Had Polly innocently noticed the box when she’d tossed out the bin’s contents? Or could she actually be digging through Marissa’s garbage?
At least Polly didn’t go so far as to open the box and examine the actual test stick; if she had, she would have seen the result was negative.
Marissa is frozen, unable to form a reply. She stares at Polly’s thin lips—coated in a light pink gloss that nearly matches a shade Marissa frequently wears—while her assistant prattles on.
Thank God she didn’t invite Polly to stay in her home.
Marissa clears her throat. “It was a false alarm.” She hopes the sorrow she injects into her tone will keep Polly at bay.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
No, you shouldn’t have, Marissa thinks, but she merely nods and asks Polly to take the empty boxes out to recycling. She watches as Polly disappears through the back door, her ponytail bobbing, and wonders when Polly crossed the line from eager and a touch overly solicitous into intrusive. As with the decline of her marriage, it’s hard to pinpoint.
Even in this short time Polly has come to know too much about Marissa. Polly has also met Matthew a few times, and she spent a couple hours with Bennett one Saturday afternoon when Marissa brought him in to help with a big customer mailing. Polly knows about Marissa’s past, since Marissa has often discussed growing up by the ocean and working at Conner’s. Polly knows about Marissa’s current business dealings, her tastes and habits, and even her mild allergy to soy. Now that Marissa is allowing her to sleep at Coco, Polly is stepping ever deeper into Marissa’s world.
Then there’s that text Polly may have seen. I know I shouldn’t say this, but I can’t stop thinking about our night.
Polly could become dangerous.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AVERY
THE DAY AFTER MY VISIT with Natalie, Romeo and I are enjoying a late lunch—a Milk-Bone for him and take-out sushi for me—when the sound of a bell softly jingles on my phone. It’s an alert: someone has stepped onto my front walkway and is approaching my door.
I’m expecting visitors, so this isn’t an unwelcome surprise. Lana called a little while ago to say that she and Greg wondered if they could stop by: “I really want you and Greg to meet. Plus he loves dogs! I showed him all the pictures of Romeo you’ve sent.…”
It was obvious from her tone that she’s completely smitten, and I’m glad for the chance to check out Lana’s new boyfriend.
I take my last bite of tuna sashimi, then head into the kitchen to put the little paper box in my recycling bin, atop a few other take-out containers. I should go grocery shopping, but after so many years of cooking and washing dishes and cleaning mushy vegetables out of the refrigerator, the ability to stroll through my neighborhood and pick up nearly any cuisine that appeals to me—a Greek salad; chicken tikka masala; a burger and sweet-potato fries on days when I feel like indulging—is too satisfying to give up.
I walk back toward the front door just as the bell chimes. After Lana and Greg’s visit, I’ve scheduled a first session with a new client, a thirty-five-year-old woman who just learned her birth mother was actually her older sister. Then I’m meeting Matthew and Marissa for their third session, the one I call Escalation.
Even though I’m certain who it is, I check the peephole before I unlock the door. Romeo barks a few times from behind my legs as I welcome Lana and Greg inside, but when I shush him, he stops. I give Lana a hug, then turn my attention to Greg. He’s thin and a little taller than my five feet six inches, with fair skin and a dusting of light stubble. His jeans are loose around his hips, and he wears a soft flannel shirt beneath his jacket.
“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Lana,” he says.
Polite, I think. He and Lana look sweet together.
As soon as I take their coats, Lana drops to her knees, gushing, “Oh, you’re such a cutie-pie! Even more handsome than your photos. Can we pet him?”
“Sure. He’s a little nervous but very friendly.”
Romeo immediately takes to Lana, rolling over to let her rub his belly. Greg approaches him gently, slowly crouching next to Lana, which bumps up my estimation of him a notch higher, until I recall that Skip was good with Romeo, too.
Romeo’s stubby tail stops wagging when Greg extends a hand, but after a moment Romeo sniffs Greg’s fingers and gives him a lick.
After everything Romeo has been through, he still loves humans. It’s a little humbling.
“Do you guys want something to drink?” I ask. “I’ve got coffee and, um … water…”
“Do you have any green tea?” Greg asks.
“I’d love some, too,” Lana adds.
“Just English breakfast,” I reply. Lana once told me she thought green tea tasted like dirty socks. Clearly she’s following Greg’s lead.
“Sounds great.”
Lana nods along with Greg’s words.
“This is a really nice house,” Greg comments as we head through the living area into my sunny kitchen.
“Thanks.” I put the kettle on to boil and pull three mugs out of a cabinet. “I love it, too. It’s a little big for me to be knocking around in by myself, but I can’t see moving anywhere else. At least not for now.”
“By yourself?” Lana lifts up Romeo’s paw and waggles it at me, affecting a gruff voice. “What am I, chopped liver?”
I laugh and grab a small bottle of stevia, which I know Lana will want to add to her tea—unless Greg takes his straight.
Lana is too needy when it comes to men, so eager to please them that it threatens her own sense of self. I’ve spoken with her about it, but I make a mental note to schedule a dinner with her and broach the topic again.
“Lana, is this where you grew up?” Greg is sitting on the tiled floor, stroking my dog’s back, so instead of serving tea at the banquet, I plop down next to him.
“Yeah—well, sort of. My dad bought this place right after the divorce, so I split my time between here and my mom’s apartment.”
“Where did you grow up, Greg?” I ask.
“Baltimore.” He doesn’t add anything else, and something about the way he states that one-word answer makes me wonder how happy his upbringing was.
“Does your family still live there?”
He nods. “My mom and sister do.”
In other circumstances I wouldn’t press, but this isn’t just a casual introduction. I want to get a sense of the man my stepdaughter appears to be infatuated with.
“And your dad?”
Greg shrugs. “He walked out when I was five. Haven’t had much contact with him since.”
“That must have been tough.…”
“Avery, please don’t start to analyze Greg,” Lana says playfully. “She’s a therapist,” Lana explains to Greg.
Was, I think. But I don’t correct her.
“Oh, hey, can I tell you about the dream I had last night?” Greg quips, then takes a sip of tea. “So, can I see your room? Do you still have posters of Justin Bieber and Zac Efron on the walls?”
Lana’s eyes find mine. Neither of us has gone into her old bedroom in a long time.