“Yes,” I sigh, already imagining my mother in my kitchen. “Everyone.”
“Good! Because Lauren and I have to see if there’s any candy we want to trade.”
“That’s fine,” I say, leaning down to her level. “But just so we’re clear, I get fifty percent. It’s the Dad Tax. Standard city ordinance.”
Emma stops dead. Her eyes go wide, her jaw dropping as she clutches that pillowcase to her chest like I’ve just suggested we sell her stuffed rabbit. “What?No! You didn’t earn this, Daddy! You didn’t even wear a tail!”
I bite back a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I provided the security, the navigation, and the height required to reach the higher doorbells. Fifty percent. My office will send over the invoice.”
She whips around to Annie, desperate for a loophole. “It’s not real, right? He’s joking?”
Annietsks, shaking her head with a solemnity that would hold up in the Supreme Court. “I’m so sorry, Em. It’s the law of the land. I think it’s in the Constitution. Somewhere in the back.”
Emma stares at us for a beat, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated defiance. “You’renottouching my Snickers! I’m hiding them under my bed. Or putting them in the freezer!”
She storms ahead, muttering something about ‘unfair parent taxes’. Annie and I look at each other and just break out in laughter. It’s a shared, easy laugh that feels dangerous in its comfort level.
“Do you know people in this neighborhood well?” Annie asks, glancing at the glowing windows of the brownstones.
“Not really,” I say, watching the sea of kids with glow sticks cutting arcs through the dark. “Just Joe and Allison. I know a few other parents from Emma’s preschool, but mostly we just trade polite nods and complaints about the tuition.”
Through the fog machines and the screeching kids, I catch sight of a silhouette walking toward us. My stomach does a slow, unhappy roll. I groan, low and pained.
Annie looks at me, her eyebrows shooting up. “What? Giant spider? Ex-girlfriend?”
I lean in slightly, and the scent of her—vanilla and fresh laundry soap—nearly derails my train of thought. “Worse. That’s Denise Briggs. Her daughter is in Emma’s class, they’re friends.”
“Okay…?”
“She’s… a professional participant. She knows everyone’s business, their net worth, and probably their cholesterol levels. She’s a one-woman gossip cyclone.”
Annie raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Ah. The Neighborhood Watch, but with better highlights.”
“Exactly.”
Denise is on us before we can duck behind a topiary. She’s a neon blur in an electric blue leotard, matching leg warmers over hot pink tights, and a sweatband that suggests she’s ready for a jazzercize class at any moment. Her lipstick is fire-engine red, her lashes caked with so much mascara they look like spider legs.
“Leo!” she trills, her voice echoing off the stone.
She leans in before I can stop her and does the European double-cheek kiss thing. I try not to recoil but there’s no escaping Denise once she’s committed. “Denise. Hi. Great…leg warmers.”
Her eyes immediately dart to Annie, scanning her head to toe, quickly taking in the sweater, the jeans, and the way we’re standing just a little too close to be strangers. It’s the sort of look that makes me want to put my arm around Annie just to give Denise something real to talk about.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Denise says, her smile bright and predatory as she extends a hand. “I’m Denise Briggs. My house is right there—” she points to a brownstone three doors down, decorated within an inch of its life, with two massive candy bowls on the porch surrounded by kids fighting over king-size Hershey bars.“Emma and my daughter Chloe are best friends. They’re in the same class.”
She pauses, her head tilting, waiting for the introduction she can dismantle later over Chardonnay.
Annie doesn’t miss a beat. She extends her hand with a grace I certainly don’t possess at the moment, her smile warm and professionally polished. “Annie Collier. It’s so nice to meet you, Denise. Which one is Chloe?
Denise points toward a girl a couple houses down dressed as a fairy princess, currently pushing another kid away from a candy bowl and shoving handfuls of chocolate into her own bag while the homeowner isn’t looking.
Annie and I both stare. I’ve never cared for Chloe. The apple didn’t fall far from that particular tree.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” Denise says. Her tone is airy, but her eyes are doing another full-body scan of Annie, likely checking for a wedding ring or a criminal record.
Annie jabs a thumb in my direction. “I just started nannying for Leo a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, isn’t that wonderful.” Denise’s smile is as thin as a sheet of phyllo dough and twice as flaky. The words sound like she’s offering condolences for a tragic loss.
