The Husband's Secret(115)
Cecilia parked her car in front of Rachel Crowley’s house and wondered why she was doing this to herself. She could have dropped Rachel’s Tupperware order off at the school after Easter. The guests from Marla’s party weren’t promised delivery until after the break. It seemed she simultaneously wanted to seek Rachel out and avoid her at all costs.
Perhaps she wanted to see her because Rachel was the only person in the world with the right and the authority to speak out on Cecilia’s current dilemma. “Dilemma” was too gentle a word. Too selfish a word. It implied that Cecilia’s feelings actually mattered.
She lifted the plastic bag of Tupperware from the passenger’s seat and opened the car door. Perhaps the real reason she was here was because she knew Rachel had every reason in the world to hate her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hating her. I’m a child, she thought as she knocked on the door. A middle-aged, perimenopausal child.
The door opened faster than Cecilia had expected. She was still preparing her face.
“Oh,” said Rachel, and her face dropped. “Cecilia.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cecilia. So very, very sorry. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Not really,” said Rachel. She recovered herself. “How are you? My Tupperware! How exciting. Thank you so much. Would you like to come in? Where are your girls?”
“They’re at my mother’s place,” said Cecilia. “She felt bad because she missed their Easter Hat Parade today. So she’s giving them afternoon tea. Anyway. That’s neither here nor there! I won’t come in, I’ll just—”
“You sure? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
Cecilia felt too weak to argue. She would do whatever Rachel wanted. Her legs could barely hold her up, they were trembling so badly. If Rachel shouted “Confess!” she would confess. She almost longed for that.
She walked across the threshold with her heart in her mouth, as if she were in physical danger. The house was very similar to Cecilia’s family home, like so many of the homes on the North Shore.
“Come into the kitchen,” said Rachel. “I’ve got the heater on in there. It’s getting chilly in the afternoon.”
“We had that linoleum!” said Cecilia when she followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m sure it was the height of fashion all those years ago,” said Rachel as she put tea bags into cups. “I’m not one of those renovating types, as you can see. Just can’t get myself interested in tiles and carpets, paint colors and backsplashes. Here you go. Milk? Sugar? Help yourself.”
“Is this Janie?” asked Cecilia. She’d stopped in front of the refrigerator. It was a relief to say Janie’s name. Her presence was so gigantic in Cecilia’s head. It felt like if she didn’t say her name normally, it would suddenly burst out of her mouth in the middle of a sentence.
The photo on Rachel’s fridge was casually held with a magnet advertising Pete the 24-Hour Plumber. It was a small, faded, off-center color photo of Janie and her younger brother holding cans of Coke and standing in front of a barbecue. They’d both turned around with blank, slack-mouthed expressions on their faces, as if the photographer had surprised them. It wasn’t a particularly good photo. Somehow its very casualness made it seem all the more impossible that Janie was dead.
“Yes, that’s Janie,” said Rachel. “That photo was up on the fridge when she died, and I’ve never taken it down. Silly, really. I’ve got much better ones of her. Have a seat. I’ve got these biscuits called macarons. Not macaroons, oh, no, if that’s what you’re thinking. Macarons. You probably know all about them. I’m not very sophisticated.” Cecilia saw that she took pride in not being sophisticated. “Have one! They’re really very good.”