jo’s voice in my head. Stan couldn’t sleep in hotels with less than four stars. We had to stay at a Travelodge once, and he spent the whole night moaning like the damn princess with the pea.
I swig more coffee.
Gloria has placed today’s paper on the coffee table, folded discreetly. I grab it and rip it open. The story’s moved off the front page. Each day it creeps further back, shedding tired quotes and shrinking.
The cops are still ruling nothing out. Stan’s wife, socialite Dana McFarlane, is still pleading for her husband’s safe return. Stan’s estimated net worth gets a mention, as does his jacket being found near a “popular” suicide spot.
There’s a photo of me and Stan at a charity ball. He’s holding a microphone. I’m at his side in a strapless gown, smiling vacantly like the magician’s brainless assistant.
I throw down the paper. Why are socialites always women? What’s the male equivalent? I’ve won the world’s most prestigious floral design competition—twice. Clients book me at least a year in advance. Yet the Glebes Bay Spokesman only identifies me by Stan’s money.
I get it. Stan’s fortune is fascinating and the source of all this: the house, the grounds, the gardener—Greg?—now trimming the cedar hedge. I scrape back my hair. The high-pitched whine of his weed-whacker isn’t helping my headache.
I haul myself off the sofa. Time to get moving.
The twins are at the mall. Zoe’s at ballet. Gloria will collect her when she’s done at the Gourmet Market. My assistant for Fairytale Flowers, Daisy—yes, her real name—is racking up overtime, desperately trying to complete all the orders I’ve failed to tackle. Rather than sitting here daydreaming, I should go and help her.
“Mommy?”
I turn, surprised to see Zoe. It must be later than I thought. She trots closer, her cheeks as pink as her tutu.
I smile. Thank goodness for Zoe. She’s sunshine personified, right down to her sweet sun-kissed freckles. “You’re home!” I say. “How was ballet?”
“Good. Chloe M. had an accident.”
“Oh dear. What happened?”
“She peed her pants.”
“Oh. Poor Chloe.”
Zoe nods. “Yup. She asked to use the restroom, but Miss Alexa said no.”
“Hmmm.” I bet Miss Alexa won’t make that mistake again. If a five-year-old says they have to go, they have to go now.
“Mommy,” says Zoe, “will Daddy come to my dance show?”
Her show’s in two weeks. “I, ah . . .” I’m not sure how to answer. “I hope so.”
“I really hope he comes,” says Zoe.
Tears press against the backs of my eyes. She misses her daddy. And it’s all my fault. “Want to go for a walk?” I say, hoping to distract her. I need to check the mailbox. I’ve gotten a bit obsessive since receiving the note.
“Okay,” she says.
“Go find your jacket. And rain boots.”
In the hall, we meet Gloria, armed with bags of groceries. Seeing me, she looks startled, like she’s guilty of something. Has she been talking to the press? Or the police? I can’t manage without her, but she makes me nervous.
“Are you going out?” she asks. It could be small talk but seems nosy.
“Just in the garden,” I say and step out the door.
The rain’s stopped, but it’s wet out. Zoe’s hand is warm in mine. We descend the long front staircase.
The air smells of woodsmoke and damp, decaying leaves. Despite the weak sun, it’s chilly. My windbreaker’s flimsy. I should have chosen a warmer jacket. I zip up Zoe’s raincoat. It’s printed with ladybugs. Fly away home.
As we trail down the driveway, I think of last night: lithe Gemma Costin in my son’s bedroom. Her pink crop top and panties. Her smug fuck-you expression. Just thinking about her makes me tired.
This is what I get for coming back to Glebes Bay. I should never have left Seattle. It was bad enough dealing with Angie and her ilk when I was young. Gemma’s an updated version: mean girl, next generation. It figures she’d get her claws into Chad.
Zoe’s skipping beside me. Sunlight glints through the oaks. I’m squinting.
Chad and I didn’t discuss Gemma this morning, not with Owen and Zoe present. I’m not sure what to say or how to punish him. I should. He lied, after all. Yet I can’t be bothered.
I’m being lame. I need to step up, start acting like a parent. Even Angie punished Gemma for cheating. What did I do? Nothing. Should I confiscate Chad’s phone? I kick at a pebble. Perhaps I should leave it. Chad’s dealing with major trauma. He’s fifteen. Sneaking around with girls is normal, the same shit I pulled at his age. Maybe I should be happy he’s distracted by Gemma, that he has someone to talk to.
I remember Gemma’s sly fox face as she turned from his window. That staged air kiss. Only an idiot would be relieved about Gemma. You can’t talk to a cyborg.
The wind catches my hair. It could use a wash. Another thing I’ve neglected. And I need fresh highlights. I push it back over my shoulders and sidestep a puddle.
The driveway’s dark and wet. The lawn’s as plush as a golf course. High in an oak, a squirrel chatters. There’s a flicker of orange in the bushes. Our cat, Toonces.
Zoe’s run on ahead. She’s jumping over puddles.
A week ago, I’d have admired the scene’s beauty. I’d have detoured to see the late-blooming begonias and the fiery-leafed maples. I’d have stopped to pet Toonces.
Last Sunday at this time, I was ignorant of what was coming. What was I doing? Probably working in my studio.
Yes, I remember: I was making a centerpiece for a wedding. I was miffed the orchids weren’t the red I wanted: blood red instead of candy apple. I sent a message of clipped complaint to my supplier.
I stumble. How absurd. A bomb was ticking, and I was stressing about flowers.
