“Thank you,” Justin murmured sleepily.
While he sat on the edge of Beth’s chair and nibbled his cookie, Natalie’s friends smiled at him. Women were always taken in by his round, flushed cheeks, the sweep of his dark eyelashes, and his thick, tousled hair. His small feet dangled above the floor, and he clicked his heels together as if he wanted to teleport home from Oz.
When the cookie was gone, Justin handed Beth the plate and snuggled against her. Beth’s expression turned dreamy, and Natalie knew she was pretending that Justin belonged to her—just for a moment—so she let her son stay where he was.
She immediately regretted this decision. Justin’s presence had altered the mood. The momentum the women had begun to build in their campaign against Mrs. Smith was fizzling, and she couldn’t allow that to happen.
At some point, and Natalie couldn’t say when, she’d decided that Mrs. Smith was the only thing standing between her and her first sale. Why should this woman whom she’d never seen or spoken to wield so much power by ignoring conventions?It was high time Mrs. Smith took responsibility for the eyesore that was her house and property. Natalie refused to let one woman thwart her success. She wouldn’t let anyone condemn her into spending the next ten years cooking, cleaning, and driving the kids all over town.
Beth gently swayed from side to side, and when Natalie saw Justin’s lids growing heavy, she tenderly wiggled his big toe.
“Go brush your teeth like a big boy. I’ll come kiss you good night in a minute.”
When Justin slid off Beth’s chair, he dropped his Hot Wheels car. It tumbled on the rug between Natalie and Beth, but Beth stretched out her arm to retrieve it before its wheels had stopped spinning. She handed it to Justin and, after whispering his thanks, he trundled down the hall to the bathroom.
Beth took a gulp of her cocktail and stared after Justin. “I want to bake things for little boys like him. Choux pastry cars. A cinnamon-swirl brontosaurus with raisins for eyes. Boat-shaped cakes floating on a pudding ocean. I want to make cupcakes with sprinkles in the middle and brownies with monster faces. I want to make things for my own kids.”
Natalie took hold of Beth’s hand and was about to offer words of encouragement when she noticed the marks on her friend’s arm. “Did Don do that?”
Beth tried to pull down the sleeve of her blouse, but it was too late. Natalie had already seen the purple, finger-shaped bruises marching across her skin. “It’s not what you think.”
Elaine scooted to the edge of the couch and tucked a strand of Beth’s hair behind her ear. The tenderness of this touch loosened something in Beth, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Don doesn’t want to fuck me anymore.”
Natalie stiffened.
“I know, I know.Ladiesaren’t supposed to use that kind of language, but it’s true. Don and I fuck. Like rabbits. We don’tmake love. We’re wild and rough and loud. Sex is a huge part of our marriage, and we’re not having any.”
She picked up her glass and tossed back the rest of her drink.
“Last night, Don was already asleep by the time I finished getting ready for bed, so I thought I’d wake him up in a really nice way. I started touching him, and he got hard. I thought everything was okay, even when he grabbed me by the arms and pinned me down, because he’s done that before. But before, it was playful. Sexy. Last night, he just held me there. I couldn’t move and there was nothing playful about it. I screamed at him until he let me go.”
Elaine stared at Beth’s arm. “Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he didn’t realize he was hurting you.”
“It wasn’t an accident. He said, ‘For fuck’s sake, I’m trying to sleep. Don’t touch me again!’”
Beth pushed back her sleeves and held out both her arms. A school of purple bruises swam over her skin.
Natalie picked up Beth’s clipboard and pressed it into her hands. “We’ll make sure Mrs. Smith is too busy to bother Don anymore. Won’t we, Elaine?”
Elaine knocked her glass against Natalie’s and whispered, “Fuck yeah.”
10
Mrs. Smith
Mrs. Smith sat in her hot tub, thinking about the letter the woman in white had pushed through her mail slot two days ago.
The woman who lived in the house with too many windows had passed through Mrs. Smith’s electronic gate with the cool dignity of a priestess. After slipping around the gate behind the yard crew, her sandals click, click, clicking on the driveway, she’d marched up the flagstone path and across the porch to the front door.
She didn’t knock. Instead, she removed her sunglasses, tucked them in the oversized pocket of her blouse, and pushed a collection of gold bracelets higher on her wrist.
While the woman was adjusting her jewelry, Mrs. Smith had studied her face. She could easily see through the closed window shade, and she examined her neighbor with the emotional detachment of a leopard watching a beetle scuttle over its paw.
The woman’s eyes were a bright blue, like a lagoon awash in sunlight. When she glanced up to face the door again, Mrs. Smith saw determination mixed with fear in those eyes.
She’d seen this look on the woman’s face before. If fact, she’d seen the full range of the woman’s expressions because she’d been watching her for years.
