These Girls (12 page)

“Perfect,” Bob said as he pulled out the lasagna to check it. It was bubbly, and the cheese on top was golden brown.

“That smells amazing,” Abby said.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Bob replied mock-pompously. He paused, then said, “Why don’t you have some? There’s plenty. I’m half Italian and I’m genetically programmed to make too much food.”

“Oh.” Abby spun around from the refrigerator, holding the plastic container of blueberries. She took it to the sink and rinsed off a handful before answering. She wanted to ask whether Joanna would be home late but worried the question would come across as strange; as if she was suggesting Bob had something improper in mind.

“I’d love some,” she said after a moment. It was a square of lasagna, nothing more. And she needed to stop thinking about Bob’s face in her dream or she’d start blushing.

They sat at the kitchen table with Annabelle’s high chair pulled up between them, and laughed as she tried to steer a spoon into her mouth. “She’s like a drunk driver,” Bob said, swabbing at his daughter’s chin with his napkin.

“Dwiver,” Annabelle repeated, and then they all three laughed.

“So, how’s school going?” Bob asked, dishing up some salad and putting it on Abby’s plate.

“I love it,” Abby said. “It’s funny, in college I didn’t really appreciate learning. It was more about going to football games and talking to my friends and growing up, you know? I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do. But early childhood education is so cool.”

“What’s the best part?” he asked.

Abby chewed a tomato while she thought about it. “Little
brains are so malleable,” she finally said. “And experiences we have as young children can form pathways in our brains. They’re kind of like road maps, guiding our reactions to things that happen in the future. I love learning about how people are formed.”

“I never thought about it that way,” Bob said. “But you’re right. It is cool.”

He stood to take a half-f bottle of Merlot off the kitchen counter and raised his eyebrows in a question, and she nodded for him to splash some into her glass. “Just a few sips,” she said.

It was all perfectly innocent, she reminded herself. The only reason Abby felt nervous was because this was what she imagined her own life would feel like someday: the husband, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt and cracking a joke about the client who’d called in a panic before realizing her dog had tripped on the computer cord, unplugging the machine; the smiling baby; the easy chatter about the day that was almost behind them and the one that lay ahead. The kitchen with a trio of African violets in little pots on the windowsill and copper pans hanging from a ceiling rack; the table set with pretty dishes and gleaming silverware.

Did Bob ever get lonely? Maybe he’d always imagined his life unfolding this way, too, but Joanna was never around. When Abby was first hired, Joanna had said August would be quieter, since Congress was on recess then. But when August came, Joanna worked harder than ever to contain an erupting scandal—something about a campaign worker who’d sent a libelous anonymous letter about their political opponent to a newspaper. Unfortunately, the campaign worker had used the office fax machine, making its source easy to trace. It was an embarrassment for the senator, and Joanna headed up the investigation determining who was at fault. She was quoted in the paper as saying the worker had been terminated on the spot.

She seemed willing to do anything to quash potential hurt to the senator, yet when Bob stayed home for almost a week with a bad flu that threatened to turn into pneumonia, Joanna hadn’t missed a moment of work.

Was there something going on between Joanna and the senator? Abby sometimes wondered. She’d seen him on the news more than once; he was a good-looking guy, an avid squash player with a head of pure white hair and piercing eyes. Of course, he was twenty years Joanna’s senior, but Abby sensed that wouldn’t matter to Joanna. The silver-tongued, smartly dressed senator was the kind of guy Abby thought Joanna belonged with, not Bob, with the Snoopy tie he’d bought because Annabelle loved dogs, and dress shoes with a hole worn through the bottom of one that was visible whenever Bob propped up his feet on the coffee table.

Abby wondered if Bob ever thought about her relationship. She hadn’t brought Pete by the house, not once, and it bothered her that this didn’t bother either of them. Pete was a nice guy, an accountant who worked for a big firm downtown. He loved Adam Sandler movies and his fantasy football league and extra-hot chicken wings. He was kind and decent, but he didn’t give her the shivers. Their relationship had become so predictable: They went to dinner and watched TV with her feet up in his lap. On summer weekends, they drove to Ocean City, where they lay side by side on the beach, each engrossed in a book, then strolled the boardwalk and ate saltwater taffy and rode the Ferris wheel. They were content, and Abby knew it wasn’t enough. She expected contentment after forty years of marriage, not after a couple years of casual dating.

