Sugar street, p.6
Sugar Street, page 6
She connected the jazz radio to the kitchen speaker and topped off Tom’s wineglass from dinner. He accepted it without comment, blinking in the light of the kitchen. His hair was a sexy mess, like Mark Ruffalo.
“The kids are glad you’re home.”
“I’m glad to be home.”
He took a sip of the Pinot Noir and rested the glass on the counter. “Dinner was nice. What’s with the music?” He froze. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant?”
“What if I were?” Jess teased, raising her glass to remind him that she wasn’t. She moved around the counter and put her hand on the small of his back. “I thought it would be nice to hang out without SportsCenter blaring in the background.”
He shot her a quick look of reproach.
“Unless you need to work?” Normally when he got back from the road, he had a day or two before he needed to submit more pieces. She hoped she hadn’t assumed wrong.
He slipped his arms around her waist, dropping a kiss lightly on her lips. “I do not need to work tonight. And if I did, I’d have to call in dead.”
She ran a hand up his still-muscular arm. “Would a massage from your wife help resurrect you?”
“Oh, babe, you don’t have to do that. I know you’re exhausted, having the kids while I’m gone. Plus, you made this huge dinner…”
Jess leaned in close to his ear. “It would be my pleasure,” she purred.
Needless to say, laughter was not the response she was trying to evoke.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He was trying to pull himself together. “You sounded all sexy. You didn’t sound like you.”
Embarrassed, she pulled away, but Tom grabbed her waist. “Wait. That’s not what I meant. You’re very sexy.” He pulled her against him and lowered his forehead to hers. “You’re my beautiful wife, the sexiest woman I know.”
“That’s more like it.”
“You caught me off guard, that’s all.” He kissed her on the nose. “Let’s take our wine upstairs. We can trade massages.”
Tom nearly tripped over a remote-control car, which had somehow found its way into their room. He returned it to Dash’s room, and then carried his half-emptied suitcase from their bed to the closet. Jess propped the iPad on her nightstand, still belting out jazz. She opened the bottom drawer and extracted a white-painted woven basket, with a cheerful gingham liner—the kind of thing Mina might have in her room to store doll shoes and accessories.
“Ah,” Tom said behind her. “Grandma’s Sex Basket.”
“Shut up. You love it.”
Jess had to admit it wasn’t exactly a seductive black velvet box. But it fit in the back of the drawer inconspicuously, and it’s not as if they kept anything super kinky in there, anyway. A pair of fuzzy handcuffs someone had given Jess at her bachelorette party, which they had used maybe twice in the first year of their marriage. A few Pure Indulgences products Delia had strong-armed Jess into buying over the years: a cream that supposedly mimicked human pheromones, which Tom said smelled like “the wrong end of an elephant.” Special panties that vibrated via remote control (Jess had quite liked those, until the custom batteries died); and a mysterious string of beads she had ordered by accident and been too embarrassed to return. There was a weird dumbbell thing that Delia had insisted Jess needed for her Kegel muscles, but she kept forgetting to do it.
She put the basket on the bed, searching for the Pure Indulgences apple-flavored Forbidden Fruit massage oil. “Ugh. Seriously?”
“What’s wrong?” Tom was shirtless, draped sideways across the bed, waiting for his masseuse.
She lifted the almost-empty, heart-shaped plastic bottle. They had only used it once, but apparently the top had leaked, bright-green apple oil soaking into the gingham basket liner and covering everything with a sticky, crusty coating. The fur on the handcuffs was matted and gooey; the synthetic fabric of the vibrating panties stuck to the side of the basket.
“It’s a complete mess.” She doubted the mechanical panties were machine washable.
Tom sat up and fished out the handcuffs, holding them up with one finger. “It smells like Jolly Ranchers and lube. Like Halloween in a whorehouse.”
Jess glared at him. “Don’t say ‘whore.’”
“Sorry. House of ill repute.”
“This whole thing is ruined.” The basket. The evening. Maybe both.
