“Well, compared to it, they’re moving into a palace.” He turned. “We eating outside or in?”
“Outside.” I returned to the kitchen’s window and could see Neena, standing in the driveway in cutoff shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, directing traffic. I let my eyes drift over the home’s brick exterior, the wide porches and double fireplaces. William was right—it wasn’t uninhabitable, just dated and dirty. Fifteen years ago, I would have considered it a castle, but a decade as Mrs. Winthorpe had made me a snob, one who now thought of heated towels and ironed sheets as a necessity.
Neena yelled something at the driver, and I thought of the day I’d moved into this house. The wedding-ring set was still unexpectedly heavy on my finger. All my belongings would take up a laughably small portion of the massive closet. I had stooped to lift a box of personal items from the trunk of my brand-new Maserati, and William had stopped me with one gentle shake of his head. “Do you see this?” He’d pulled at my hand, bringing the diamond up between us. “This means that you don’t move your own things. You’re Mrs. Winthorpe now, and everyone bows and caters to you.”
“Even you?” I had said saucily, even as the thrill of power had swept giddily through me.
He had laughed and never answered the question. I hadn’t cared. I had stepped into this house and devoured every opulent inch of it. I had settled, immediately and comfortably, on my throne and never lifted a box again.
In contrast, Neena staggered around the back of the truck, her arms wrapped around a heavy cardboard box. She squatted, setting the box carefully on the ground, then stood and brushed off her palms. Turning to the side, she examined our house. From this distance, across the manicured gardens and behind a row of Italian cypress trees, I felt protected, even as her stare lengthened. I didn’t blame her. There was a reason that cars lined the street to see our Christmas decorations, andArchitectural Digesthad devoted a center spread to our home. It was stare-worthy. Gawk-worthy. I watched as her gaze cataloged the stone framework, the modern lines, the copper roof and glass railings.
William moved beside me, following my line of vision. “Should we go over? Welcome them to the neighborhood?”
“Not yet.” I watched her, waiting for her to turn, but she kept in place, her gaze locked on our house. “She’s just staring over here.”
He shrugged and began to wash his hands.
“It’s a little creepy.”
“It’s a big house, babe. Lots to look at.”
“How was she this week? Does the team like her?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t met with all of them yet. I’ve gotten a few hostile comments and a few supportive ones. Some think she’s a little too rah-rah.” Using the back of his wrist, he turned off the water.
I grinned. “Let me guess: Harris?” The Nigerian scientist was the sort to scowl when words liketeamworkorcohesionwere used. His annual evaluations always garnered the lowest scores from fellow team members on communication skills but the highest on aptitude.
“Yep. I think his exact quote was, ‘We don’t need the Kumbaya stuff to save lives.’ Which”—he pulled a hand towel off the rack—“I agree with. I told Neena to steer clear of him.”
Neena. No longer Dr. Ryder. I notated it, then dismissed it, aware that everyone at Winthorpe was on a first-name basis. Even the janitorial staff referred to William by name.
He tossed the towel beside the sink. “Come on. Steaks are almost ready.”
I remained a moment longer, waiting until she turned away from our house and back to hers. Her husband appeared in the open garage door, and she pointed to the box. I folded the hand towel into thirds and placed it back in its position. Pulling a Pellegrino from the cooler, I glanced out the window. She was gone, swallowed by the house. At a second-story window, I watched a maid spray cleaner on the glass and wipe a cloth across the surface.
I didn’t understand anyone moving into a dirty house. It was like skipping past blank pages in a notebook and then starting your story on one that was already half-full. It was bad karma.
CHAPTER 4
NEENA
I was on a ladder beside our bedroom wall, a pencil in hand, when the power went out, the abrupt event punctuated by a clap of thunder that shook the home.
“Neena?” Matt’s voice came out of the black, somewhere to my right. “Are you okay?”
“I’m on the ladder,” I snapped. “Can you help me get down?” The darkness was disorienting, and I clutched the top rung, forcing my panic down.
“Just a second ...” Matt’s phone’s flashlight illuminated, sweeping over the interior of the room and blinding me as he moved closer. I chanced a descent, making it down one rung before the light bounced, then swung wildly as he tripped over something. He cursed and I paused, my foot hovering in space.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He grunted, and the flashlight refocused on me. “Here. I’ll help you down.”
We worked in silence, and my tension eased once I was back on firm footing. Making our way downstairs, we stared at the fuse box in ignorance, then discussed our options. Outside, sheets of rain peppered the roof and poured loudly from uncleaned gutters.
“It’s got to be the storm. Probably blew a transformer. I bet the whole neighborhood’s out.” Matt swung the fuse-box door shut and latched it.
I shook my head. “I saw the lights on next door when we came down the stairs.”