CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

CAT

Eight days after the party, our new neighbors closed on the Baker house. I stood on our front balcony with a glass of chardonnay and watched as a single cleaning van traveled down their long drive, bumping over the cracks. In any other neighborhood, there would be knee-high grass covering the large yard, weeds clawing over the abandoned flower beds, vines inching up the brick. But we hadn’t paid fourteen million dollars to live next to an eyesore. I’d spent the last six years paying for weekly lawn maintenance on the abandoned home. I’d had Ted replace the front gate lamps when they had burned out. I’d wandered the property at the end of my morning walks and kept an eye out for rodent holes and standing water where mosquitoes would breed.

I’d also, unbeknownst to my husband, spent a great deal of time inside the home. It used to be interesting. Four years ago, before the IRS’s liquidation team swooped in and took everything, it had been a house full of memories and secrets. A life suddenly abandoned. Dresser drawers still open, a negligee set hanging half-out. The safe door open, the combination stuck to a Post-it on the inside wall, its shelves almost empty, a photo album cockeyed in the back corner. The Bakers had fled in the middle of the night, their Mercedes still sitting in the garage, their cell phones left on the kitchen counter. Tax evasion was the rumor in the neighborhood, though I found the more likely culprit behind neatly folded pillowcases in Claudia Baker’s linen closet.

Cocaine.Five wrapped bundles that weighed in at two pounds each, according to their bathroom scale. I found another ten in an upper cabinet in their kitchen, behind boxes of Frosted Flakes and Honey Nut Cheerios. I found another bundle ripped open in their office, two lines tapped out on the cover of a Rolling Stone magazine.

For months after the Bakers disappeared, I would duck between the line of bushes that separated our lots and roam their house. I pocketed a ring of keys that I found in their junk drawer and skipped over the window I had initially used, coming and going as I wished. I spent afternoons in the big leather chair behind John Baker’s desk, flipping through their files. I combed bank and credit card statements, fascinated by the personal glimpse into their life. I stood in Claudia’s bathroom, before her big, wide mirror, and carefully applied her lipstick and shadows.

She’d been an interesting housewife. In the drawers of their master closet, I’d found ball gags and blindfolds, furry handcuffs and phallic-shaped toys. I spent an afternoon sifting through her lingerie and naughty costumes. I claimed a mink stole and Vuitton clutch, along with several pieces of abandoned jewelry. I spent one morning stretched out on their bed, dressed in her clothes, listening to their playlist crackling through the overhead speakers. And one day, just a few weeks before the IRS came and took everything—I found the second safe.

This one didn’t have a lock. It was a fireproof box in a hidden floor compartment, underneath the faux Persian rug in their master bedroom. I’d been on my stomach, reaching underneath their bed, when my knee dug against a bump in the rug. I’d shimmied back from the bed and peeled back the rug, thrilled to discover the trapdoor. Excitement had hummed through me, my fingers slipping on the inset pull, and it had taken three tugs to get the door open. Inside, the iron cavity held a variety of empty money wrappers and a collection of crude porn. I had examined the construction of the secret compartment and considered installing a similar feature in our house. It might be a good place to put the thirty pounds of cocaine that I now had tucked in our attic, the parcels high and dry behind three rows of Christmas decorations, in a box labeled Dollhouse. There were, after all, things you never knew you might need. My mother had taught me that. Granted, she’d been referring to a heating pad that had been marked down at a yard sale two blocks from our home, but I had taken the advice to heart in more ways than one, and it had come in handy in a number of moments.

Now, I sipped a chilled glass of juice and wondered how one cleaning van could possibly tackle the layers of dust and grime inside that house. It would take them weeks. Not that I minded a delay before Matt and Neena Ryder moved in. I hadn’t quite warmed to the idea of a new woman moving into both Winthorpe Tech and our street. Especially this woman.

I settled into one of the balcony’s chaise lounges, trying to pinpoint the cause of my trepidation. She wouldn’t be the first attractive woman inside WT’s sleek corridors. William had hired more than a dozen female doctors and engineers, seeking the best of the best, regardless of their gender or appearance. Typically, the brighter the mind, the more unattractive the appearance, but every once in a while, there was a unicorn like Allyson Cho, our stunningly beautiful lead researcher. Or Nicole Finnegan, our public relations powerhouse. Both Nicole and Allyson were arguably more attractive than this blonde director of motivation—and what a stupid title that was. So, why were my hackles raised?