He tossed the handcuffs back and put a hand under her chin. “Don’t sweat it, Gardner. We don’t need this crap. Put it back and we’ll clean it up later.”
“Rodriguez,” she corrected, smiling at his use of her maiden name.
“You better believe it, baby.” He set the basket aside, pulling her close and kissing her neck. She put her hands on his bare shoulders, trying to ignore the scent of apple massage oil as she kneaded his tense muscles.
“Oh, God,” he said into her shoulder. “You have no idea how much I need that. The hotel bed was miserable in Chicago, and the plane ride…”
“Poor baby,” she cooed, working at the hard flesh around his neck with her knuckles. “Poor, poor thing.”
He groaned in appreciation, and let his head sink against her belly as she pressed into his flesh. “Poor me,” he slurred seductively. “I really need some TLC. It’s hard being on the road with a bunch of idiots all the time.”
Jess leaned over to kiss the top of his head, and Tom’s hands slipped from her waist to cradle her ass. He squeezed appreciatively, as though juicing a couple of oranges; she felt the muscles in his back stiffen as he lifted her off the ground. She wrapped her legs around his waist and they tumbled onto the bed together, laughing. Tom braced his arms and rolled on top of her, grinning and toying with the buttons on her blouse.
“Look at that,” Jess said, lying back. “You have some energy left after all.”
“Look. At. That,” he agreed. “What’s up, buddy?”
It took her a confused moment to realize this question was not intended for her, but that Dash was standing in their doorway, a dark patch of moisture spreading across the front of his pajamas.
“I had an accident.” His eyes took in their position on the bed with unaffected curiosity, perhaps wondering if they were playing some game they’d forgotten to include him in.
“I’ve got it,” Jess said, re-buttoning her blouse with frustrated fingers. “It’s okay, buddy. Go ahead to the bathroom and take your PJs off. I’ll be right there to change your sheets.”
When Dash had shuffled out, Tom said, “Are you sure he’s okay? Mina never wet the bed at his age.”
“He’s fine. The pediatrician said boys take longer sometimes.” She didn’t mention that several of Dash’s cohorts at school were still wearing overnight pull-ups, which Tom had vetoed over a year ago on the premise that Dash was “too old for diapers.” Those kids’ parents were probably having amazing sex right this minute.
Twenty minutes later, she had stripped and changed Dash’s sheets and tucked him back in, with a couple of bonus lullabies to convince him to stay put. She padded back into the master bedroom, where Grandma’s Sex Basket was still sitting on the nightstand (leaving a sticky outline on the wood, she would discover later). The jazz station and low lights had been turned off in favor of ESPN on their small bedroom television. And her husband was draped across the bed, snoring in the flickering light.
He was still shirtless, she noted, so A for effort there. But he’d changed into pajama bottoms while she was gone.
She pushed on his ribs to wake him. “Babe, get up and under the covers.”
He barely stirred, murmuring against the pillow folded beneath him. “You’re back. I missed you.”
“I can see that. You could’ve at least cleaned up the oil.”
“Going to,” he said. “Right after.”
“After?”
“Rock your world, baby. Love you so much. Sooo beautiful.” This speech might have been more compelling if he hadn’t been half-unconscious.
“I love you, too, you big lump.” Jess sighed. “Go to bed.”
He sat up, gave her a sleepy smile. “Tomorrow?”
“Yep.” Or the next day. Or the day after that. She knew how this went. Unless she changed something. She picked up the sticky basket, and paused on her way to the trash. “Hey, Tom?”
“Hunhh?” He was already down again, pulling the covers over his bare torso.
“I forgot to mention, I decided to start tennis lessons.” She paused, heart pounding, a little dizzy with wine. “You don’t mind, do you? They’re a little pricey but I think they’ll be worth it.”
Jess chose to interpret the mumbling incoherence that followed as Tom giving the plan his unqualified approval.
6
Maizy
Maizy Callahan Henriksson wasn’t sure what it was, but something was up.
