“And where did you move from? Somewhere else here in the city?”
Again, I stumble over my answer. “Ah, well... My... my husband had been working in Los Angeles and then... ah, he came up here to begin a new job.”
Libby stares at me with curious eyes. Answers to easy questions like these should fly off my tongue.
“How nice,” Libby says. “And what is your husband’s job?”
Finally, an uncomplicated question. “He does work for an insurance company. On the road, though. Assessing risk.”
“I have a cousin who sells life insurance. In Portland,” Libby says. “Which insurance company does your husband work for?”
My face warms with embarrassment. I haven’t asked Martin the name of the company he works for. I haven’t cared. And until Libby asked this question I hadn’t considered that maybe I should care. Martin had said it is important for prospective clients to see him as a fortunate family man—because no wealthy man wants to be confronted with the actual proof that tragedy could befall him, not even when buying insurance, which is why he sent for me. But in the month I’ve been married to Martin, I’ve not met one client, not answered one work-related telephone call—thething never rings—nor have I taken in any mail related to Martin’s employer. I can’t even look for an envelope and guess who my husband works for.
Libby is waiting for my answer. “He... that is, it’s a new job and I’m not... I don’t...” My voice falls away.
Libby cocks her head in a gesture of concern. “Is everything quite all right, Mrs. Hocking?”
Here is a question with such a bizarre answer, I can’t help myself. “That might depend on how you look at it,” I say with a laugh, and then immediately wish I could snatch the words back.
My neighbor’s eyes widen in alarm. “Is your husband involved in some kind of illegal activity?” she whispers.
“No!” I gasp. “No. It’s not that. It’s...” Again, I let the words die on my tongue.
Libby regards me for a moment, and then she leans forward and lifts the cloth off the plate resting on the table between us. Lovely petits fours are arranged like little bud-topped houses. “I say we have something sweet and a cup of tea and a long chat. Shall we ring for it?”
Ring for it?
Libby looks behind her, as if expecting someone to enter the room. She swings back around to face me. “Does your maid have the day off today?”
My maid. This is why Libby looked so surprised when I answered the door. She expected my maid to do it. Never did I think I’d be getting a maid when I married Martin Hocking, and apparently he didn’t think so, either. He’s never spoken of it.
“We haven’t hired one,” I say, as delicately as I can.
Libby stands, hoists her son to one side, and grabs the plate. “It’s hard coming to a new place and not knowing anyone. I knowpeople who know where to find a good maid. I can ask for you. Here. You and I can make the tea, can’t we?”
I want to tell her I make it all the time. I want to tell her I don’t think I want someone else keeping this house. Besides Kat, it’s the only thing I have that feels like it belongs to me.
“Of... of course. Right this way.” I lead her to the kitchen, where the kettle is already simmering. She smiles at me.
“Well, look there, thinking ahead like that. You’ve already got the water going!” Then Libby asks if Timmy can play with some pots, pans, and wooden spoons so that he won’t grow fussy. I ask Kat to find the makeshift playthings and she readily complies, sitting down on the floor with Timmy as he bangs away on a copper pot. Libby leans up against the pie safe and crosses her arms across her chest. I turn up the heat under the kettle.
“Let’s start at the beginning. What’s your husband’s name?” she asks.
“Martin.” I pull a tin of tea out of the cupboard.
“And he’s from Los Angeles?”
“Not exactly. He’s originally from back east but he came to Los Angeles a few years back.”
“So you met him in Los Angeles, then?”
I am either going to tell my new friend the truth or I’ll have to concoct a mountain of lies that I will forever have to remember. The truth will probably come out eventually, won’t it? Maybe it makes sense to watch what it’s like for someone to hear what I’ve done. Then I’ll know if mine is a story that other people can listen to and not judge me a fool after hearing it. The only other option is to fib.
I glance down at Kat, who at this same moment looks up at me. Kat is aware enough of the truth. I don’t want to lie in frontof this little girl who is just beginning to trust me. I want Kat’s trust more than I want Libby’s friendship, and I know I always will. I turn my attention back to Libby as I set the tin on the countertop.
“I didn’t meet Martin in Los Angeles. I met him here in San Francisco a month ago. At the ferry terminal.”
“You met him a month ago?” Libby echoes, her eyes wide.
