It was impossible to believe. No one in the neighborhood had laid eyes on Mrs. Smith, let alone stepped foot in her home. And yet, where else could he be?
“Itoldyou. She has some kind of hold on him,” Beth murmured. “She has... power.”
It was a strange thing to say, but no stranger than the idea of Mrs. Smith wanting something from Don. Loud, brash, uncouth Don. It was beyond comprehension.
Beth’s next-door neighbor tooted his horn in greeting as he drove by. As Natalie gave him a perfunctory wave, she noticed the time. She needed to go, but Beth looked so gutted that she didn’t see how she could leave her on her own.
“You’ll work this out,” she said. “All couples go through rough patches. Don loves you.”
Her words carried no conviction, and Beth didn’t bother responding.
You have a client meeting, said the devil on Natalie’s shoulder.
You can’t leave her like this, said her better angel.
Yes, you can. You need to sell the McCreedy house.
She’s your friend.
Your name isn’t on the sales board. Sid said the market dies in August, and August isn’t far away. Get on the board, or your career will die, too.
An image of her Electrolux, sitting in the laundry closet like a leashed dog waiting to be walked, flashed in Natalie’s mind.
“I’m really sorry, Beth, but I have to go. As soon as Don comes back, he’ll tell you why he was at Mrs. Smith’s. I’m sure it was just about the car. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Natalie tried to give her friend a quick hug, but Beth retreated into the shadows of her foyer. She stood straight as an arrow, her arms pinned to her side. Her eyes were two pinpricks shining out of the gloom. She looked hollowed out. She looked like a ghost.
Staring at her friend, all the tiny hairs on the back of Natalie’s neck stood on end. “Is there anything I can do?”
Beth shook her head once and then slammed the door in Natalie’s face.
19
Una
Una spread blackberry jam on Kristofer’s toast and transferred three sausages from the frying pan to his plate.
Her husband appeared in the kitchen as if magicked there by the scent of coffee and grease. He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re up early, love.”
Una pointed at the rain-freckled window. “The thunder woke me.”
Kristofer poured coffee into his favorite Cornell mug and held out the carafe. “Would you like some?”
“I’m having tea this morning. This gray day reminds me of home.”
If Kristofer found it strange that she still referred to Iceland as home after all this time, he didn’t show it. “It’s a good day for reading, eh?”
Una sat down at their little table. “Reading and baking. I think I’ll make enoughRúgbrauðfor us and the Scotts.”
Her husband’s eyes creased at the corners as he imagined slathering butter over a slice of his wife’s hearty rye bread.Rúgbrauðwas a staple in Iceland, and though there was plenty of rye bread available in New York, none of them tasted quiteright. They lacked the density and mild sweetness of Una’s bread.
“I’ll stop by the library while I’m in Greenlawn,” Una said. “Do you have books to return?”
“I haven’t finished any yet. Too much baseball watching.”
Thunder rumbled low in the sky and Una glanced out the window. “No one will be sailing today. They’ll all be safe at home.”
Kristofer studied his wife over the rim of his coffee cup. “How are the children?”
