Dear Debbie, page 12
“Oh my God!” Tabitha grabs my arm tightly enough that her nails bite into me. “It’s Coach Pike!”
It is indeed Coach Pike. His hands are cuffed in front of him as the police escort him out of the school. He makes the mistake of turning in our direction, and every single woman whips out her phone practically in unison and snaps a photo of the coach being arrested.
“I didn’t do it!” Coach Pike is yelling. “That camera wasn’t mine! I don’t know how that stuff got on my phone!”
“Yeah, right,” Tabitha mutters to me. “Does he really think anyone believes that? What a creep.”
“Such a creep,” I agree. And then, just to add more fuel to the fire, I add, “I used to see him staring at the girls’ butts during soccer practice. I’m not at all surprised.”
“Oh my gosh!” another mother exclaims. “I always knew there was something off about him!”
The dam has burst, and now all the women are excitedly exchanging stories about what a jerk Coach Pike was. We’re still sharing anecdotes when the police car drives away with the coach in the back seat.
33
COOPER
Debbie burned the pancakes this morning.
She’s never burned pancakes in the entire time I’ve been married to her. She’s not a gourmet cook, but she never burns things. And the pancakes weren’t just a little on the brown side—they were black on the bottom with an acrid odor. The entire kitchen reeked.
It seemed like a particularly ominous sign.
When I get to the office, Mrs. McCauley is sitting primly at her desk. She gets to her feet when she sees me. “Mr. Mullen, can I have a word?”
I don’t really feel like having a conversation with Mrs. McCauley, but I obediently approach her desk. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Bryant has decided to take a spur-of-the-moment fishing trip,” she says. “He informed me via email this morning that he would be absent for the rest of the week.”
Fantastic. That means I don’t have to see him.
“Of course,” she adds, “that doesn’t give you a license to spend the next two days having a vacation of your own. I promised him that I would keep an eye on you and the rest of the staff.”
I don’t doubt that she will. However, Mrs. McCauley always leaves at four thirty on the dot, which means that I’ll be cutting out at four thirty five. I’ll head to the gym and blow off some of my nervous energy.
After disentangling myself from Mrs. McCauley, I head to the small break room to get a cup of coffee. Jesse is already there, sipping from his own mug. “Hey, Coop,” he says.
“Hey, man.”
We have one of those coffee pod machines in the break room, but Ken refuses to provide the pods, so Jesse and I split a box of them. We keep them in the cabinet over the sink, so I grab one to make my own coffee.
“Must be nice to be the boss and get to take a spur-of-the-moment fishing trip in the middle of the damn week,” Jesse muses.
“I’m glad he’s gone.”
Jesse is silent for a moment, sipping his coffee. Despite the fact that Mrs. McCauley is watching us, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to get to work. He’s good at his job, but he has a more relaxed attitude, which is something I envy about him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says to me, “but you look like shit, Cooper.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for the coffee to fill my cup. I need some caffeine like nobody’s business. “Yeah, I feel like shit.”
“Everything okay, buddy?”
I shoot him a look. “Is that a serious question?”
He flinches. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass.”
“No,” I grunt. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a weird couple of days. And Debbie… I don’t think she’s taking the whole thing well.”
“That Debbie.” He shakes his head. “She’s kind of…intense, isn’t she?”
I know what he means. I’ve always known Debbie was different from everyone else, but now it’s gotten to the point where friends seem to be noticing. “What gives you that idea?”
“Well…” He takes a thoughtful sip from his coffee mug. It has a cartoon dog on it. “Remember when the four of us went to dinner together at that little Italian place?”
“Yeah…”
“Do you remember how the waitress was flirting with you?” When I look at him blankly, he elaborates. “She was giggling at everything you said, and then at one point, she put her hand on your shoulder.”
“I don’t think I noticed.”
“Well, Debbie sure did.” He lowers his mug onto the counter. “She was super cold after that. I swear, she deliberately spilled her drink so the waitress would have to clean it up. And she didn’t leave any tip on your half when we split the bill. I actually kicked in extra so the waitress wouldn’t get stiffed.”
I remember that part now. I remember Debbie tossing in her own credit card when we were splitting the bill, which surprised me because I am the one who usually pays for meals. Technically it was the same joint credit card, but we fall into the typical gender roles, and I’m the one who pays. This time, it was Debbie who used her credit card though.
And apparently, she had a good reason.
“Debbie has serious jealousy issues,” Jesse observes.
“You really think so?”
“For sure.” He slugs my shoulder playfully. “I get the feeling Debbie has a fiery side.”
“Not that I’ve ever seen.”
Jesse grins. “You giving her something to worry about, Coop?”
A cold sensation runs down my spine. The coffee finishes pouring into the cup, and I snatch it from the machine. “I better get to work. Mrs. McCauley is probably writing down everything we do.”
“I’ll bet.” He snickers. “She’s probably going to provide Ken with minute-by-minute updates. Although I get to leave for an hour to water Ken’s plants. He texted me to assign me that dubious honor.”