The annual teacher appreciation breakfast was going swimmingly, as it always did. This was her favorite event of the year, and had been her initial entry point into volunteering at the school. Long before she’d risen through the ranks of the PTA, she’d been a tentative first-time kindergarten parent, too shy to take much of a role in the organizational side, but happy to bake endless Tupperware containers of brownies and cookies and muffins whenever the occasion demanded it.
Even now, when she was in charge of the whole PTA, she hadn’t relinquished her original role as the baker of everyone’s favorite sweets. She’d been baking for the past three weeks, late at night, and putting treats in the freezer each morning, on top of coordinating parent volunteers to take over the teachers’ homeroom classes for an hour and handling all the end-of-year planning meetings. Technically, her successor should’ve been taking over some of these duties, because they were now in the final weeks of Maizy’s last year as a parent at the school. But Judy Kirkpatrick was a rather uninspiring choice for PTA president, if you wanted Maizy’s opinion about it, and although she had not gone out of her way, per se, to hand things off…well, Judy hadn’t been killing herself to take things over, either.
So it wasn’t a problem with the breakfast. They’d had good turnout and the teachers were happy. Everyone had shown up with what they were supposed to bring—even Delia Cargill, who was an hour late and a carton of orange juice short for everything.
In fact, it was Delia who had Maizy’s attention today, along with Jess Rodriguez, whom Maizy actually liked. They both lived on the cul-de-sac at the end of Maizy’s street, and frequently walked past her house engaged in conversation, impenetrable from the outside. Delia was always chatty and Jess was always smiling, but whenever Maizy casually stepped out the door in her walking shoes and waved hello, they would give her a wave and continue on. If she stopped either of them in the hallway at school or approached them at a PTA event like this one, Jess would say hello. Delia might smile, but she’d also keep talking as though Maizy weren’t there. Maizy could never tell whether this was a signal that the conversation was important and private, or that Maizy should hang out and wait to be included. Eventually she would say, “Well, I’ve got to run,” and slink away; or, if she stayed, the conversation would dissipate. They were never rude, exactly. It was just that Maizy invariably felt like the safety pin that had popped the balloon.
But today their conversation seemed even more closed-off than usual. And it wasn’t even the usual peppy chatter that Maizy envied. All morning, the two of them had been standing off in a corner, murmuring in a way that called attention to itself by trying not to. They stopped talking any time another parent or even the teachers walked nearby, plastering on careful smiles that died as soon as the intruder walked away.
It was unlike Delia not to insist on being the center of attention at these events. Normally she’d be chatting up the teachers, taking credit for bringing in two jugs of orange juice as if she’d won the freaking Nobel Prize of Parent Involvement, trying to sell them her latest line of health shakes or essential oils or skin cream. Polite dismissal wasn’t Delia Cargill’s style, not when it came to potential customers or the people who could impact her children’s golden path to Ivy League schools.
Delia had met her husband Gage while he was at Harvard Law. Maizy knew this because Delia mentioned it every fourth sentence. “When we were in Cambridge,” she would say, or sometimes getting even bolder, “When we were at Harvard.” As though cohabitation in Gage’s apartment during his final year at law school—before they were even married—meant Delia had walked Harvard’s hallowed halls herself. Delia conveniently never mentioned that she’d been in Boston with a previous boyfriend who dumped her as soon as they’d arrived, and that she met Gage while she was working at a bar. When we were at Harvard. Seriously.
But it wasn’t Maizy’s place to judge. She’d never said a word about the real story (told by Gage to Maizy’s husband Anders, after a few too many beers at the last neighborhood pool party). She wasn’t judging Delia and Jess’s strange behavior now, either. Just…observing.
“Lovely job as always, Maizy.” The principal, Nora Klein, was at her elbow. “I don’t know how we’ll survive without you next year.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine. Judy’s fantastic.”
She nodded to the other side of the room, where Judy Kirkpatrick stood vacantly next to an empty coffee carafe. Come on, Judy. Maizy sent frantic telepathy. Make coffee. It’s not rocket science.
Mrs. Klein smiled. “We’ll miss you. And Anders, too. The holiday auction won’t be the same without his mountain bike lessons up for bid. They’re a perennial favorite with the dads.”
