“You just moved here? I don’t see a single box. Your house is gorgeous.” I felt the urge to compliment her––maybe because of Burke, or maybe because it really was the most beautiful home I’d ever seen.
“Ten days ago. I’m too much of a neat freak to have unpacked boxes lying around.” Libby laughed. “Weird, I know.”
“Not at all. I’m impressed.”
“We have a lot on the walls, which helps. I made my husband hang everything the first night.” She gestured to the walls. “He’s an artist.”
“Wow. It’s stunning.” I glanced around, studying the decor. That was what made the house look so complete, I realized––the dozens of exquisite pieces of framed artwork. I thought of the walls in my own house––was there even anything on them? A stag head of my father’s mounted above the tiny fireplace. That was all that came to mind.
“It’s not all his, of course.” Libby laughed again. “That would be tacky. But we’re lucky that we have a nice collection.”
In the playroom, a small towheaded boy sat in the middle of the carpeted floor, surrounded by at least a dozen toy trucks.
“Nate, this is Heather.”
“Hey, Mama,” he said without looking up.
“He’s obsessed with trucks,” Libby whispered to me. “Literally, eighty-five percent of the time, this is my son, sitting on the floor with his trucks. For four, he’s pretty easy.”
I smiled, crouching down to the boy’s level. He was just slightly bigger than Gus. “Hi, Nate. I’m Heather. I’m going to be your babysitter.”
“Hi.” He looked up at me and blinked. His eyes were the same coppery color as his mother’s, with the same thick, dark lashes.
“And my baby girl is napping. She should be up in an hour or so.”
“Cool.” I nodded. I was slightly nervous about caring for an infant—I had no doubt Libby was a vastly more overprotective parental figure than any I was used to—but for fifteen dollars an hour I would figure it out. I was good at figuring things out, if I had to. “What time will you be back?”
“Oh, I’m hanging here today. I just wanted you to come over and get the lay of the land. I’ll still pay you, of course. I thought we could hang in the kitchen and chat until the baby wakes up. I can make tea? Or I have juice. I don’t have any soda.”
“Tea is perfect,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever had a cup of tea. I followed her into the kitchen. “Thanks.”
“In all honesty I’m starved for company,” Libby confessed as she filled the kettle with tap water. “We moved from Connecticut. I don’t know a soul here.”
I slid onto one of the white ladder-back stools and watched her move gracefully from cabinet to cabinet. She wore a loose button-down shirt—maybe her husband’s—but the top buttons were undone and I could see her thin, sinewy frame, the concave of her clavicle—a body not unlike my own. It was the reason Burke’s nickname for me was Bones.
A weighty diamond—far bigger than I’d ever seen in real life—sparkled on her left ring finger. The band was constructed of diamonds, too, I noticed when she came closer. Even her smell was expensive—like face cream that costs ninety dollars a jar. I’ve seen it in department stores.
“I don’t mean this the wrong way,” I started, feeling seduced by this woman, by her heavy scent, her sudden and mysterious presence in my monotonous world. I was suddenly overcome by the impulse to say exactly what I felt. “But why Langs Valley? Why did you move here?”
Libby turned, and I noticed a light sprinkling of freckles across her chest, her skin otherwise creamy and unblemished.
“My husband is doing a study on the northern Adirondack Mountains.” She blinked, and something unknowable flashed across her face. One corner of her mouth poked into a weak half smile. “A landscape series, which is a real pivot for him—his style is primarily abstract. It really is beautiful here, though. Quiet, but I think it will be a nice change of pace.”
“Quiet is for sure.” I nodded. “How long will the study take?”
“Who knows.” Libby flipped her palms up. “Some studies take several months, some take years. Peter wants to capture the mountains in all seasons, beginning with fall. He’s so talented, though. I know he’s going to be very successful one day.”
I nodded, dissecting the implications of her statement. Libby and Peter clearly had money; if her husband wasn’t successful yet, the money had to have other origins.
Libby turned back to the tea, and I watched, enamored by her every movement, as she dunked the bags in the boiling water to steep.
“So, Heather, tell me about you.” Pillows of steam rose into her pores. “What’s your story? What’s up with this boyfriend of yours, smoking those disgusting death sticks?”
My story.
The air in the room seemed to slow, and brighten. Something in the way she said boyfriend of yours told me someone such as Libby wouldn’t be caught dead with someone like Burke. It was also the first time I’d heard the term death sticks. In my world, cigarettes were a prerequisite. My friends and I smoked in the parking lot every day; once during lunch and once between seventh and eighth periods. When my father was home—which wasn’t often anymore—we shared a smoke after dinner.
I looked at Libby’s flawless skin and healthy glow and knew with clear conviction that I’d never smoke again. It’s strange, but sometimes a new perspective can click into place, and everything suddenly looks different. That night, I would go home and take out my nose ring and call Burke and tell him our relationship was over. I would put Gus to bed and flush my Parliaments down the toilet and do my algebra homework for the first time all semester. I would fall asleep thinking about the smell of Libby’s face cream and the art on her freshly painted walls.
As for my story—I didn’t have one yet, but I would soon.
Chapter Four
Skye
MARCH 2019
I never realized just how much planning goes into a wedding—from the flowers to the rehearsal dinner to the invitations to the band, the details are enough to make a severe OCD sufferer such as me spiral out of control. One thing Burke and I have decided on in the past forty-eight hours—besides that we are definitely going to hire a wedding planner—is the date: September 21, 2019. That’s for two reasons. One, we both think September is the best month to get married but don’t want to wait until 2020, and two, the Earth, Wind & Fire song. You know the one I’m talking about. Do you remember … the twenty-first night of September? Love was changing the minds of pretenders. This year, September 21 falls on a Saturday. The song can be our first dance. It’s perfect.
I still haven’t told Andie anything, which I suppose is strange. I used to imagine that the second I got engaged I’d call her screaming, but things aren’t the way they used to be. The list of things I keep from Andie seems to be ever accumulating these days. For example, I haven’t told her about Burke’s brief stint in prison. I haven’t told anyone. Burke was barely out of college when it happened, and he was naive. Plus, it was a white-collar offense—it’s not like he did something violent. The whole thing was an astronomical mistake on Burke’s part, yes, but one he learned from a long time ago. Attempting to explain the situation to my family and friends would only cause unwarranted concern.