Slice Page 5

  Jessie wondered if there had ever been a man in Aunt Paulette’s life. She always just smiled when they’d ask her. Marriage had never seemed an option for her. There was so much about her beloved aunt that Jessie just did not know.

  She raised her eyes to look back out at the yard. Todd was almost done mowing. He’d switched the ride-on for a handheld mower, using it to get in closer to the trees and the side of the house. His taut muscles held Jessie’s gaze for a moment, before she looked over at the swing set. Inga was nearly finished with her paint job, but now Abby was nowhere in sight.

  “Inga!” Jessie called, standing up. “Where’s Abby?”

  “She’s down at the brook,” the nanny called back. “Don’t worry, I can see her from here. She’s fine.”

  Jessie tried to see herself, but from where she was sitting on the deck she couldn’t see the brook.

  “Some little boy wandered up and they started playing together,” Inga told her.

  “A little boy?” Jessie asked, as she headed down the deck stairs out in the yard.

  “Must be Bryan’s son,” Aunt Paulette ventured.

  Jessie was walking quickly across the grass trying to get a better view. But by the time the brook, so blue in the afternoon sun, came into view, Abby was trudging back up toward them through the grass. She was alone.

  “That’s funny,” Inga said. “The boy was just there. . . .”

  “Abby, come on back up here!” Jessie called.

  “Hi, Mommy!” Abby called, and continued her march through the daisies and wildflowers. When she reached the yard, Jessie hugged her—a little too forcefully, perhaps, because Abby asked, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Nothing, baby. Who were you playing with?”

  “A little boy.”

  “Was his name Ashton?” Aunt Paulette was asking, having come down from the deck herself.

  “He didn’t tell me his name,” Abby replied.

  “Well, it must have been Ashton,” Aunt Paulette reasoned. “He’s the only little boy in the neighborhood. Did he have red hair?”

  “I don’t remember,” Abby said.

  “It might have been red,” Inga said. “It was hard to see, since he was a few yards away and the sun was in my eyes.”

  Jessie smiled. “Well, anyway, Aunt Paulette, will you take Abby inside and help her get washed up for lunch?”

  “Certainly. Come on, sweetie.”

  Abby took her grandaunt’s hand and they headed back up the deck stairs and into the house.

  Jessie turned to Inga. “Don’t ever let her leave the yard alone again!”

  Inga looked at her quizzically, the paintbrush in her hand dripping pink paint. “Jessie, I never took my eyes off her. She never left my sight. The brook is just down the hill. It’s practically part of the yard.”

  “You said the sun was in your eyes and you couldn’t see. What if Abby had fallen into the brook?”

  Inga stiffened. “I might not have been able to see the color of the boy’s hair, but I could see the two of them playing just fine. And you know very well that the water of the brook barely comes up Abby’s ankles. If she’d fallen in, I could have been there in thirty seconds and all she would have suffered would have been a wet and muddy bum.”

  Jessie sighed. “I’m sorry, Inga. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  Inga’s defensiveness evaporated and she smiled. “We’re not in the city anymore, Jessie. There aren’t dangers lurking behind every corner out here in the country.”

  Jessie nodded. She supposed it was just an old instinct, left over from the days when she’d thought Emil was still alive, that he was out there lurking, waiting for the right moment to make his move. But Emil was dead. And she and Abby were here, starting over in Mom’s house. Life was good.

  Jessie glanced out toward the brook. Overhead the hawk soared again, looking for prey.

  SIX

  Monica wasn’t happy about this party. Not at all.

  “Hurry up, Todd,” she said, calling over her shoulder as she sat in front of her vanity, brushing mascara onto her lashes. “And don’t wear shorts. Put on a pair of chinos.”

  Her husband was still in the shower. “Why do I have to go at all?”

  “Because she’s gone ahead and invited the whole damn neighborhood. Everyone will be there. And if you’re not, they’ll wonder why. And Gert Gorin will start spreading stories.”

  “Is that prick Bryan Pierce going to be there?” Todd called, the sound of water splashing against tiles as he moved around in the shower.

  “Yes, she’s invited Bryan and Heather.”

