Best-Laid Plans Eden
Best-Laid Plans
Eden
When they fight, the two sisters, it’s like a dark soul attacking the light.
I don’t blame Margot for fleeing. When she comes back—if she comes back—I’ll be here to comfort her.
She has the short end of the stick in this situation.
Always relegated to being second, even though they are identical twins.
Margot has told me things about their childhood, how naughty Brooklyn could be, how she got into trouble, how Margot stayed home and read and worked on her ballet while Brooklyn partied hard.
I know a few other things, too.
I watch Four lead his mother to the forest behind their house.
I want to follow and see what they’re up to, why they’re sneaking around to that creepy shelter.
Brooklyn certainly hasn’t been very gracious about all the help I’ve been giving her.
Margot reassured me that it’s the brain injury, that she’s just having trouble coping with all the change and all the worry, but I don’t believe her.
Brooklyn doesn’t trust me.
And that makes me not want to trust her.
We’ll all get along fine if she just lets me handle things. All I want to do is help. If she wants me to leave, I will. But she doesn’t. She wants me here. She needs me here. She hasn’t realized it yet. But she will.
Back in the kitchen, I fling open the refrigerator doors. I went shopping this morning and the larder is full. I will make her a brilliant meal and show her how indispensable I am.
A tiny ballerina pliés into the room. She is the most adorable creature I have ever seen.
“Neve, sweetie, what should we make for dinner?”
She twirls through the kitchen. “Can we have tacos again?”
“We just had tacos. What about something more elegant? What would Cinderella want?”
“Curds and whey!” She giggles.
“That’s the wrong fairy tale, goose. How about . . . coq au vin for the ladies and croque monsieur for the littles?”
“Oui. Merci beaucoup,” she says. I can’t help the smile. My French lessons are paying off.
“Très bien, ma chérie,” I reply. “Help me get things together, and we’ll surprise your mommy.”
It’s such a pleasure baking and cooking with all of Brooklyn’s high-end tools.
Everything is top of the line, from the Wolf stove and double ovens to the matching Le Creuset cookware.
Her knives are wüsthof, the fridge a Sub-Zero, the frying pans Calphalon, the spoons and spatulas teak.
In another world, like at home in Malogen, I would find these traditional but expensive accoutrements performative, but this is different.
Brooklyn needs the very best for her work.
I’m sure they wrote it all off. And to be honest, I’ve enjoyed learning how to cook with these luxuries. Everything just tastes better.
I have dinner well underway when Margot comes back. Her eyes are red from weeping, and I want to hold her. Show her I care. But she brushes past me, straight to the oversize Wolf stove. She lifts the heavy cast-iron lid off the massive Dutch oven and wafts her hand over the chicken.
“This smells good. Sorry for stomping out like that,” she says. “She just frustrates me sometimes.”
“Oh, I understand. I had a sister once, too. We fought like cats and dogs. Didn’t mean we didn’t love each other. Sisters are always so complicated, even if you’re incredibly close, like you and Brooklyn.”
She leans against the marble counter—Carrara, honed, three-inch slab, ogee edge. I’m learning.
“You don’t talk about Chloe enough. If you ever want to, I’m here.”
I nod. “It’s just so hard. Every time I think of her, I’m immediately thrown back to the night she died. It was so sad, Margot, seeing her like that. If I’d gotten there a few minutes earlier, I could have stopped Andrew from murdering her.”
One of the FBI agents comes into the kitchen.
They’ve been so good at staying out of the way, guarding us but not being obtrusive.
Not scaring the children . . . at least not too much.
But now that Brooklyn’s home, the coterie has doubled, and today, unlike the previous week, one or another has been underfoot.
They are big, and they are loud, even without meaning to be.
This one’s name is Juan Andrade. He’s been especially kind to me, his flashing white teeth appearing from his thick mustache every time I’m near.
He gives me that heart-stopping grin now.
“There’s a friend of Mrs. Locke’s at the door, with a casserole.
Should I let her in? I don’t think she’ll insist on seeing her, but . . .”
This has been a regular occurrence. Though I’ve been keeping everyone fed with fresh homemade food, there’s been a steady parade of friends and neighbors wanting to help.
It’s kind of nice. Reminds me of when I was young and Dad had a tumor removed.
The whole town seemed to stop by. Word must be out that Brooklyn is home.
Margot shoots me a look, whether derision or humor, I can’t tell. “I’ll intercept. Be right back.”
The house is small enough that the acoustics from the foyer reverberate.
If you’re in the hall outside the kitchen, you can hear conversations.
The FBI agents love to talk, gossip, compare notes.
They are all football fanatics; the Titans are making headlines.
There’s been much ballyhoo about their young quarterback and the team’s chances at winning a Super Bowl.
It’s not that I’ve been eavesdropping. I can’t help but overhear.
The woman in the foyer is a master of upspeak, her voice lilting at the ends of the sentences, making each a question, rapid firing at Margot in a delicate Southern accent.
“I heard Brook was home? So I wanted to bring you over a lasagna? The kids must be so thrilled to have their mommy back? You just need to put this on three hundred and fifty for about fifteen minutes? You look so good, Margot? Tell me how you’re doing, really?
And where did you find this divine nanny everyone’s talking about? ”
That last is a true question, and it takes a second for me to realize she’s talking about me.
“Oh, Eden isn’t our nanny. She’s a . . . new friend. From Atlanta. We just met a few days ago.”
“Days? Months, you mean.”
“No, that’s not right,” Margot says, and my heart rate starts to increase. “She and Brooklyn met the day of the accident.”
“Oh. I could have sworn I saw her at school? The pickup line, around Halloween? Am I losing my mind? She hasn’t been working for you this whole time and Brook’s just keeping her a secret?”
“Definitely losing your mind, Stephanie.”
But the woman won’t stop. “Can I at least . . . talk to her? I mean, I know how hard it is to get good help, but with the boys turning six and all of my charity work gearing up, I’m a little overwhelmed. If she’s not full time—”
“Eden’s not help. She’s a friend. I’m sure it was someone else you saw. Come on in, you can meet her. She’s not a nanny, though.” Margot calls my name, and I plaster on a smile and bustle into the foyer like I haven’t heard a word.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say, wiping my hands on the starched apron I found in the pantry.
“Do we have guests? I can set another plate. Hi, I’m Eden.
” I shove my hand into the woman’s space, and she shakes it automatically.
I can tell she’s searching her memory banks, trying to match me up with her memory, and I smile even wider.
There’s no chance.
Margot smiles, too. “Stephanie brought us a lasagna.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s so kind. We haven’t had Italian all week, the kids will be thrilled. I’ll just pop this in the fridge. It’s nice to meet you. You’re local?”
I take the casserole and wait. The woman squints, then shakes her head. “Just down the street. If y’all need anything, you just let me know?”
She shoots Margot another glance, then vamooses out the door. The agents set up their defensive scrum again. Juan winks at me. He knows I will bring them all a plate of dinner after I’ve fed the family. I’ve done it every night. It’s expected.
Margot holds out her hands for the casserole dish. It’s on two pot holders and scorching hot.
“I’ll take that. Let’s have some wine.”
There is nothing in her tone, nothing in her look but warm brightness and stars, the same way she’s been looking at me since we met. Nothing alarming. So I hand the dish over with a sigh of relief. “That was very kind of your neighbor. Since we’re having French, how about a Saint-émilion?”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll get it from the cellar. I know just the one.”