The Neighbors Are Watching

Chapter One

ONE

“It’s Caren. Caren with a ‘C.’”

The woman I’ve introduced myself to smiles, her eyes widening in recognition. “Oh sure! I remember your daughter. Rachel, right? She used to carry a teddy bear with her—even in middle school.”

“Koala bear.” I scan the woman’s face, trying to remember whose mom she is, but I can’t quite place her.

“Right,” she says. “And where is Rachel off to this fall?”

“Georgetown.”

“Wow. First choice?”

First choice? Wait list? Early admission or early decision? Legacy?

I’ve had a variation of the same conversation about college at least ten times so far at this party and it’s getting old.

I answer the woman with a nod, pivot, and start to wander through the Allards’ backyard, looking for a different cluster of parents to meld into.

I’ve lost count of the number of school graduation parties I’ve attended these past two weeks, and as I survey all these parents, some of whom I’ve known for more than fifteen years, it hits me—it’s over.

This part of my life—being a mother to school-age kids—has officially ended.

I squeeze back tears. I don’t want to cry in public.

I’ve cried enough since Rachel walked across the stage and moved her tassel from right to left.

Around me, the voices of my neighbors and friends dissolve into a familiar din of chatting and laughing, occasionally punctuated by a whoop from one of the teenagers at the party.

A hand on my arm startles me.

“Caren! Can you believe it? We’re finally free!” Kenya beams at me, eyes bright with champagne. “No more car pools. No more PTA.” She does a little shimmy as if shaking off twenty years of motherhood.

I force a laugh. “Crazy, right?” I keep a smile glued to my face, but my mind drifts to the quiet that will soon settle on my house like dust in an abandoned room.

Kenya launches into the drama of searching for the ideal college roommate for her son, Noah.

“It’s really like online dating, all this swiping.

” And how her husband, Shawn, and Noah have locked horns over the necessity of a PlayStation 5 in college.

As I listen, I find myself wishing I was home, or at least on our friend Yumi’s screened-in porch, enjoying a quiet cocktail.

These parties are easier with Miguel by my side, but he’s not in Bethesda with me; he’s in Rehoboth opening up the beach house.

Zach, my oldest, is gone too, staying at college this summer for an internship in a lab, and Rachel’s camping.

I shouldn’t have come here. Why am I here if no one else in my family is?

To make an appearance. To be neighborly. But I feel like the odd mom out.

“Just look at them.” Kenya gestures toward Noah. He’s standing next to the guest of honor, Elo?se Allard, near the drinks table, two young adults on the cusp of adulthood, their arms slung around each other. “I remember when they used to build forts in our backyard. Rachel too. Where is Rachel?”

“Still on the camping trip with some kids from school.” Rachel left right after graduation to hike part of the Long Trail in Vermont with some friends.

New friends. Down-to-earth kids she had met at the teeny private school we put her in halfway through her junior year when she was tanking at the massive public high school she’d been attending.

“Oh, too bad she’s missing this.”

“You know Rachel, she’s not that into parties.” And she’s not. In lieu of a bash, or beach week, all she wanted was to spend some time in the forest. “She just wanted to go into the woods for a week with some friends. ‘Unplug,’ she said.”

Still, it stings a little to be here. To see Elo?se, Rachel’s former best friend, and Noah and other kids she started kindergarten with all celebrating together.

I remind myself that different kids take different paths and that’s okay.

Rachel would hate this party—she’d mock the giant gold Mylar balloons that spell out CONGRATS ELO?SE!

complete with two tiny gold Mylar dots forming an umlaut over the i as if Americans did not know how to pronounce the name.

Not to mention the life-size cutout of Elo?se hoisting a lacrosse stick over her shoulder.

“Smart girl,” Kenya says. “We did good. Our kids are ready to fly the nest.”

More laughter. More chatter.

I should be celebrating too. I should be relieved.

The past few years have been difficult. Getting Rachel through high school in one piece felt like a Herculean effort.

But all I can think about is the silence waiting on the other side of this summer.

And the way my house—my life—is about to feel too big, too empty.