There’s a bitter taste in the back of my throat. I need to eat more, not just alternate wine and coffee. It seems the cops are looking elsewhere, but that could be an act to get my guard down. Jo keeps reminding me: I need fuel to keep my wits about me.
Zoe’s stopped to peer at a snail. I click the gates open.
Stepping through them, my chest tightens. I managed to forget my mission, but now it’s in sight: my mailbox. My feet feel heavy.
It’s been three days since I found the note. The Note. It’s sealed in a ziplock bag and hidden in a hollow tree near the guest cottage. I’m not sure why I kept it. It’s not like I’ll forget what it said.
No. I do know why I kept it. It’s physical proof I’m not crazy. I can check it if I have to. This is not in my head.
Zoe catches up. She’s carrying the snail. It’s pulled back in its shell, its brown foot shriveled and slimy.
“It needs a new home,” she says. She sounds solemn.
I nod and point to the huge slab of granite that bears the house’s name. “How about there?” The gardener kills snails. They eat our plants, after all.
Zoe sets the snail onto the rock. It tumbles off. In the weak sun, the sign’s letters glint gold: winderlea.
Not for the first time, I wonder who named the place. Was it the coal baron who ordered it built, a one-time miner who clawed out a fortune? Or was it his wife, who bore nine children and died in childbirth two months after moving in?
Jo researched the house’s history back when we bought it. Like any old place, Winderlea’s had its fair share of tragedies. Two of the coal baron’s sons died in the war. Another drank himself to death. The next owner, who was in timber, drowned in a boating mishap. His widow moved out, convinced the place was haunted.
Zoe’s still crouched, watching the fallen snail.
I approach the mailbox as I would a wild animal. For three days, nothing’s happened. It might be time. I reach for the door, full of anticipatory dread. This feeling’s all too familiar.
My dad never snapped and hit me. I’d displease him somehow, sometimes without knowing why. His head would rear back, and his eyes would narrow. “Just wait,” he’d say softly. “You’ve got it coming.”
That waiting was worse than being beaten. Sometimes hours would pass, even days, before Dad fetched the cane. My fear would build. I’d try to hide it, which only fueled his sadism. Still, I tried. I had my pride.
I pry open the mailbox’s door. Dread churns deep in my abdomen. I feel trembly. I know it’s coming. I want it over with. Now.
I wriggle my hand into the box and pull out a flyer. Discount furniture. Buy now. Pay later.
I try again. There’s something else in there. I pincer out a piece of folded paper. The wind catches the furniture flyer, which slips from my fingers. I watch it rise, then plummet into the bushes. Normally, I’d pick it up. At this moment, it doesn’t matter.
I unfold the note. Same red ink. Same block letters.
3 million dollars and this goes away. get it ready.
I reread it. My gut’s fizzing. Is this dread or relief? Relief, maybe? It’s what I expected: a demand for money. Three million dollars. I do have it. Yet could I get it with Stan not officially dead, and the cops eyeing me? It’s not like there’s three million in cash in my closet or a cache of gold bars in the garden.
The fallen flyer lies a few feet away, amid the ivy, all screaming red and orange: no money down! I bend to retrieve it and crush it in my fist. I want to tear it to shreds, rip it with my teeth. Eat it. Being helpless makes me feel crazy.
As a girl, I sometimes fantasized I’d kill my father. I imagined lying in wait with a bat. Or I could fetch the key to the gun safe in the basement. I still don’t know what stopped me. Cowardice? Decorum? Love, even?
A breeze rustles dried-out oak leaves. I went from one bully to another. I broke all my own rules. Did what I swore I’d never do. How fucked up could I be? How could I have married Stan?
Still clutching that flyer, I pound the mailbox’s stuck door. Pain explodes in my fist. The door doesn’t budge. I smash it harder.
“Mommy?” Zoe sounds scared.
I spin. Shit. I forgot she’s here.
She’s twenty feet away, still holding that damn snail. Her mouth hangs open. “Mommy? What’s wrong?” All around her, the hydrangeas—so blue and pretty in the summer—lie faded and ghostly.
“I . . . Nothing,” I say, aware I look crazy. Jesus. I’ve lost it in front of Zoe.
Eyes wide with alarm, she starts running my way. Her pink tutu flutters.
I clutch my hurt hand and stagger toward her. I bend to embrace her. “Everything’s fine! I just . . . I hurt my hand.”
She leans back to examine it and frowns. “Poor Mommy. Should I kiss it better?”
A shaky laugh escapes me. If only it were that simple. I hold my hand up for Zoe to kiss it. “Thanks, baby.” I mustn’t cry.
I’m still kneeling beside her when a noise makes me turn. A man’s jogging on the sidewalk. Mirrored shades hide his eyes. Is he looking at me strangely?
Behind him stands a parked van with a tinted windshield. What if someone’s in there, watching? It could be the blackmailer, gloating. Or the cops, clicking photos. What better way to rattle me than to leave these notes and watch? An innocent person would head straight to the station.
I regain my feet and grab Zoe’s hand. I can’t stay out here. I pull her toward the gates but mistype the code. The gates stay shut. Thick black bars block our way. My injured hand throbs. I re-stab the numbers. Again, nothing happens.
Behind me, the jogger’s footsteps pound closer. What if he’s not some random jogger? My heart’s a panicked bird against glass, thrashing. I jab in the code. Finally, the gates open.
We’re hurrying up the drive when Zoe drops the snail. Its shell smashes on the pavement.
Zoe stops. “Oh, Mommy!” she cries. She squats and starts howling. “I’ve killed him! I’ve made him dead!”