So I didn’t think Jessica and Dick and the babies would be gone very long. Either something or someone would drive them back or eventually they’d feel safe enough to return on their own. Please, God, let it be the latter.
“Are you going to hire help?” I asked. “I mean, what about when your weird babies do that weird thing your weird babies do?”
Jess looked at me for a long moment without speaking, and Dick wouldn’t look at me at all. She opened her mouth to reply, when I figured it out. “You think they won’t do that if they don’t live here. With me.”
Identical shrugs. “It’s just a theory.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I couldn’t blame Jess and Dick for craving normality, but I sort of loved the weird thing their weird babies did. However: not my call.
“Marc’s promised to come by and help us while pretending he’s not in it to experiment on our children.”
“Aww. That’s sweet. Do you have a place picked out?” Again they wouldn’t look at me. “Oh. You do. You’ve had this in mind for a while. It’s okay, I’m not mad.” Hurt, crushed, despairing, but not mad. “I was wondering that it even took you this long to decide. But it didn’t take you this long.”
“It’s just a little house in Stillwater. Not even half an hour from here.”
Usually when a multimillionaire says something faux deprecating about his place, like “aw, it’s just a cottage—a glorified shack, really,” after the urge to kick him in the shins passes, you find out the glorified shack is a mansion on Woolsey Lane on Lake Minnetonka. But Jess was never a fan of flaunting the millions her parents had left her. The money represented the worst of childhoods, with a sexually abusive father and an enabling mother.
Until she’d bought the mansion for all of us to live in, she and I shared a two-bedroom condo in Apple Valley. In college she lived in a studio apartment that was just a little bigger than her mother’s walk-in closet. She was one of those people who never buy a luxury car, because she didn’t care about how her car looked, but how it ran. If it got her from point A to point B with a minimum of fuss, she didn’t care if it was a covered wagon.
“White Pine Way,” Jess continued, “four bedrooms.” Which made sense; the babies needed a room and she needed an office. I knew the area a bit. White Pine Way meant new construction, not quite as big or pricey as a McMansion. Compared to the mansion she was departing, it was a shack.
“When—”
“End of the week.”
“Oh.” Too soon! I don’t like change! Can’t we ditch the babies and go get pedis? Remember when our biggest problem was our neighbor borrowing kitchen stuff and never bringing it back? “Well, that’s great. Need help moving?”
“We’ve got it covered.” That was Marc, who had doubtless listened at the door and, when he didn’t hear shrieking or the clang! of me braining Dick with a frying pan, had come back in, with Tina and Sinclair behind them. Sinclair’s brow was adorably furrowed and he was lugging an infant; Tina had apparently forced it on him, as she had her laptop in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Tina explained.”
“Wait, Tina and Marc and you guys all knew before they—” I forced myself to stop. “Never mind, not about me, totally fine.” If I kept saying it wasn’t about me, I might eventually believe it.
“I am sorry you feel you must leave us, dear,” he told her, then turned to Dick. “But we quite understand your reasons.”
“Thanks,” Dick said, returning Sinclair’s handshake. “We’re sorry to go, but under the circumstances . . .”
“Of course.”
Are you bearing this, my own?
I don’t like change, Sinclair!
I know it well.
“It’s not completely terrible,” Jessica said, smiling and handing me the B&N bag. Because a book totally makes up for my best friend having to leave me because her family was in danger. Blech.
“Thanks,” I said automatically. “I’ll read it right away, maybe.”
“Open it, dumbass.” This said in the kindest of tones, so I obeyed. To my surprise, there were no books. The edges I’d felt were shoe boxes. Two of them! “Two of them!”
“It could be a cruel trick,” Marc offered. “The boxes could be full of travel guides.”
“Don’t you joke about that ever.” I pulled both boxes out, plopped them on the counter, flipped the top off one, yowled in delight. “Manolo Blahnik ‘Tayler’ d’Orsay pumps! I wanted these so bad, but I couldn’t decide between black and . . .” On a hunch I flipped the other lid. “Bone!” I was beyond yowling. All I could manage was thrilled gurgling. At nearly eight hundred bucks a pop, this was a pretty decent reverse housewarming gift. “Oh my God, thank you! Tina, I’m sorry! But cripes, bone and black!”