I long to share this with Kenya, who’s been a friend for years, but I don’t want to spoil her good mood.

I finish my drink. I’m ready to go home.

Just as I am about to try for an exit, Elo?se’s father, Daniel, approaches.

He’s doling out flutes of champagne, and I get swept back up in the conversation.

A few more people join our group, people I’ve known since their kids were in kindergarten with Rachel, some better than others, but we’ve all been on the same journey.

Whether I feel close to each one or not, there exists a bond.

Daniel holds his glass aloft. “Salut! We made it,” Daniel says with the faintest hint of a French accent, despite having lived in the States since his twenties.

“Salut,” I say in return, clinking glasses.

“I’m glad you came,” he says to me. “I remember when Elo?se and Rachel were like this.” He holds up his hand, two fingers intertwined. “Kids, they fall in and out of friendship. But there’s no reason for us not to celebrate together.”

“Any excuse to drink your champagne, Daniel.” I take a sip before something unkind about Elo?se slips out of my mouth.

Kids do fall in and out of friendships, but it felt more like my daughter had been booted out.

Daniel chuckles, his paunch straining at his white linen shirt.

His girth is a nod to his enjoyment of good food, just as the red dribble on his shirt is a tribute to his love of wine.

He’s always been the life of the party, a heavy drinker, full of hugs, slightly raunchy jokes, and a stark contrast to his wife, Jo—née JoAnne Valdini, originally from the south shore of Long Island—a rail-thin marathon addict with a precision-cut blond bob.

Take this party, for example. No way Daniel had anything to do with the two food trucks parked outside or the photo booth crammed into the side yard.

“So, Caren, what are you doing these days?” Daniel asks. “Staying busy?”

I wince. It’s a question I’ve been fielding at social events ever since I took an early retirement package last year. It means, are you working yet? Are you still unemployed?

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” I say, gripping my glass. “Graduation, you know. Spending time with Rachel before she leaves.”

“You’re gonna land soon,” Daniel says. “Something is right around the corner.”

People have been telling me that for almost a year.

No one tells you how hard it is to find a job when you’re older.

I have one possibility on the horizon—a screening interview on Monday for an event planner position at a museum for less pay and lower prestige than my previous job, and I’d be lucky to get it.

“Right now I’m just focusing on getting the yard sale ready.

” I flash a little smile at Kenya. The two of us have been running the Eastbrook Annual Summer Yard Sale for eleven years.

Back then, it really was just a simple yard sale held on the playground next to the school.

Over the years it’s morphed into a multiday extravaganza that raises thousands of dollars for the neighborhood swim team.

A swim team neither of my kids have belonged to in years.

“I’m almost done getting everything up online,” I say. We always post the nicer things online a week in advance to drum up interest.

“Anything good this year?” he asks.

“A lot of jewelry.”

“I’m always amazed at what people donate,” Kenya says. “Did you see the ski boots? Never even used. Brand-new. Someone bought the wrong size and decided it was too much of a hassle to return them.”

More teenagers show up to the party, and the music gets louder. The transition from party to nighttime rager is in full swing. Two guys I vaguely recognize pass us lugging a giant block of ice.

“Really? Ice luge?” I roll my eyes in Kenya’s direction.

“Don’t forget, Jo’s the cool mom,” Kenya says, with a little too much bite.

“I think that’s my sign to leave,” I say.

I’ve never been comfortable with how Daniel and Jo serve alcohol to minors.

It was one reason I wasn’t completely devastated when Rachel and Elo?se fell out junior year.

Elo?se and her brother, Van—older by one year—didn’t just run with the fast crowd, they operated it like a Fortune 500 company.

“Oh no,” Daniel says. “Not yet. We need to drink to the Eastbrook Elementary kids. The original crew. I mean, we’ve known each other since our kids were five years old.”

“It’s wild how time flies,” Kenya says, looking right at me. “It seems like just yesterday we were waiting outside the school, so nervous, anxious to hear how their first day went. Stay a little longer, Caren.”