  “Fuck.”

  Just why Jessie had invited the guy who’d broken her heart and the former best friend who’d been the cause of it, Monica wasn’t sure. Then again, her sister had gotten pretty used to dealing with exes, with Todd living down the hill from her. Monica was pleased that, so far at least, Todd and Jessie had barely spent any time together. Even the day he’d mowed her lawn, he’d barely lingered to talk. There seemed to be no interest on either part to renew even a modicum of the closeness they’d had in high school. There’s been a lot of water under that bridge, Monica thought. Surely both of them must be glad they didn’t end up together.

  So far, too, there had been no real problems with Jessie living in Mom’s house. She and Abby and that German nanny respected Monica’s privacy. The few times they’d come down to the house, they’d called first, and then their visits were always functional and brief, usually to borrow some tools or retrieve items they’d stored in the icebox. Even the frequency with which Jessie had borrowed Monica’s car in the first few days after her arrival had tapered off; two days ago, Monica had noticed her sister pull into the driveway in an old Volvo station wagon. “My own wheels!” Jessie had exclaimed, waving the keys at her. She’d bought the car over in Port Chester for two-and-a-half grand. It had some rust and the doors squeaked when they opened, but it ran, and that was all that a bohemian like Jessie cared about. Monica was relieved that she no longer had to worry about her sister borrowing her powder-blue Beemer.

  Jessie had also purchased a new refrigerator. It had been delivered last Wednesday by Home Depot, hauled up the hill by two big, burly black men; Monica hadn’t been surprised when she’d discerned Gert Gorin peering out her window with her binoculars, watching their every move.

  She sat back and inspected her eyes. Then she puckered up and applied a light coating of pink lipstick. She heard Todd shut the water off and step out of the shower.

  “Who else did Jessie invite to this thing?”

  Monica sighed. “To be fair, it was Aunt Paulette’s idea. She’s the one who ran up and down the street with invitations.”

  “So it’s everybody then. The whole freaking neighborhood.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even—?” Todd stood behind her stark naked, the hair on his head and legs and arms still alive with static electricity after a fierce towel dry. He was pointing over his shoulder with his thumb toward the north side of the house.

  “Yes,” Monica said, standing from the vanity. “Even John Manning.”

  “Well, he never comes to anything.”

  She shrugged. “All I know is that Aunt Paulette went over there with an invitation.”

  “Christ.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do.” Monica drew close to her husband, running a sharp pink fingernail down the sexy line that divided his torso, down between his pecs and his abs and coming to an end at his navel, like an exclamation point. “Believe me, I’d much prefer to spend this quiet Sunday afternoon all alone with you, just you and me, a bottle of wine and the Jacuzzi. . . .”

  He made no response. He stepped over to the closet and withdrew a pair of chinos. “These okay?” he asked.

  Monica gave him a small smile. “Fine.”

  “Can I at least wear flip-flops?”

  “Wear whatever you want.” She herself was only in her bra and panties. She took a glance at herself
in the full-length mirror. She might be getting close to thirty, but Monica still looked good. Damn good. “Anything special you’d like me to wear, Todd?”

  “What do I look like, a fashion coordinator?” He was pulling on a pair of underwear.

  “No,” his wife said. “Not with chinos and flip-flops, you definitely don’t look like a fashion coordinator.”

  She slipped a yellow-and-white polka-dotted sundress over her head. From the window she could see down to the lawn that stretched between their house and Mom’s—or rather, Jessie’s—house. The first arrivals were making their way up the hill. Gert Gorin, of course, not wanting to miss anything, charged ahead like a soldier into battle, her husband trudging along listlessly a few feet behind her. Gert carried something in her hands; it looked like a casserole dish. Behind Arthur Gorin walked old Mr. Thayer, stiff and erect like a bishop on a chess set. Mr. Thayer had given Todd his first job on Wall Street. He was very fond of Todd and Monica, and they of him. As usual, even on a warm day like this, Mr. Thayer was dressed in a blue blazer and ascot tie.

  Monica took one last glance in the mirror and headed downstairs to join her sister’s housewarming party. Todd followed, the sound of his flip-flops in her ears.

