Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
I wander around the house, obsessively checking that everything is perfect for Rachel’s return.
Fresh flowers on her nightstand, her pillow signed by all her tennis teammates sitting on her neatly made bed.
My phone sits in my back pocket in case Kenya calls.
I’ve called. Texted. I left a message that danced around the truth—no mention of the bracelet or Holly’s disturbing words in the parking lot.
Just a vague plea for help with the yard sale.
Still, nothing from Kenya.
Despite not feeling hungry, I force down a sandwich for dinner.
With Miguel staying late at the office, I turn to the local news, but the blur of faces and words does little to distract me from my thoughts.
When someone knocks at the door, I practically jump off my stool.
I rush to the door, certain it’s finally Kenya with some answers, but the silhouette through the frosted glass is too tall, too slender.
Jo Allard stands on the doorstep, a leather tote slung over one shoulder, holding out a bouquet of pink peonies.
“Ciao, Caren! I am so sorry about what happened! And after our party.” Uninvited, she sweeps past me in a cloud of flowery perfume and air-kisses the side of my face.
Jo is sleek, muscled from Pilates, and deeply tanned despite it being only June, her blond hair hitting chin level in the kind of bob that needs to be trimmed every four weeks.
I instinctively pat my own shoulder-length hair, feeling the telltale frizz of humidity and neglect.
One more reminder of my life spinning out of control since Saturday night.
“These are for you!” She thrusts the peonies at me.
“Thank you, you really shouldn’t have.”
“I left town on Sunday afternoon and didn’t get back until last night, and that’s when I heard.” She cocks her head to one side with practiced concern, but her taut face betrays no emotion. “How are you? Concussions are no joke.”
“I’m doing better, thanks.” The lie slips out automatically, a shield against her scrutiny.
“Very scary stuff. Especially at our age. Did you know that menopause can worsen the symptoms of a concussion?”
“No.” I grimace. “Thanks for telling me, I guess?”
“Sorry, that’s probably not helpful. I just hope Miguel is taking good care of you. We simply can’t drink the way we used to. Daniel blames himself for pushing you to do that shot. Citronelle is a lot stronger than people realize.”
I bristle, heat flushing my neck. “It wasn’t the citronelle. I didn’t drink too much.”
Jo pats my hand with artificial sympathy. “No, of course not. I simply meant, at our age, if you’re not very careful—”
“I wasn’t drunk, Jo.”
Jo’s mouth puckers as if she’s tasted something sour.
It’s a look I’ve seen a hundred times before—the prelude to her special brand of cruelty masked as honesty.
“Caren, sweetie. You were tipsy. The Fosters saw you stumble.” The condescension drips from every syllable.
“You hit your head and blacked out. I understand that it’s hard to face, but no one’s judging you. We all love you.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I wave the bouquet with such force that petals float to the floor. I have to battle the urge to smack her with it. “I better put these in water. Thank you for bringing them.”
I wrench open the screen door, an unmistakable invitation for her to exit.
Once she is through and standing on my stoop, I pivot sharply and stalk to the kitchen, my footsteps heavy with anger.
I find a glass vase, slam it in the sink, and crank the faucet.
The sound of the rushing water drowns out my own ragged breathing.
I lay the flowers on a cutting board, seize my biggest knife, and savagely chop off their ends.
That small violent act sends a ripple of dark satisfaction through me. I do it again, harder this time.
Back at the sink, I plunge the flowers into the vase, overflowing with water from the running faucet.
To think I once counted Jo as one of my closest friends.
When all the kids were little—Zach and Rachel, Van and Elo?se, Ryan and Noah too—we four moms would spend countless hours in the backyards, drinking and talking while the kids ran under sprinklers or scooped out pumpkins for Halloween.
I confided in Jo and Kenya, and Yumi shared too.
And Jo revealed that she wasn’t always a Real Housewife from Bethesda, Maryland.
Her roots were working-class Long Island, where her extended family worked as fishermen and firefighters.
But all that changed once they had real money.
The Allards have always been well-off, the way many in the neighborhood are.
Sure, there are plenty of average government workers and teachers among Eastbrook’s residents, but every block boasts lawyers, consultants, and corporate executives who bring home mid to high six figures.
Still, there is a tacit agreement that we are upper middle class, not rich.
Most of us send our kids to public schools, we drive nice cars, but nothing too flashy.
We pretended to be aghast that the new coffee shop was selling an eight-dollar iced latte even though we could all afford it.
But when Daniel’s father died, the Allards stopped pretending.
He’d owned a pharmaceutical company in France, and the money that came to the Allards transformed them.
The change was almost overnight. Daniel left his job at the law firm and took up wine collecting.
They stopped going to the Outer Banks for their summer vacation and instead bought a house in Provence.
Everyone could feel it: The Allards were just biding their time in the neighborhood until the kids graduated from high school.
As soon as I shut off the faucet, I hear a rustling sound coming from the dining room.
I freeze, water dripping from my fingers. “Hello?”
The rustling stops. Heart pounding, I wipe my wet hands on the side of my pants and move cautiously to the dining room, where I see Jo. She got back in the house without my hearing.
“Jo. What are you doing? I thought you left.”
She looks up from the plastic box that contains the ziplock bags of jewelry, caught in the act but utterly unashamed.
“Oh, just peeking at what’s on sale this year. You and Kenya do such a remarkable job.” Her smile is all teeth, like an attack dog snarling.
“It’s all up on the Facebook page,” I say, crossing my arms.
“I don’t know how you two do it. I have been so busy with Elo?se graduating—parties, dinners, sports banquets.
I guess it’s easier when your kids don’t join as many things.
” One manicured hand flies to her mouth in mock horror.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything. Rachel has her tennis after all.
And she was recruited as a walk-on at Georgetown. You must be over the moon.”
Suddenly I am bone-weary of Jo and her psychological warfare. I want her gone. “It’s time to go—”
“This is why I came back.” With one fluid motion she pulls a small black box out of her leather tote and hands it to me. “I almost forgot. A little something for Rachel.”
Tentatively, I take the box. “You shouldn’t have,” I say. And I mean it.
“Just a trifle. And you can tell Rachel it’s vintage. I know she only likes secondhand things.” She winks at me. “Ciao.”
She slips by me and out of the house before I can respond.
I rush to the door and bolt it, then press my eye to the peephole, watching until her sleek figure disappears from view.
Only when I am sure she’s truly gone do I collapse on the couch, still holding the mysterious black box.
Inside is a familiar robin’s-egg-blue cloth pouch that I recognize instantly as Tiffany.
My fingers tremble as I withdraw a small silver tennis racket with a tennis ball attached to the end.
I stare at it, uncomprehending at first, but after a minute of searching on my phone I learn what it is.
A key chain—a cult item, discontinued several years ago and reselling for about three hundred and fifty dollars.
I didn’t even get Elo?se a card.
As I place the gift back in the pouch and return it to the box, a folded-up note that was tucked into the top of the box flutters to my lap.
I carefully unfold the thick cream paper.
Can’t wait to see you play at Georgetown next year! xo Jo and Daniel
The words swim before my eyes. And what had Jo said? That Rachel only likes secondhand things? Was that an oblique reference to the stolen bangle? Jo doesn’t do anything by accident. This key chain isn’t just a gift to my daughter, it’s a message.
But what is she trying to say?