“I’m sure he’ll continue to donate the lessons. We’ll still be part of the community.” Even as she said it, she knew Anders would be annoyed with her. He had already complained how amateur the guys were who bought his lessons; last year, one of the dads had flipped one of Anders’s best bikes and bent the frame. “And, if not…” She trailed off, unsure how to gracefully back out.
Mrs. Klein, as patient and understanding with parents as she was with the kids in her charge, kept smiling fondly, as though she possessed the wisdom of experience far beyond Maizy’s. Which was strange, because Mrs. Klein was only about a decade older. “We will miss you,” she repeated, and patted Maizy’s arm. “I’m going to snag another of your double-chocolate muffins before the fifth-grade teachers get over there. They have no shame by this time of year.”
When Maizy turned to resume her study of Delia and Jess, she found they had disappeared. Of course, she thought with irritation. No one stays to clean up.
7
Carras
Carras paced around the house, glancing at the clock every few minutes. Stuart was out of town, which was convenient, but it disconcerted Carras even more. She had woken early and taken a hot bath before donning an old tennis dress—careful not to choose one of her favorites, or the most flattering—and then wandered around the house she had frequently assured Stuart was too big, too rambling for her tastes.
Somehow, they had managed to fill the rooms. Stuart staked out the finished basement for his work and gaming (often interchangeable). It had come equipped with a wet bar and refrigerator from the previous owner, and they had moved in an ugly but supremely comfortable sectional sofa to accompany Stuart’s gaming chairs and long tables covered in blinking black boxes. She knew visitors thought of it as a “man cave,” but it was Carras’s favorite part of the house. She loved the unpretentious couch and Stuart’s giant television. They spent more weeknights curled up watching television and eating off paper plates downstairs than they ever did in their well-appointed kitchen.
Carras did not go down to the basement today. She couldn’t invade that intimate, relaxed space with her thoughts this morning. Instead, she floated among the rooms and the furniture they had purchased together. She let her hand graze across spotless surfaces, maintained by a local maid service whose employees wore bright-blue uniforms and never seemed able to remember Carras’s name.
Eventually, she wandered upstairs to the spare bedroom, where her tennis trophies and honors medals from college had been on display for far too long. She paused at the trophy shelf, seeing her own distorted image in the gold cups and three-dimensional plaques, and thought how quickly a person could turn into a different version of herself. She was proud of her tennis career, and had not objected when Stuart built the display shelves as a surprise. She knew Stuart adored her, almost to a fault, and making him proud made her happy. But it had been a comfort to know that the trophies would be consigned to the attic when this room was eventually converted into a nursery or playroom. The tokens of her former glory were just another reminder of how life was not moving forward in all the ways she had hoped. This thought piqued her curiosity about Parker Yung once again.
She sat down at the small desk by the window, where Carras’s ancient laptop—the least sophisticated piece of electronics in the house—sat mostly dormant. Her initial search on “Parker Yung” yielded Parker’s Instagram and Facebook profiles—which seemed to have identical pictures and captions where he auto-posted from one to the other—the home page for his tennis website, and Google’s suggestion that perhaps she meant “Parker Young” instead? She tried “Parker Davis” and got back too many results to count—pictures of men and women, all shapes and colors.
Carras clicked back to the previous search and looked through Parker’s public profiles, scouting for family photos, but found none. No sign of the “Tiger Mom” or Parker’s dad. But something tickled at the back of her brain, but refused to come forward.
Her phone buzzed—her father’s number in Waco—and Carras closed the browser. She’d do more thorough research later. “Hey, Pops. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you know, Angel. Life gives us what we can handle. I always told you.”
“Yes, you did.” Her father loved these little sayings. Her childhood was woven together with them like a giant cross-stitch sampler. But now she had to wonder whether life had given her father congestive heart failure because he could handle it, or because life was cruel and random and sometimes wildly unfair. “Are you following the doctor’s instructions? You’re taking your medicine?”