There was more movement at the front gate, and I sat up, surprised to see a moving semi attempt the tight turn through the Bakers’ front gate. Unless the moving truck contained a pile of cleaners, it was wasting its time. The truck stopped and reversed, and a beep echoed over the barren lawn. From the pocket of my cardigan sweater, my phone rang.

“Are you watching this?” Kelly’s voice hissed through the receiver, and I smiled, certain she was up on her widow’s walk, in earshot of the Bakers’ gate.

“I don’t think it’s going to make the turn,” I remarked.

“I thought you said the place was in ruins. How could they be bringing in furniture already?” There was a crackle of wind against her mouthpiece. “Oh my God, Cat. There’s a U-Haul coming down Greenoaks. We should call security. Tell them not to let any more in. They’re going to clog up the entire street.”

I didn’t respond, watching as the semi’s front wheels narrowly missed the cherub fountain.

“This is a disaster,” Kelly clipped on. “What if it’s still blocking the road when church gets out? Paul hasn’t left yet to pick the kids up. Paul?” The wind diminished as she made her way inside her home in search of their manny. “Paul!”

“William is calling me,” I lied. “Let me run.”

“Okay. But tennis tomorrow morning, right? Nine o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.” I ended the call and winced as the side of the shipping container scraped along the gate, then broke free, the truck lumbering down the drive. The sun moved behind a cloud, and I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. Wrapping the cashmere tighter, I decided to abandon the view and move inside.

I found William on his phone in the kitchen and interrupted his call long enough to steal a kiss. I opened the fridge and removed a parcel of wrapped steaks, holding them up so that he could see the butcher’s writing on the front. He nodded, and I placed the package on the counter.

“Look, if you need a break, come up here. You can audit our books.”

I untied the knot on the package and took out the filets, tuning in to the conversation.

“Bring her with you. We’ve got the guesthouse you can stay in. Plus, Cat hasn’t seen Beth since last summer. They’ll enjoy hanging out.”

The clues aligned. Beth. A break. It had to be Mac. I slid the plate toward my husband and grabbed a spatula from the rack, setting it beside the blue china.

“It’s not charity,” William growled. “You’re my brother. And I could use you. I need someone I can trust with these numbers.”

Someone he could trust.I wasn’t sure that Mac fit that bill. I turned away from William and returned to the fridge, opening both sides of the Sub-Zero and staring at the contents. Unless we had specific plans, the chef had the weekends off, and I looked through the shelf of labeled salads. I pulled out a container of avocado and spring mix.

Over the last decade, I’d lost count of the things we’d done for William’s brother. It was like giving leftovers to a stray dog—the half rack of lamb didn’t solve its problems but still gave you the sense that you were doing something to help.

I wasn’t sure that we’d helped him at all. It was hard to help an alcoholic who didn’t want to stop drinking. We’d paid for six rehab stints. Moved him three times. Paid off a gambling debt with some ugly Vegas characters. Pulled strings to get him jobs that he had tanked on. And now William wanted to bring him to Winthorpe Tech? A terrible idea, but I loved the fierce dedication he had to Mac, and I was desperate to grow his limited family to include children of our own.

William moved out onto the veranda, and I popped open a beer, certain that he’d need a drink after he finished with Mac.

The beeping of a truck’s reverse faintly sounded, and I moved to the sink, glancing out the window.

“Mac’s on tilt.” William strode through the opening, pushing his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. “Won’t leave the house. Drunk.”

“Oh God.” I ripped open the salad’s bag and evenly divided the contents onto two plates. “Has he been fired yet?”

He grimaced. “I was afraid to bring it up. Can you call the bank and have them make a deposit into their account? And check with their landlord—”

“Rent’s paid through next year,” I interrupted. “I did that a few months ago.” I slid the beer toward him.

“Good.” He downed half of it in one long gulp. “He doesn’t want to come here.”

I fought to keep the relief from my face. “I’ll talk to Beth and see if there’s a good day for me to drive down for a visit. I’d love to see the baby.”

“Yeah, I’d like it if you could put eyes on him.” He moved forward and kissed me.

I tried to be disappointed in his refusal to come, but Mac was always a volatile guest. I once came home to find him in our master bedroom, naked and facedown on the bed, vomit spewed over the expensive duvet.

