I had no intention to go looking for one, of course.
But sometimes stories had a way of finding me.
CHAPTER 6
“You want to know something strange?” Libby asked as I joined her at the breakfast table. She was dressed for Pilates, in smooth Lululemon leggings and a high ponytail. I was still in my sleep attire, boxers and a white Beefy tee.
“Sure,” I said, indulging her. Libby had a different standard for strange than most people. She thought tea with milk was strange, despite the fact an entire nation of people who probably shared a fair amount of DNA with her drank it every day.
“The Kendricks aren’t listed as the owners of their house. I checked the public record.” What is strange, I thought, is that you checked the public record. But I played along.
“Huh,” I said noncommittally. “Who owns it?”
“Some company called Happy Accident Enterprises, LLC,” she informed me.
“Maybe you should go over and ask them about that?” I deadpanned.
“You’re the investigative journalist,” she quipped. Yeah, but I don’t care, I thought, but kept it to myself.
“Have a good class,” I said dismissively.
She flipped her ponytail and trotted out to her car. I had to admire how she stuck to her rituals, even in hard times. She never missed her exercise class, did her makeup just to go to the grocery store, made inventive meals that even our finicky girls would eat every single day. She got irritated during my periods of unemployment, but she never let it get her down. She was resilient where I was porous, confident to my self-loathing. We were living proof that opposites attract. One might argue she got all the desirable qualities. At this point, my biggest achievement was probably lassoing her.
I pulled on some sweats and headed out to the garage. Margaux needed a new desk, so I’d decided to build her a custom one that would fit under her loft, which I had also built. As I opened the garage door to let in some sunlight, I spotted Holly Kendrick in her front yard, wrestling with the wooden bench on her stoop. I jogged over to her.
“Hey there, need a hand?” I offered.
“Oh, hey, Andy,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed. She was wearing a tank with a scooped-out neckline, and I couldn’t help but notice she had an incredible body—full breasts and a tiny waist. I tried not to stare. “This stupid bench is a hazard. Every time someone sits on it, it nearly falls over. I was going to tighten the screws, but I don’t have any tools.”
I inspected the base and immediately diagnosed the problem. “The screws are fine. You’re missing a support brace. That’s why it wobbles.” I pointed, and she bent over to look. Her cleavage was so close to me it was like the beginning of a bad porno movie. I forced myself to take a step back. “I can fix it if you like. I have all the materials. It’s kind of a hobby.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she said.
“It’s really no problem,” I insisted. She seemed hesitant, so I added, “Or if your husband needs tools, I could lend them to him?” Her lips pinched like she’d bitten into something sour. I suddenly realized the blatant sexism of my suggestion, so I added, “Or I could show you how to do it?”
And then something unexpected happened. She started to cry. One minute she was sparring with a bench, and the next minute she was sobbing like the jilted heroine in a tragic telenovela.
“I’m ssss . . . sorry . . . ,” she stuttered between sobs. Big, sloppy, wet tears rolled down her cheeks and disappeared into the abyss of her cleavage. I wanted to guide her over to the bench to sit her down, but given its fragile state I thought better of it. She snuffled, and a string of clear mucus slid down her upper lip. If only I were my grandfather, I could have saved the day with my handy pocket square. But alas, I was just me.
“Please, don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, I was only trying to help—”
“My husband’s dead,” she blurted. And I was confused. Because I literally saw him two short days ago, sitting at their kitchen table. She must have sensed my confusion because she helped me out. “Evan’s not my husband. He’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off. A friend? She kept me in suspense for a beat, then, “Someone who’s helping Savannah and me.”
I found her turn of phrase strange—and not in a tea with milk way—but I let it slide. “Why don’t I take you inside?” I offered, suddenly wishing she wasn’t so beautiful given that my wife was already obsessed with her and would be back home soon.