  SEVEN

  Jessie took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out onto the front porch to greet her new neighbors.

  Of course, they weren’t really new. She’d known them since she was a little girl, when she and Monica, dressed up as princesses or Spice Girls, would ring their doorbells, trick-or-treating along the cul-de-sac of Hickory Dell at Halloween time. The Wilsons—Heather’s parents—had given out the worst treats: a single bite-size Tootsie Roll wrapped in a Bible verse. The Gorins—even if Mrs. Gorin was the nosiest neighbor of all time—had given out the best: homemade red velvet cupcakes with orange buttercream frosting. The problem was, if you didn’t eat the cupcakes right away, they tended to get smooshed in your trick-or-treat bag. So Jessie and Monica had usually wolfed them down and then continued on their way, frosting all over their chins and fingers.

  But the world had moved on since those innocent days. Now, as the residents of Hickory Dell made their way up Jessie’s lawn, they remembered not the little girl dressed as Sleeping Beauty with frosting on her face but instead the young woman on the back of a Harley, her eyes caked in black mascara and eye shadow. They remembered the suspected criminal the police had interrogated, and the searches across the Clarkson property with dogs and flashlights.

  I was innocent then and I’m innocent now, Jessie thought as she lifted her hand to wave hello to her arriving guests.

  “Jessica!” Mrs. Gorin beamed a smile in her direction. “How lovely to have you back in the neighborhood! And where is that darling little girl I glimpsed from the window?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Gorin,” Jessie replied, looking down at the round little woman. “Abby is out back with her nanny, firing up the grill.”

  “I brought a tuna casserole,” Gert Gorin told her, handing the ceramic covered dish up to her.

  Jessie accepted it and grinned. “Thank you so much. Though I must admit that I was hoping you might bring those red velvet cupcakes I remember so well.”

  The older woman made a face that looked as if she’d suddenly sucked on a lemon. “I only make those at Halloween time. Can’t risk making them more often. You see, Arthur is at risk for diabetes if he doesn’t lose some weight.”

  “I am not at risk for diabetes and I am not overweight,” Mr. Gorin said, approaching them now, a little out of breath. “Do I look overweight to you, Jessie?”

  He did indeed look a little paunchy, but not any more than most men his age; Jessie estimated both Gorins to be in their mid-sixties. “I think you look just fine, but I guess it’s good to have your wife watching out for you,” Jessie said diplomatically. “Please, both of you, head around back and grab a glass of punch. I’ll be around momentarily.”

  She noticed Gert eying the house through the front door. “Don’t we get a tour of the place?”

  “Oh, sure, in a bit. We’ve only just started the renovations. Inga is starting on the kitchen—”

  “Inga?” Gert’s penciled eyebrow arched up at Jessie.

  “Yes. Abby’s nanny. She’s really become part of the family.”

  “I see . . .” Gert Gorin said, insinuatingly, as she nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow. She didn’t think Jessie saw, but she did.

  As the Gorins headed around to the backyard, Jessie greeted the next visitor up the hill. Oswald Thayer was probably past eighty now, though he was far better preserved than Arthur Gorin. Still slim and trim, with a full head of bright white hair carefully combed and slicked into place, Mr. Thayer wore his perennial white twill pants under a blue blazer with gold buttons, finished off with a bright red ascot tie bulging from a crisply starched, open-collared white shirt. Jessie didn’t think she’d ever seen him dressed any other way, except in the wintertime, when his twill pants were gray. A broad smile of dazzlingly white dentures bloomed on his face when his blue eyes met Jessie’s.

  “Welcome home, my dear,” he said, extending his hand. “Your dear mother and father would be so happy to know you were back in the family homestead.”

  “Hello, Mr. Thayer. Thank you so much for coming.” Jessie shook his hand warmly, balancing the casserole dish in her other hand. “And thank you for the lovely flowers. They arrived this morning. They’re in the living room on the mantel.”

  “I felt flowers were the better alternative, as I don’t have Gertrude Gorin’s culinary skills in being able to whip up a tuna casserole,” he said, dropping his gaze to the dish in Jessie’s hands.