That makes me feel even worse. The last time Ken took a fishing trip, I was the one he asked to water his plants. I can understand after our conversation yesterday, though, why he wouldn’t want me wandering around his empty home. Not that I’d take a piss in his plants or anything like that, but, well, I’d be tempted.
As I trudge back to my office with my cup of coffee, I can’t seem to shake a sensation in the back of my head that something isn’t entirely right here. Ken goes fishing all the time, but he usually gives us a few weeks’ notice. And there’s something strange about the fact that the people he told were contacted electronically rather than with a phone call.
Impulsively, I grab my phone and find Ken’s number under my favorite contacts. The last thing I want to do is chitchat with my boss after our conversation yesterday, but my Spidey sense won’t stop tingling. Something is wrong.
I grip the phone as it rings in my ear. Again and again until it goes to his terse voicemail:
This is Ken Bryant. Leave a message.
If he went on a fishing trip, it makes sense he wouldn’t have phone service. Or else he left his phone behind while he’s sitting in the middle of a lake, just him and his fishing rod. That’s the most logical explanation.
So why can’t I turn off this buzzing in the back of my head? Maybe it’s because in all the years I’ve known Ken, he has never once taken a spontaneous vacation. Every time he’s taken so much as an afternoon off, he’s given us several weeks’ notice. This is very strange behavior.
Maybe I should go check on him.
But that might not be a great idea. If he is home, Ken wouldn’t appreciate it if I showed up at his front door. And if he’s not home, that sort of thing might be looked at as trespassing by a disgruntled employee.
I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure he’ll be back on Monday.
34
DEBBIE
Without my advice column to work on, I spend the morning in my garden.
I love gardening. I find the repetitive motions of planting, watering, and pruning to be very relaxing. Almost meditative. I feel so much satisfaction after spending the day outside when I look out on my yard at the fruits of my labor. Multiple studies have shown that gardening reduces stress, anxiety, and depression. After working for a morning in my backyard, I feel so relaxed and zen.
Screw that Home Gardening magazine. They can go straight to hell.
Opium poppies are actually surprisingly easy to grow. They are my favorite of all the flowers in my garden. I’ve been doing it for years, so I’ve got it down to a science. Unlike my children, who change every single year, leaving me fumbling to keep up, poppies follow a natural and predictable cycle. My little poppy flowers are nearly at the end of their annual cycle.
In a month or so, I will shake the seeds all over the garden to begin the cycle anew. I’m careful to strategically plan the distribution of seeds, and by spring, the flowers will bloom in bright bursts of color. The color is so vivid that it almost seems to glow with a mystical intensity. At the height of the season, my garden looks ethereal.
By the late fall, the petals will have fallen off the flowers, and the pods will start to bloom. I will then harvest them for seeds. And, of course, opium.
Today, I walk out into my yard barefoot. I don’t do it all the time, but I love gardening in my bare feet. I love the feel of the dirt between my toes, and it almost makes me feel like I’m part of the garden. My task for the morning is to get rid of all the stray leaves that have fallen into the yard, and there are enough of them that it keeps me busy for nearly two hours. By the end, there’s soil caked into my fingernails and in the creases of my palms, and of course, my feet are caked with it.
As I’m washing the dirt off my hands in the kitchen sink, I think about what I want to make for lunch. I pull out my phone and idly check the website for the Hingham Household. It’s the only local paper, so they might have a news update on Coach Robert Pike. But nope, it’s still that video of Garrett and Sierra having sex on his desk. Apparently, he hasn’t managed to get it down yet.
Oh, Garrett.
While I’ve got my phone out, another idea hits me. It might be nice to have some company. So I reach for my phone and shoot off a message to Harley:
Sorry for the late notice, but any chance you’d like to grab lunch?
Immediately, three bubbles appear on the screen. Harley doesn’t usually work on Thursday mornings, so she must be home.
Sure! But I don’t have a lot of time. I’m teaching a spin class at one.
No problem. What if I bring some food to your house? I can make sandwiches.
Before she can respond, I quickly add:
No avocados. I promise.
The response takes longer this time. She’s clearly thinking hard about what she wants to say. It probably doesn’t help that the last time I made sandwiches, three people got seriously ill with food poisoning. But I’m not going to give Harley food poisoning. I’m sure she realizes that.
Sure thing! See you soon!
She texts me her address, and I enter it in my GPS. She lives outside Hingham, over in Rockland, but it won’t take me too long to get there.
As for our lunch, I decide to go the healthy route and make the two of us a salad using the tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce in my fridge. No avocados, although I love avocados in a salad. I grab a bottle of miso ranch dressing and load everything into my car.
I pull out of my driveway, and as I’m rolling down the block, I notice there’s a bit of a commotion in front of Jo Dolan’s house. A man is standing next to a tripod, holding an expensive-looking camera in his hand, and Jo is standing in front of him, yelling and waving her hands wildly. The argument seems to be attracting some attention from our neighbors. Even Bev who lives across from me has made the trek down the street and is standing on the sidelines and gawking.