The beep sounded again, and William glanced toward the noise. “They already moving in next door?”

“Yep.” I pulled two sets of silverware out of the drawer and stacked each on the plate. “I can’t believe they’re bringing furniture in with it in that condition.”

“It’s not uninhabitable. It’s neglected.” He cracked a grin, and maybe the conversation with Mac wouldn’t ruin his day. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten that cramped apartment I pulled you from. Your shower handle was held together with a rubber band.”

I picked up both plates and headed around the marble island. “You pulled me from? I was an unpaid college intern. I was doing just fine on student loans and fast food. You’re lucky I gave all that up to move in with you.”

“Oh, sure.” He blocked my way, taking the plates, and leaned forward, asking for a kiss. “You were an angel to sacrifice all that just for me.”

“Better.” I accepted his kiss. “And hey—my tiny apartment had charm.”

“Well, compared to it, they’re moving into a palace.” He turned. “We eating outside or in?”

“Outside.” I returned to the kitchen’s window and could see Neena, standing in the driveway in cutoff shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, directing traffic. I let my eyes drift over the home’s brick exterior, the wide porches and double fireplaces. William was right—it wasn’t uninhabitable, just dated and dirty. Fifteen years ago, I would have considered it a castle, but a decade as Mrs. Winthorpe had made me a snob, one who now thought of heated towels and ironed sheets as a necessity.

Neena yelled something at the driver, and I thought of the day I’d moved into this house. The wedding-ring set was still unexpectedly heavy on my finger. All my belongings would take up a laughably small portion of the massive closet. I had stooped to lift a box of personal items from the trunk of my brand-new Maserati, and William had stopped me with one gentle shake of his head. “Do you see this?” He’d pulled at my hand, bringing the diamond up between us. “This means that you don’t move your own things. You’re Mrs. Winthorpe now, and everyone bows and caters to you.”

“Even you?” I had said saucily, even as the thrill of power had swept giddily through me.

He had laughed and never answered the question. I hadn’t cared. I had stepped into this house and devoured every opulent inch of it. I had settled, immediately and comfortably, on my throne and never lifted a box again.

In contrast, Neena staggered around the back of the truck, her arms wrapped around a heavy cardboard box. She squatted, setting the box carefully on the ground, then stood and brushed off her palms. Turning to the side, she examined our house. From this distance, across the manicured gardens and behind a row of Italian cypress trees, I felt protected, even as her stare lengthened. I didn’t blame her. There was a reason that cars lined the street to see our Christmas decorations, and Architectural Digest had devoted a center spread to our home. It was stare-worthy. Gawk-worthy. I watched as her gaze cataloged the stone framework, the modern lines, the copper roof and glass railings.

William moved beside me, following my line of vision. “Should we go over? Welcome them to the neighborhood?”

“Not yet.” I watched her, waiting for her to turn, but she kept in place, her gaze locked on our house. “She’s just staring over here.”

He shrugged and began to wash his hands.

“It’s a little creepy.”

“It’s a big house, babe. Lots to look at.”

“How was she this week? Does the team like her?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t met with all of them yet. I’ve gotten a few hostile comments and a few supportive ones. Some think she’s a little too rah-rah.” Using the back of his wrist, he turned off the water.

I grinned. “Let me guess: Harris?” The Nigerian scientist was the sort to scowl when words like teamwork or cohesion were used. His annual evaluations always garnered the lowest scores from fellow team members on communication skills but the highest on aptitude.

“Yep. I think his exact quote was, ‘We don’t need the Kumbaya stuff to save lives.’ Which”—he pulled a hand towel off the rack—“I agree with. I told Neena to steer clear of him.”

Neena. No longer Dr. Ryder. I notated it, then dismissed it, aware that everyone at Winthorpe was on a first-name basis. Even the janitorial staff referred to William by name.

He tossed the towel beside the sink. “Come on. Steaks are almost ready.”

I remained a moment longer, waiting until she turned away from our house and back to hers. Her husband appeared in the open garage door, and she pointed to the box. I folded the hand towel into thirds and placed it back in its position. Pulling a Pellegrino from the cooler, I glanced out the window. She was gone, swallowed by the house. At a second-story window, I watched a maid spray cleaner on the glass and wipe a cloth across the surface.

I didn’t understand anyone moving into a dirty house. It was like skipping past blank pages in a notebook and then starting your story on one that was already half-full. It was bad karma.