  Jessie laughed. “I’ve never been all that good in the kitchen myself. That’s why my daughter and her nanny are handling the grill this afternoon.”

  Mr. Thayer had fixed her with a serious look. “I meant it when I said that your parents would be glad to see you here. You know that your father was a dear friend of mine. Rather like the son I never had.”

  Jessie smiled. She had never been as close to Dad as she had been to Mom; Monica had tended to be their father’s favorite. But she had still loved him, and respected him; they had just been very different sorts of people. Dad had been a banker and a broker, and a Republican; Mom had been a hippie and a poet, and a Democrat. Yet somehow they’d always made their marriage work, right up until the day Dad died, much too young, of a heart attack at age forty-four. Their long, happy, successful marriage had always inspired Jessie, but also intimidated her. She’d never been able to find the kind of relationship her parents had enjoyed.

  Monica had, of course.

  “I remember,” Mr. Thayer was saying, seeming to warm to his purpose for coming over here today, “something your father once said to me. Your sister was the one he understood best, because she was like him. But you . . . you were the one he most admired. Because, after all, you were just like your mother, the woman he loved.”

  Jessie was touched. “Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Thayer.”

  “He was a good man, your father. I tried hard to get him to run for mayor of Sayer’s Brook. I had the entire Republican Town Committee ready to back him. But then, the heart attack took him from us.” A flicker of moisture appeared in the old man’s bright eyes. “He would have been a good mayor.”

  “Yes, he would have, indeed,” Jessie said.

  Mr. Thayer squeezed her hand. “And now I will make my way around to the back and mingle with the Gorins. I am sure the conversation will be scintillating. That woman knows everything that goes on in this town.”

  Jessie laughed, and smiled after him as he walked off. She could see Monica and Todd coming out of their house now, heading up the hill, and in the street it looked like Heather and Bryan and their kids were on their way. Jessie took another deep breath and scooted back inside the house to put Mrs. Gorin’s casserole on the table.

  For a moment, she wanted to hurry upstairs to her bedroom and lock herself in
her room. Jessie looked out the window as the guests assembled in the backyard. Aunt Paulette had walked up from her cottage carrying the big bowl of salad she’d made. The Gorins were greeting Monica and Todd, and Mr. Thayer was kissing Heather on the hand, and clapping Bryan on the back. Everyone had so far been nice to her; Mr. Thayer had even gone out of his way to tell her something nice about Dad. This was going to be easy. No one was going to hold any grudges about the troubles with Emil. That was six years ago now. It was over. Jessie needed to just forget it and move on. No one was blaming her anymore.

  But it wasn’t so easy to move on.

  At least, not from everything.

  She’d grown accustomed to seeing Todd in the last week. It wasn’t so hard seeing him. After all, their romance had been in high school. They’d just been kids. Sure, at the time, Jessie had been convinced Todd was her true and everlasting love—but she’d been a teenager, and most teenage girls believe their high school boyfriends are their soul mates, even if very few turn out to be so. So Jessie had been able to put some closure on Todd’s long-ago rejection of her in favor of her sister. It was Bryan Pierce who still dredged up the raw feelings.

  Unlike Todd, who’d become part of Jessie’s family, Bryan hadn’t been around in the days before Jessie left. He and Heather had been living elsewhere when Jessie had taken up with Emil, and it had only been while Jessie had been away that the happy couple—and their two adorable kids—had moved into the Wilson house on Hickory Dell. So Jessie had maybe seen them just two or three times—and then just fleeting encounters—since college and the heartache of the breakup.

  And Bryan held a different place in her heart than Todd. Jessie had really, really fallen for Bryan. She had allowed herself to go so far as to imagine marrying him. She’d been twenty and twenty-one years old when they’d dated, old enough for deeper, more profound feelings than the teenage crush she’d had on Todd. So when Bryan told her he had fallen in love with Heather—the best friend in whom Jessie had confided her hopes and dreams of marriage—it had been a devastating blow. It had left Jessie shattered, and susceptible to the machinations of Emil Deetz.