“Wait—what?”
We’re out on the street now, heading back in the direction of Rowanpark. The late-afternoon sun beams down, dappling the footpath, with only the slightest breeze rustling the treetops.
“Her child was hurt,” Leesa says. “She’s in full Mama-Bear mode. She’d literally grab Cody by the scruff of the neck and throw him out of the house if she found him there again. I promise you, there’s nothing in the world like a mother whose child has been hurt. It doesn’t mean we can take her word as gospel.”
“I don’t know, she seemed pretty rational to me…”
A single car rolls past and we step on to the now empty main road that divides Oakpark from Rowanpark. Everyone’s either in back gardens or beer gardens, making the most of the hot weather.
“Believe me, when Maeve was being bullied, I had full-blown vigilante fantasies,” Leesa says. “I imagined going to each girl’s house, or waiting till one of them was on her own somewhere and pushing her up against a wall to tell her if she ever went near my child again, I’d fucking kill her.”
My jaw drops. “Leesa! That’s not like you.”
“That’s what I mean. When someone hurts your kid, all bets are off. I wouldn’t have actually done it, obviously.”
“Yeah. OK. I get you.” We turn into Rowanpark Drive, the tree-lined street on which Leesa lives. The grass verges outside each neat redbrick house are patchworked in sunlight and the only sound is the faint hum of a distant mower.
“So just because Moira Fitzpatrick says Cody is definitely violent, doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“But to push a child out the door and lock it…”
“It’s awful,” Leesa agrees. “Obviously, he shouldn’t have done it, even if Senan may have been a bit of a handful.” A grimace.
“I wasn’t going to say, but yeah, having just met Senan…not the easiest kid for a fourteen-year-old to manage.” We start walking again. I’m too hot now and looking forward to a cool drink at Leesa’s.
“Another thing I noticed,” Leesa says, “Moira mentioned it was ten o’clock at night, though Senan was only four years old. I’d imagine his official bedtime was earlier than ten. I wonder how long Cody had been trying to get him to go to bed?”
29
Celeste
Sunday
Celeste smiles around the dining-room table. Everything is just so. Sleek white candles flickering in heavy gold candlesticks. A centerpiece of fresh flowers from her local florist. Gold-and-white dinnerware from Venetto Design, and gold Georg Jensen cutlery she’d brought back from a business trip to Copenhagen. Her favorite crystal glasses topped up with a 2022 Syrah, her guests almost finished her delicious beef wellington with truffle mashed potatoes.
Of course, good as her food is, the Sullivans are really here for gossip, for something to take home from dinner with the Gearys. And she’s giving themnothing.
“So you’ll come to the summer party on Thursday, won’t you?” Juliette Sullivan asks, with a glint in her eye. “The Oakpark Residents’ Association one, on the green. I’m chief organizer, for my sins. As if I didn’t have enough to do. But you know what they say, ask a busy person. So, you’ll both be there?”
Not on your life, Celeste thinks. She and Warren arenotparading themselves in front of the entire estate.
“Oh,sucha pity,” she says. “I have work calls on Thursday night—it’s a terribly busy time of year, especially for my New York teams. You know how it is. Well…” A faux-sheepish shrug finishes the sentence. Juliette does not know how it is. She does not have a New York team or any kind of team because her main function in life, as far as Celeste can see, is running Oakpark summer parties and gossiping about neighbors.
The uncareful slam of the front door tells her Cody’s home, and she calls him to the dining room. He slouches in and mumbles a response when she asks him to say hi. Hands in pockets, eyes down, he leaves while Juliette Sullivan is still asking about his summer.For god’s sake. Celeste will speak to him later. If she has the energy.
“He’s exhausted,” she says, smiling benevolently. “You know how it is with teens—up till all hours then sleeping all morning.”
Juliette Sullivan inclines her head.
“Really? Gosh, mine are asleep by eleven every night. But I don’t let them have phones in their rooms.” A light laugh. “They must hate me. You’re probably right to just let them do whatever they want. I’m old-school, I suppose.”
Go you, Celeste says soundlessly, through gritted teeth.
A gentler click of the front door tells her Nika’s home. She’s a better bet for meeting Juliette Sullivan’s high standards. Celeste doesn’t need to call Nika in like she did with Cody—Nika comes through herself, perfect smile wide, greeting their neighbors with confident grace. She looks good too (not that that matters, of course) in her denim shorts and black Converse and soft-gray hoodie, her caramel hair lightened by the sun. Celeste can hear Nika’s phone buzzing in the back pocket of her shorts, but her daughter ignores it, like the polite girl she is. Thank you for not letting the side down, Celeste thinks. It can’t beallher fault if one child turned out OK.
Juliette is asking Nika about her summer, about tennis and hockey and her part-time job in an ice-cream shop. Nika smiles, tucks her hair as she chats easily, and Celeste’s stress levels slip down a notch. Why can’t Codybe more like Nika? Is it a boy/girl thing? Or just a personality thing? She suppresses a small sigh and tops up everyone’s wine.
“Will you have half a glass?” Warren asks Nika, nodding toward a spare seat at the end of the table.
