But there was a quid pro quo to all this information sharing: assumptions of availability, demands on Jen’s time. Nobody had asked her about tonight, it had been: Jen will be in charge of the clothing drive!
“The platforms don’t make a difference,” Deb, who amazingly hadn’t yet exhausted the topic of air mattresses, said. “In price, yes, but comfort no. You’re still sleeping on what is essentially a plastic balloon.”
Jen felt a surge of hope for a topic change when Annie Perley drove up, her hatchback full of Lena’s boxes for donation. As soon as Annie stepped out of her car, though, Deb cupped her hands around her mouth. “I brought the air mattresses!”
It turned out Deb was lending them to Annie because Mike’s family was staying with the Perleys over Christmas. Not only did Deb have some strong opinions about the quality of the borrowed air mattresses, but also several thoughts on where Annie should place them.
Jen, increasingly desperate, asked the first thing that came to mind. “Annie,” she said, “how’s Laurel been?”
Deb shook her head slightly, shot Jen a warning look.
“Hey wait,” Jen said clumsily, trying to save the moment. “If these are Lena’s boxes, where’s Lena?”
Another misstep.
Even though Annie was wearing a beanie, Jen could tell her brow had furrowed beneath it. There was a weirdness when Annie talked about Lena, like Lena was a favorite porcelain doll and couldn’t be jostled. Jen wasn’t sure why this protectiveness annoyed her so much, but, like everything else, it did.
“Lena’s not here yet?” Annie said. Her blue eyes were big, her voice tremulous.
“She’s probably just running late,” Jen said. “Deb, do your air mattresses have remotes, because I saw that once?”
“You know, though,” Deb said, “I always lose remotes.”
“Guys, I’m worried,” Annie said. Stuffed into a winter coat, hands hanging at her sides, she looked like a lost child. “Why isn’t Lena here?”
“She’ll come,” Deb said. “Who would donate all this and not show up?”
“There she is.” Jen pointed down the dark road toward a figure walking in their direction.
Annie squinted. “No, that’s Harriet.”
When she reached them, Harriet thrust a brown paper bag in Jen’s direction.
“Hats,” she said. “All knit by my sister and itchy as heck. She gives them as gifts.”
“Thanks?”
“I’m happy to get rid of them, actually. So. I assume everyone heard about the Donaldsons?”
“What about them?”
“The vandal cut up their Frosty the Snowman inflatable. Snipped off the little carrot nose like a psycho.” Harriet scissored her gloved fingers. “Their grandkids found the remnants this morning and are traumatized.”
“Don’t the Donaldsons have that doorbell camera?” Deb said.
“It didn’t catch anything.” Harriet eyed the boxes they’d stacked in Jen’s trunk. “Is someone moving?”
“These are Lena’s donations,” Annie said. “Most of it still has tags. She snuck two brand-new pairs of gloves to Laurel, and I’m like, thank you, Lena, for teaching my fourteen-year-old about cashmere.”
“She’s always been very generous,” Harriet said. “Money’s never been her issue. They sold the family’s company for hundreds of millions, apparently.”
Annie peered fruitlessly down the street. “I should call her.”
“I wouldn’t count on her coming, dear,” Harriet said.
“She had fun last month!” Annie insisted.
“She’s different now. Tentative.”
Jen was unable to stop the exasperated sigh that escaped from her mouth in a puff of vapor.
She was too cold and irritated to care about the shocked looks. Everyone had their shit: Jen certainly did, and she’d brought her own donations and managed to come early, thank you very much.
“I’m sorry,” Jen said impatiently, “it’s tragic that her husband died, but wasn’t it like years ago?”
“He didn’t just die.” Deb sounded scandalized. “He killed Bryce Neary in a hit-and-run. He went to jail for it.”
“That’s horrible.” Jen frowned. “Was Bryce—did he live here too?”
“How do you not know this, Jen?”
“I thought I did,” Jen said.
“Apparently not,” Deb said.