CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MERRITT
“You made such a mess, sweet pea. Look at your face, silly girl.” I’m cleaning up after Elsie’s lunch when it hits me . . .
We should help Lydia.
It’s the only way out of this mess.
If we get her on her feet, get her settled somewhere—preferably far from Bent Creek—if we help her start a new life and ensure she’s comfortable . . . maybe she’ll move on and leave us be?
I lift Elsie over the sink, helping her wash her hands, though she just wants to play in the bubbles. Outside, a sedan motors past. Nothing that I recognize. But for a second, a piece of me hoped it was Luca coming home early from work.
We spent the entirety of Sunday pretending nothing was wrong. He played with Elsie. I read a parenting book and made lists of prospective baby names. It was strange—but also therapeutic—to pretend everything was fine.
We even made love last night, which I took as his way of letting me know where I stand in this unprecedented hierarchy.
This morning, Luca woke early, jogged three miles on the treadmill, hit the shower, and kissed me goodbye on his way to work. And he was in such a hurry, he forgot the travel mug of coffee I’d prepared for him.
Hoisting Elsie on my hip, I take her to the family room and place her in the center of the room before gathering books and toys to keep her busy. While she plays, I chew the corner of my lip, running mental math as I try to figure out what it would take to get Lydia on her feet. We could probably find her a used car for a few grand. Maybe buy her a little house in some small town in the Midwest where real estate is cheaper than dirt. Fifty thousand? Seventy-five? Maybe twenty grand for a trade degree or some training, something to secure a career for her.
I’m 99 percent sure we don’t have an extra hundred grand lying around, so we’d have to borrow against our 401(k) . . . again.
Luca’s not going to like that idea, but if it means getting Lydia out of our hair and feeling like we’ve done a bit of good for her, maybe he’ll warm up to it?
All I know is this must be extremely difficult for her . . . Anything we can do to blunt that edge will benefit us all in the end.
I sneak off to pluck my phone from the charger in the kitchen, and when I return, I tap out a message to Lydia, asking if she’d like to spend some one-on-one time together today, and then I hit send.
She writes back seven minutes later with a simple I’d love that.
Interesting choice of words from someone who has every right to resent my existence.
Settling back into the cushions, I watch my daughter play, grateful that she’s blissfully unaware of the maelstrom brewing around her. If all goes as planned, she’ll never know.
The storm will pass, and it’ll be like it never happened at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LYDIA
“Everyone should have a signature scent.” Merritt plucks a tester from a frilly pink display at some boutique in the shopping district. Spraying a white strip of paper, she fans it a few times before offering it to me. “What do you think of this one?”
Look at us.
Just a couple of Bent Creek wives shopping on a weekday afternoon.
I lift the cardstock paper to my nose and inhale. It smells like cherry blossoms and vanilla, an overpowering smack in the face disguised in a frosted, hourglass-shaped bottle.
I must have made a face because Merritt laughs. “Too strong?”
She grabs another, this one in an emerald-green bottle, the label calling it SWEET ELIXIR. It makes me think of Delphine. I thought I was her pet project, but evidently I’m Merritt’s, too. The instant I climbed into her purring Beamer this morning, she handed me an iced latte and told me she’s taking me shopping. Her treat.
Which we both know is actually Luca’s treat, because she does nothing but prance around their mansion-by-the-sea like some wannabe SoCal housewife while he brings home the bacon.
“What about this one?” Merritt moves to another counter and selects a pink Lancôme bottle. I don’t have to smell it to know I’ll like it. Back in high school, it’s what all the girls wore. Every hallway smelled like this musky magnolia-jasmine concoction. The closest I ever came to wearing it was rubbing a magazine sample against my wrists when I happened to come across an ad.
I lift the bottle to my nose, not wasting time with the testing strips, and inhale.
“You’re smiling,” she says, voice singsong. “You like?”
I nod. I do like. And it just so happens I like it so much I’m willing to overlook the fact that this entire moment is so removed from reality it’s laughable. If Merritt truly believes lavishing me with little luxuries is going to change the inevitable, she’s not only delusional, she’s a damned fool.
I clear any remnants of superficial glee from my lips.
“Then there it is.” She claps her slender hands together, feet firmly planted in her alternate reality. “You officially have a signature scent.”
An employee in a white vest saunters up to us, and Merritt wastes no time telling her she’d like a three-ounce bottle of the eau de parfum.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say—after she slides her glossy black credit card across the counter and the woman carries it off to the register.
Merritt waves it away, brows knitting. “Don’t be silly. This is my treat. After everything you’ve been through—and what you came home to—you have my full sympathies. I just want to help you any way I can. Figured a little shopping and a light lunch might help us get to know each other better, too. Our situation is . . . unique. But I know we can navigate it together.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s attempting to buy my friendship. Or my loyalty. Or my sympathy. Something. She’s definitely buying more than a fragrance. And it’s sad, if I think about it too much—the fact that her only power is wielded from a tiny plastic rectangle.
The associate returns with my perfume wrapped in a pink bag and secured with a white satin ribbon. She hands it to Merritt first, who shakes her head and points to me. The woman’s sweet expression sours when she takes me in—and I can’t blame her. I don’t have the radiant glow of a woman who gets bimonthly facials. My hair is thin and lifeless, the cut crooked (bless Delphine’s heart). There isn’t a speck of makeup on my face. And I’m wearing another one of Amber’s outfits, which I deduced are at least fifteen years past their prime after finding a pair of black gaucho pants in the mix this morning. I was tempted to wear them for sheer comfort, but I opted for some low-slung flare jeans and a burgundy velour hoodie with a J on the zipper and Juicy spelled out across the back.
“Should we check out shoes next?” Merritt points to the back of the shop, where five wall racks display an assortment of footwear—most of them suited for cooler weather. None of them as practical as tennis shoes.
She waddles—albeit elegantly, if that’s possible—to the shoe area, browsing for a second before selecting a pair of black leather boots. In any other store, I’d assume they were meant for hiking. But here I get the impression these are meant to be a fashion statement.
“Maybe something more every day?” I reach for a canvas TOMS shoe in a shade of bleeding-heart red. While the color won’t go with much, they’ll stay cleaner than these white Keds I found in the donation bin of a shelter five towns over.