But being with Pete was so easy; he never picked fights or pressured her. He opened car doors and brought her red roses for no reason at all. Abby had thought about breaking up with him just last week, as she glanced over at his profile in the
dimly lit movie theater. His dark hair was starting to recede prematurely, but he lifted weights three times a week and had powerful shoulders and biceps. A lot of women would be grateful for a steady, even-tempered guy like Pete . . . but Abby had to admit he bored her.

He’d turned to meet her eyes. “Everything okay?” he’d whispered, and a sob had unexpectedly caught in Abby’s throat.

“I guess so,” she’d finally said, hoping he would see something in her face that would make him understand how she felt. If he did, maybe it would mean they were more connected than she’d thought. They could leave the movie, go somewhere quiet to talk . . . but he’d just nodded and gone back to crunching a handful of popcorn and, a moment later, erupted in laughter at a dumb joke on the screen as Abby felt the sudden heat of tears behind her lids.

Now she wondered if Bob felt an absence in his life, too, an emptiness that kept growing. But he seemed happy. He smiled a lot, and he lit up around Annabelle. If he had complaints about his marriage, they weren’t transparent.

“More lasagna?” he asked.

“Did you know I’m a quarter Italian?” Abby asked. “I think I’m genetically incapable of undereating lasagna.”

He laughed. “Then we’re a perfect pair.”

He reached for the spatula and delivered another helping to her plate. It was sensational; he’d roasted the vegetables first, then folded them between layers.

She noticed his wrists were strong-looking. She wondered who had taught him to cook. She thought about whether he’d made this lasagna last night to fill the time because Joanna was working late again.

Did she only imagine seeing loneliness in his eyes?

“So what made you decide to work with children?” Bob asked.

“I had a younger brother who died,” Abby blurted out. She looked down at her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “I don’t have any real memories of him. I was barely four. I think . . . I think I’m drawn to kids because of him. He’s why I want to take care of children. To make them happy.”

“I’m sorry,” Bob said, his voice gentle.

Abby nodded. “My parents never talked about him when we were growing up. We didn’t do therapy or any of that. It’s almost like he never existed. And I accepted that, for a long time . . . but the older I get, the more I think about him. Isn’t that strange?”

“I don’t think so,” Bob said. “What was his name?”

“Stevie.” It was one of the few times she’d spoken his name aloud, and it was as if something tight within her loosened a bit with the release of the word.

Bob nodded and they were both silent for a moment. “Abby, I just want you to know how lucky we feel that you’re the one taking care of Annabelle. You’re . . . amazing with her. You bring sunshine into this house.”

Later, Abby would replay those words over in her mind. She’d look back and remember that dinner as the moment they became true friends, when they’d shared hidden pieces of themselves. Yet the singular moment Abby would go back to again and again had nothing to do with their conversation. She had stood up and collected her dishes and was moving toward the sink at the exact moment Bob came around the table from the other direction to refill his wineglass. They’d ended up facing each other in the too-small space between the table and the open dishwasher door.

“Sorry,” Bob had said. He’d laughed, but it had sounded forced. As lightly as the touch of a fingertip, his chest had grazed the tips of her breasts through her sweater as they passed each other.

Bob had quickly swallowed the rest of his wine, then busied himself at the dishwasher while Abby wiped Annabelle’s face and hands with a damp paper towel. She’d thanked him for dinner, then excused herself, saying she needed to study.

But the words in her textbook had blurred as she found herself listening for him for the rest of the night. She caught his deep murmur as he spoke to Annabelle, then the sound of water running as he gave her a bath. Then, an hour or so later, water rushed through the pipes again as Bob took his own shower. When her cell phone rang, Abby saw Pete’s number and let it go to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to him, not tonight. Just before nine, Bob came back into the kitchen, and she could hear the beep of the microwave. Did he have a second helping of lasagna? she wondered. A few minutes later Joanna came home, and then Abby turned on her iPod to listen to Taylor Swift.