Curious, I pull over on the side of the road and climb out of the car, leaving my salad and dressing in the passenger seat. I don’t want the salad to wilt, but I’m sure this won’t take long.
“Bev,” I whisper to my neighbor, “what’s going on?”
Bev giggles. “Looks like Jo has a little insect problem.”
I turn my attention to Jo and the man with the camera. Now that I’m closer, I can see the veins standing out in Jo’s scrawny neck. Her housedress is swaying in the wind.
“I have the best rose garden in all of Hingham!” Jo is ranting at him. “You won’t find better roses than mine. I guarantee it!”
The man flashes her an exasperated look. “I don’t care how nice your roses are. I’m not photographing a garden infested with bugs.”
“There are hardly any bugs!” Jo shouts.
The man gives her an “are you kidding me?” look. That’s when I swivel my head to take a look at Jo’s rose garden.
Wow, there are Japanese beetles everywhere.
Japanese beetles are shiny, metallic green with bronze wings. The tiny insects are clinging to the blades of grass and the leaves and petals of Jo’s precious roses. It almost looks like every Japanese beetle in the Hingham area—hell, maybe every beetle in Massachusetts—has congregated in Jo’s rose garden. It’s practically a swarm. Soon, they will have devoured all the flowers and leaves, leaving behind a patchwork of holes and lacy remnants.
Those trap refills worked even better than I hoped.
“You!” she cries. “Did you do this to my garden?”
“Me?” I feign astonishment. “You really think I have the ability to bring a swarm of Japanese beetles to your garden? I’m not a beetle whisperer, Jo.”
“You were jealous yesterday!” she reminds me. “You were mad that I stole your photo shoot.”
“Yes.” I nod. “And I did mention something about karma, didn’t I? I guess I was right about that.”
Jo narrows her eyes at me, but there’s nothing she can do. She doesn’t know anything about the three traps buried in the mulch of her yard that are attracting every Japanese beetle in the area. And until she finds them, she’ll never get rid of the pests.
I hope she never finds them.
35
It’s a similar length ride to Harley’s as it was to get to Coach Pike’s place. Thankfully, even though it’s close to lunchtime, there isn’t much traffic. Her house is on a dead-end street, which contains one other house that looks like it’s empty, possibly abandoned. She wrote in her text message that I should go around back to find the door to her basement apartment.
I arrive at Harley’s door, balancing the salad dressing in one hand and the Tupperware in the other. When she opens the door, she’s wearing her workout uniform, her pink-streaked blond hair tied back into a neat ponytail. Her stomach is peeking out, and the outline of her abs is visible.
“Debbie!” Her face lights up at the sight of me. “Come on in! I’ll show you around Casa Harley.”
I laugh as I step inside and Harley relieves me of my salad and dressing. “It’s so quiet here. There isn’t even one other car on the street.”
“I barely see my landlords who live upstairs,” she says. “They mostly stay inside, but right now, they’re in Michigan visiting their grandchildren, so I really am completely alone. They won’t be back till Monday.”
“You should throw a wild party.”
Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plans.”
We take a little tour of the apartment. It’s small, but she makes the most of the space. She has a comfy-looking blue sofa with a TV tray set up in front of it, and Japanese doors separate the kitchenette from the living area. She has managed to stuff a queen-size bed, a bookcase, and a dresser into her bedroom, with just enough room to walk between them.
“Nice place,” I say appreciatively as I look around the bedroom. It reminds me a bit of an apartment I rented back in my pre-Cooper days.
Then my gaze drops to her dresser. There’s a T-shirt crumpled up on top of the dresser, and it looks several sizes too big for Harley to wear. Before I can stop myself, I pick it up and realize that it’s a man’s T-shirt.
And there’s something achingly familiar about it. Not just about the way it looks but the way it smells.
“I sleep in that,” Harley says quickly, tugging it out of my hands. “I love sleeping in oversize T-shirts. Don’t you?”
Except the T-shirt doesn’t smell like Harley. The entire apartment is heavy with the distinctive scent of her perfume or laundry detergent or whatever it is. But that T-shirt smells different. Like men’s cologne and something else.
Sweat.
“Well,” I say brightly, “why don’t we have some lunch?”
“Sounds great!”
I follow Harley back to the living room, but I realize that I have suddenly lost my appetite.
36
HARLEY
I can’t decide if I should tell Cooper that his wife discovered his shirt in my bedroom.
I couldn’t believe it when she zeroed in on it. She couldn’t quite recognize it—she wasn’t certain—but she was suspicious. And then she brought it to her nose and sniffed it. I thought for sure I was busted when she did that. After all, a woman knows what her husband smells like.
Yet she didn’t say a word. So maybe we’re safe.
The funny thing is that when she went back into the living room to eat the salad with me, I was almost disappointed that she didn’t call me out on it. Maybe I wanted to get busted. I didn’t have to invite her to my house—we could have met somewhere else closer to the gym. And even if we did meet here, I had plenty of time to stuff that T-shirt in a drawer, but instead, I left it right where she could find it. It was almost exhilarating when Debbie picked up her husband’s T-shirt, trying desperately to place it.
