Both kids said yes to the assignment immediately when Connelly and Sasha presented it as an adventure, a chance to spend the spring in the nation’s capital. No hesitation, no negotiation required.
Sasha catches Connelly’s eye. He’s smiling.
She exhales and picks up her coffee. Takes a sip. Opens the book.
Four hours later, they pull up in front of their home for the next twelve weeks.
Sasha looks up from her book and goes still.
The house is beautiful. Stately. Ivy-clad brick, black shutters, a short stone staircase leading to a glossy front door. The kind of house she might admire in a design magazine but could never imagine living in. She’s nearly fifty, but she feels nowhere near grownup enough for this house.
“Wow,” Fiona breathes from the backseat.
Connelly kills the engine. They sit for a moment, staring.
“There’s no way a prep school history teacher can afford this,” Sasha murmurs.
Connelly grins as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Good thing this particular history teacher is married to a high-powered law firm partner.”
He climbs out of the SUV, and the kids spill out behind him. Mocha’s leash tangles around Fiona’s legs as he waters a bush. Java yowls from his carrier in Finn’s arms. Sasha follows her family, taking in the walled-in outdoor dining area on the side of the house, the mature trees offering privacy, the quiet residential street.
This is their life for the next three months. A beautiful lie.
Connelly unlocks the front door and pushes it open. Hardwood floors gleam in the afternoon light. Built-in bookshelves line the living room. Through the French doors at the back, she can see the rear garden.
“Look, Mom! There’s a window seat!” Fiona shouts as she runs past an alcove in the sitting room and thunders up the stairs.
Finn follows more slowly, gripping Java’s carrier with both hands. His footsteps are deliberate, measured. He’s taking it all in.
Mocha pads after him, nails clicking on the wood.
Sasha and Connelly stand in the foyer, listening to Fiona’s excited exploration as she exclaims over the bedrooms. Finn’s quieter presence is harder to track.
His phone buzzes. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. His jaw tightens.
“What?”
“Email from Dean Ashworth. The faculty is throwing a baby shower for Caleb Rye and Emmaline Rose. Tonight. Six o’clock. At her residence.” He scrolls further. “She’s looking forward to meeting you. Says the whole community is eager to welcome our family.”
Sasha’s stomach drops. “Tonight? We just got here.”
“I know.”
“The kids haven’t unpacked. We were going to order dinner in, let them explore the neighborhood, get settled.”
“I know.” He looks up from the phone. “But this isn’t really an invitation, is it?”
She reads the email over his shoulder. “So delighted you’re joining the faculty family. We can’t wait to meet the woman who convinced you to take a pay cut for the love of teaching. Caleb and Emmaline are such dear colleagues. I know you’ll both adore them.”
The tone is warm and welcoming, but he’s right. She’s not asking, she’s telling.
“If we don’t both show?—”
“We look antisocial. Uncollegial. Like we’re too good for a small faculty gathering.” He pockets his phone. “Or like we have something to hide.”
Upstairs, Fiona’s voice drifts down. “Finn, come look out the window. There’s a tire swing in the back yard!”
No response.