In the middle of the night, she woke up feeling hot and flushed, with the sheet twisted around her. She’d been dreaming that she was alone in the house when suddenly she heard the shower turn on. She walked toward it, as powerless as an actress in a slasher movie, but she felt no fear as she slowly pulled aside the curtain. Bob was naked, soapy water coursing down his broad chest and flat stomach.

He turned to see her staring at him.

“Aren’t you coming in?” he asked.

As Abby lay wide awake in the darkness, she couldn’t help thinking about him, lying just two floors above her.

Trey had promised to bring Abby by at ten Saturday morning before heading to the airport. He was flying to Thailand to interview an extreme surfer—a guy who risked his life to catch hundred-foot-tall waves. He’d be gone for five days, which
Renee knew was the quickest turnaround time possible for such a long journey. Trey’s devotion to his sister only made him more attractive in Renee’s eyes. He would be, she thought, an extraordinary father.

Naomi had moved out while Renee and Cate were at work, leaving behind a few full garbage bags of old clothes mixed with junk and her bed and bureau. She hadn’t bothered to call Goodwill to haul everything away—a typically thoughtless Naomi move that turned out to be a blessing, since Abby had no furniture.

Around seven on Friday night, Cate walked into the nearly empty bedroom, where Renee was rolling paint onto a wall. “You’re painting her room?” Cate asked.

“Nah, I’m pole dancing,” Renee said. “I was thinking, instead of getting a roommate, we could practice a routine and make extra money on the weekends.”

Cate laughed. “Do you always punish people who ask dumb questions?”

“Punishment would be me actually pole dancing. I’m the world’s most uncoordinated woman. Anyway, the room looked awful with Naomi’s stuff gone.” Renee shrugged. “She was a slob. There was some gross crust on a wall and dust marks that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. I figure the last thing Abby needs is a dingy-looking room.”

“That’s so nice of you! Hang on a sec.” Cate hurried to her bedroom and came back wearing old jeans and a plain red T-shirt, tying her hair up in an elastic.

“I knew I got two rollers for a reason.” Renee grinned.

“Then Chinese food is on me, okay? You paid for the paint,” Cate said.

“Deal.” Renee lost herself in the rhythm of painting for a few minutes, dipping her roller in a creamy hue the color of sunshine and sweeping it up and down on the walls.

“This color is perfect—” Cate began to say, just as Renee said, “What do you think happened to Abby?

“Sorry, go ahead,” Renee said.

“No, actually, I was wondering about it, too . . . I . . . That’s what I was talking to Trey about in the cafeteria,” Cate said. She cleared her throat and dipped her roller back into the tray of paint before she spoke again. “I thought it might have looked . . . strange to you. He got upset, and I grabbed his hand. Just to comfort him, because of his sister.”

Renee was silent for a moment. She’d seen Cate reach for Trey’s hand, and she’d noticed how close together they’d been sitting at that table, leaning toward each other . . . Her reaction had been to get away from them as quickly as possible, to hide her hurt and confusion. She knew she didn’t have any claim on Trey, but out of all the women in New York, did he have to pick her roommate? Cate’s explanation relieved Renee, even though she couldn’t help wishing she was the one Trey had come to for advice about Abby.

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” Renee finally said.

“Only if rugged perfection appeals to you,” Cate said.

Renee laughed, more out of surprise than anything else. She hadn’t known Cate had such a quick wit. “Look, we dated for a few weeks, and that was a couple of months ago. He wasn’t interested. It’s not like I have a claim on him. We’re not in sixth grade.”

“But you like him,” Cate said, her tone turning what could have been a question into a statement.

Renee nodded and lowered her eyelashes. She almost wanted to lie about it, but there wasn’t any point. “Oh, crap. Everyone knows, don’t they? You’d have to be blind and deaf to miss it. I wish I could hide that sort of thing better. But if you’re interested in him—”

“I’m not,” Cate interrupted. “We’re going to work together on a story. But that’s it.”

“Okay.” When she spoke a moment later, Renee’s voice sounded lighter. “How does this look?”

Cate stood back and surveyed the two finished walls. “It’s gorgeous. Let me order the Chinese now. General Tso’s for you, right? And I’ve got some Chardonnay in the fridge . . .”