Daniel leaves and returns a few moments later with a tray of small plastic cups, and Shawn, Kenya’s husband, in tow.

“Hey, Caren.” Shawn gives me a nod with his chin by way of greeting before grabbing a shot.

“Jell-O shots?” I ask skeptically.

“They’re high-class Jell-O shots. Made with citronelle,” Daniel says. “That’s the French version of limoncello. Jo made them with a bottle we brought back from Nice last year.”

Kenya and I exchange a look that says, Why not? I take one of the small plastic cups and toss it back. The alcohol stings my throat. I make a face.

“Been a while since you’ve done shots, huh?” Shawn asks, breaking out in a wide grin that activates the deep dimples in his cheeks. Noah lucked out and inherited that same boyish smile.

“Maybe … twenty years?”

Kenya laughs and passes me a bottle of water, which I gulp to wash down the stinging alcohol taste. “Now I really do have to go.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually leaving this party to go home and work on the yard sale,” Kenya says.

“It’s Saturday night!” Shawn says. “You just got here. We gotta get our dance on.” He does a little move and spins around.

Kenya places a hand on her husband’s arm, a look of amusement on her face. “Let the kids do the dancing, baby. Not us.” She turns to me. “C’mon, don’t go.”

“I’d love to stay, but I just want to get this yard sale done. Miguel’s out of town, so I get the house to myself,” I say with forced cheer. “I can order Millie’s and get the rest of the stuff photographed and up online.”

As soon as Kenya turns away to listen to a story Daniel is telling, I see my opportunity. I duck out of the party via a narrow path that runs along the side of the Allards’ house, hoping no one I know is watching.

I’m almost to the street when I hear someone call my name.

“Caren! Yoo-hoo!” Jo rushes toward me, pulling up the side of her maxi dress with one hand. “Where are you off to? Are you trying to sneak out of my party without saying goodbye?” She drops the handful of fabric and smooths out her skirt.

“When I saw the ice luge, I knew it was time to go.”

“Can’t I convince you to stay a little longer? We didn’t get a chance to chat.”

“I’ll be around most of the summer.”

“Well, we have to catch up one-on-one.” She places a cool hand on my forearm. “Before we head off to Provence, you and I must have a drink at the pool and commiserate on being empty nesters. Or celebrate.”

Jo and I pretend that our daughters never had a falling-out junior year.

We’ve never spoken of those tumultuous months, or the fact that the vicious social scene at Bethesda–Chevy Chase High School was a big part of why we transferred Rachel midyear.

It wasn’t just about grades. It was about how her kids, Elo?se and Van, and their clique, made Rachel’s life miserable.

This feigned ignorance used to anger me, but now I see the wisdom in it. It was a long time ago and if Rachel can move on, so can I.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, not meaning a word of it. I’d rather spend an afternoon hunting for my dog’s errant turds in our overgrown backyard than spend it chatting with Jo. A loud roar emanates from behind the house. “I’d better let you get back to your party!”

But Jo frowns, focused on something behind me.

She hikes her skirt up again and marches over to a wooden utility pole, where she rips off a flyer.

I pick my way down the sloping lawn, careful not to tumble.

The wedge heels, the lack of glasses, the alcohol—all of it adds up to a bad spill waiting to happen.

“So frustrating.” Jo waves the flyer. “I just took one down this morning, and someone came and put it back up.”

In the dusk, I can just make out what is written on the paper that Jo’s holding. I’ve seen ones like it before—a picture of a heart-faced young woman in chunky glasses.

DO YOU KNOW WHO KILLED ME?

“So sad.” I shudder, looking at the sweet face of the girl on the flyer, not much older than Rachel. “This is that nanny who was killed last summer, right?” I don’t add, In your rental house.

“These are all over the neighborhood. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not heartless, but this is a time of celebration.” She waves the flyer in the direction of a yard sign that says HAPPY GRADUATION! “These kids have worked so hard. It’s their time to shine.”

I don’t dare disagree with Jo, to tell her that our kids can survive a few discomfiting flyers in the neighborhood. Nobody really dares to disagree with Jo. It’s easier to just walk away.