Chapter 14
Quiet House
June
The house was too quiet.
June noticed it the moment she woke on Monday morning—the absence of footsteps overhead, the missing click of heels on hardwood, the silence where Melissa’s presence usually hummed beneath the surface of things.
She lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, and told herself she was being ridiculous.
It’s three days. Stop being ridiculous.
But June had gotten used to the rhythm of this house with Melissa in it, and the lack of her was noticeable in ways she hadn’t expected.
The coffee already made when she came downstairs.
The newspaper folded on the counter. The quality of quiet that meant someone else was working in another room—present even when absent, a gravitational pull June had apparently organized herself around without noticing when it happened.
She checked her phone. No messages. It was barely six in the morning.
Stop moping. You have a job to do.
She got up and started making breakfast.
Lila appeared in the kitchen at seven-thirty, still in her pajamas, her hair a tangled mess from sleep.
“Is Mom really gone?”
“Until Wednesday, sweetheart. Remember?”
“I know. I just thought maybe…” Lila trailed off, sliding onto her usual stool at the island. “Never mind.”
June set a plate of pancakes in front of her, watching her pick at them without enthusiasm. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“I bet it’s not.”
Lila was quiet for a moment, pushing a piece of pancake around her plate. “I thought maybe she changed her mind. Sometimes people say they’re going to do something and then they don’t.”
“Your mom had to go for work,” June said. “She wanted to stay here, but she couldn’t, because her work is important. But she’ll be back on Wednesday like she promised.”
“People break promises.”
The words were delivered matter-of-factly, without self-pity, and that made them worse. Seven years old, and Lila had already learned that adults weren’t reliable. That love didn’t always mean staying.
“Some people do,” June admitted. “But your mom keeps her promises. She told you she’d call every night, right?”
“Right.”
“Then she’ll call. And when she gets back on Wednesday, we’ll make her something special. Maybe those otter cookies again.”
“With the blue frosting?”
“With all the blue frosting you want.”
Lila almost smiled. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
They spent Monday at the community pool, because the heat had built to something oppressive by mid-morning and the backyard offered no relief.
The pool was packed—families staking out territory with towels and coolers, children shrieking in the shallow end, the controlled chaos of a hot summer afternoon.
June found a spot in the shade and watched Lila join the other kids, her swimming strokes still a little uncoordinated but improving every week.
Two women had set up next to June’s towel, their chairs angled toward each other, shoulders touching in the easy way of people who didn’t have to think about it.
They passed sunscreen back and forth without asking.
One of them laughed at something and the other one’s whole face changed, just from the sound of it.
June looked away and pulled out her phone.
She snapped a photo of Lila instead—mid-splash, water droplets catching the sunlight, her face transformed by joy—and texted it to Melissa.
Pool day. She’s turning into quite the swimmer.
The response came twenty minutes later.
She looks happy. Thank you for sending this.
Then, a moment later: I miss you both.
June stared at the words, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. I miss you too, she typed back. Then deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again.
Finally: We miss you too. Good luck with your meetings.
Professional. Safe. Nothing that could be screenshot and shared, nothing that revealed too much.
This is what being a secret feels like, she thought. Measuring every word. Never saying what you mean.
She put her phone away and went to join Lila in the water, and was halfway there when a woman fell into step beside her—another pool parent, friendly, a toddler balanced on her hip.
“Is that your little one? In the green swimsuit?”
“She’s not mine,” June said. “I’m her nanny.”
“Oh, how fun! Summer job?”
“Something like that.” June smiled, kept walking.
“Her parents must love having someone so young and energetic—my sitter is sixty-two and wonderful but she will not get in the pool.” The woman laughed. “Is her mom here today?”
“She’s in Salem. Work thing.”
“Oh, politics stuff? I thought I recognized the name when you signed in—Brandt, right? Senator Brandt’s daughter?”
“That’s right.” June’s voice came out perfectly even. “I should get back to her.”
She waded into the shallow end and let the cold water close around her ankles and didn’t think about the word nanny and how completely, accurately it described her.
