impromptu dinner date. We didn’t have reservations, and the first three restaurants we visited had waits of up to an hour. Eventually, we ended up at a Pizza Hut, filling our plates at the buffet. A dozen kids were crammed into the arcade, their shrieks drowning out the radio.
“If this is a date, I’m letting you off easy,” I said, wiping greasy fingers on a stack of single-ply napkins.
Phil rubbed a circle on my wrist with his thumb. “I thought about renting a helicopter for the night and taking you on a tour of the bay, but it turns out you have to book those months in advance.”
“I’m sure we could have borrowed one from a neighbor.”
“Damn. Next time.”
We grinned at each other. Five weeks in, we’d fallen into the rhythm of the school year—the frozen entrées, the leftovers stretched to a third day, the unfolded laundry heaped on the floor of an empty bedroom. I’d been waiting for things to settle into some kind of normal, but it hadn’t happened yet. Maybe there was no normal at The Palms.
There hadn’t been another mountain lion sighting, although it was still the talk of The Palms, as real as if we’d all witnessed it ourselves. Deanna had achieved a sort of celebrity status in the neighborhood from an appearance on the local ABC affiliate, where she’d been interviewed about her “brush with danger.” Phil and I had watched the clip so many times, I’d memorized each word said in Deanna’s trembling voice, each curl of her blond hair in the sunlight. Next to her, with his receding hairline and rounded paunch, Rich might have been her lecherous uncle. It had been Phil’s job to repeat Parker-Lane’s party line to whoever called, needing a sound bite. We’re taking the situation very seriously and doing everything to ensure the safety of our residents at The Palms. Just about every resident had approached him with a concern, including the people who had bought into Phase 3. I could always tell when he was on one of those phone calls; his voice changed, became deferential and solicitous in a way that grated on my ears.
Phil ran a finger along the condensation from his beer. “Oh, Liz,” he sighed.
I sat back hard against the wooden booth, bracing myself for the delivery of bad news, whatever it was. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking...”
Don’t , I thought. Don’t think. Don’t say anything.
He drank and set the glass down. “We should do this more often. Get away from there.”
I raised an eyebrow. The whole point of moving to The Palms was to spend time there, away from the rest of the world, with every luxury at our fingertips. “I thought you loved there .”
“But this is nice, just the two of us.”
“Right. It is nice.”
I was looking for the loophole, waiting for the but . He twirled his glass in a small circle on the plastic tablecloth.
“What?” I asked again, torn between truth and silence.
Tell me.
Don’t tell me.
I’d been uneasy ever since the night of the mountain lion, since my discovery of the thong. I’d decided it was Kelsey’s underwear, that nothing else made sense. But I was queen at making something out of nothing. The thong had still been there, wadded up in the trash can when I cleaned the bathroom at the end of that week. I’d plucked it out of the trash and examined it between two fingers. Don’t be stupid , I’d scolded myself. Just throw it out. And yet I’d rolled the thong inside a clean hand towel and shoved it in the back of my dresser drawer, behind a half-slip and a strapless bra, as though I were preserving evidence for a crime I wasn’t sure had been committed.
No, I was sure.
Phil took my hand across the table, twisting my wedding band around my finger, the diamond appearing and disappearing. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to say, one of the deep and important things that had to be said in a marriage, in any fleeting moment of time alone. But then he smiled and
“If this is a date, I’m letting you off easy,” I said, wiping greasy fingers on a stack of single-ply napkins.
Phil rubbed a circle on my wrist with his thumb. “I thought about renting a helicopter for the night and taking you on a tour of the bay, but it turns out you have to book those months in advance.”
“I’m sure we could have borrowed one from a neighbor.”
“Damn. Next time.”
We grinned at each other. Five weeks in, we’d fallen into the rhythm of the school year—the frozen entrées, the leftovers stretched to a third day, the unfolded laundry heaped on the floor of an empty bedroom. I’d been waiting for things to settle into some kind of normal, but it hadn’t happened yet. Maybe there was no normal at The Palms.
There hadn’t been another mountain lion sighting, although it was still the talk of The Palms, as real as if we’d all witnessed it ourselves. Deanna had achieved a sort of celebrity status in the neighborhood from an appearance on the local ABC affiliate, where she’d been interviewed about her “brush with danger.” Phil and I had watched the clip so many times, I’d memorized each word said in Deanna’s trembling voice, each curl of her blond hair in the sunlight. Next to her, with his receding hairline and rounded paunch, Rich might have been her lecherous uncle. It had been Phil’s job to repeat Parker-Lane’s party line to whoever called, needing a sound bite. We’re taking the situation very seriously and doing everything to ensure the safety of our residents at The Palms. Just about every resident had approached him with a concern, including the people who had bought into Phase 3. I could always tell when he was on one of those phone calls; his voice changed, became deferential and solicitous in a way that grated on my ears.
Phil ran a finger along the condensation from his beer. “Oh, Liz,” he sighed.
I sat back hard against the wooden booth, bracing myself for the delivery of bad news, whatever it was. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking...”
Don’t , I thought. Don’t think. Don’t say anything.
He drank and set the glass down. “We should do this more often. Get away from there.”
I raised an eyebrow. The whole point of moving to The Palms was to spend time there, away from the rest of the world, with every luxury at our fingertips. “I thought you loved there .”
“But this is nice, just the two of us.”
“Right. It is nice.”
I was looking for the loophole, waiting for the but . He twirled his glass in a small circle on the plastic tablecloth.
“What?” I asked again, torn between truth and silence.
Tell me.
Don’t tell me.
I’d been uneasy ever since the night of the mountain lion, since my discovery of the thong. I’d decided it was Kelsey’s underwear, that nothing else made sense. But I was queen at making something out of nothing. The thong had still been there, wadded up in the trash can when I cleaned the bathroom at the end of that week. I’d plucked it out of the trash and examined it between two fingers. Don’t be stupid , I’d scolded myself. Just throw it out. And yet I’d rolled the thong inside a clean hand towel and shoved it in the back of my dresser drawer, behind a half-slip and a strapless bra, as though I were preserving evidence for a crime I wasn’t sure had been committed.
No, I was sure.
Phil took my hand across the table, twisting my wedding band around my finger, the diamond appearing and disappearing. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to say, one of the deep and important things that had to be said in a marriage, in any fleeting moment of time alone. But then he smiled and
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