The thing she was. The thing she would always be, to anyone looking from the outside.
She watched Lila surface from an underwater attempt, gasping and grinning, and made herself grin back.
That night, Melissa called at eight.
“Mom!” Lila grabbed the phone from June’s hand, her face lighting up.
“We went swimming today, and I practiced my backstroke, and Miss Hollis said I’m getting really good, and then we got ice cream on the way home—strawberry with sprinkles—and tomorrow we’re going to the library because my books are due. ”
June listened to Lila’s chatter, watching the way her whole body seemed to relax at the sound of her mother’s voice.
Whatever complicated feelings June had about Melissa—about their relationship, about what they were doing—this part was simple.
Lila needed her mother. And Melissa, for all her workaholic tendencies, needed Lila too.
After ten minutes, Lila handed the phone back. “Mom wants to talk to you.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Go brush your teeth—I’ll be up to read in a few minutes.”
Lila scampered off, and June raised the phone to her ear. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Melissa’s voice was tired, rough around the edges. “Thank you for keeping her busy. She sounds happy.”
“She is happy. She also misses you.”
“I know. I could hear it in her voice.” A pause. “I hate being away.”
“I know you do.”
Silence stretched between them, filled with everything they weren’t saying.
June wanted to ask how the meetings were going, whether the vote would happen, whether Melissa was eating and sleeping and taking care of herself.
She wanted to tell Melissa she couldn’t stop thinking about her, that the house felt empty without her, that she’d dreamed about her last night and woken up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
Instead, she said: “You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“You’re right. I should.” Another pause. “Goodnight, June.”
“Goodnight, Melissa.”
The line went dead, and June stood in the kitchen for a long moment, phone pressed to her chest, wondering how something could feel so close and so far away at the same time.
Rachel arrived the next evening just after six, a paper bag from Piper and Whisk in hand and the expression she wore when she was pretending to be casual about something.
“I know Mel’s in Salem,” she said before June could speak. “I came to see Lila. She usually gets sad when her mom’s away—hates it, actually, though she’d never admit it.”
“Come in.” June stepped aside. “She’s been okay. Keeping busy helps.”
“That’s the Brandt way. Bury yourself in activity so you don’t have to feel things.” Rachel followed her inside, then paused, studying June’s face with that perceptive gaze. “You look pretty lonely yourself.”
June opened her mouth to deny it, then didn’t. What was the point? Rachel saw everything.
“It’s quiet,” she admitted. “Without her here.”
Rachel set the bag down and looked at her for a moment. “You like her, don’t you.”
It wasn’t really a question. June felt the answer move through her chest, her throat, her face, before she’d decided to show it. She shrugged, a tiny motion that felt enormous.
Rachel’s expression softened. “I thought so.”
Lila was delighted to see her, and they spent twenty minutes on the living room floor debating whether Emperor penguins were superior to King penguins—Lila had very strong opinions—before Lila announced she was going to draw penguins in her notebook and disappeared upstairs.
June made tea. They sat at the kitchen island in the quiet.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” June said. “About—I mean, she’s my employer. It’s completely—”
“Feelings aren’t necessarily inappropriate.” Rachel wrapped her hands around her mug. “What you do with them is a different question.”
“I’m not doing anything with them. I’m just… having them. Inconveniently.”
Rachel smiled. “For what it’s worth, I think she has them too. She just doesn’t know what to call them yet.”
June’s heart stuttered. “You can’t know that.”
“No. But I know Mel. I’ve known her for a long time, through her marriage, through the divorce, through everything.” Rachel paused. “I was there the night Michael told her about the affair. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“She called me at two in the morning. Not crying—Mel doesn’t cry, or at least she didn’t back then.
Just this flat, dead voice saying He’s been sleeping with his assistant.
Can you come over?“ Rachel shook her head. “She’s never asked anything like that, before or since. I stayed with her until dawn. She didn’t say much.
Just sat there holding a cup of coffee that went cold. ”
June felt her throat tighten. “That’s awful.”