The Secret Next Door, page 4
Not that Alyson thought Bennet and George would lie about such a thing—of course the Sloans’ oldest child would be attending an Ivy League school next year. Even if Alyson had a hard time imagining George having the academic and athletic competence to pull off such a feat on his own, she had no doubt the Sloans’ money and influence were able to escort him all the way to society’s upper limits.
No, Alyson wasn’t focused on the validity of the text; she was studying Bennet’s and George Sloan’s faces. Reading their eyes, the lines around their mouths, the angle of an arched brow. She was hunting for a sign to quiet the storm of injustice rising in her blood. Some symptom of strain, buried unhappiness, a shitty father-son relationship. But other than George’s amusing and age-appropriate teenage, aw-shucks embarrassment, Alyson could only find evidence of a father who was beaming with pride for his son. A son he clearly loved very much.
“Moooooooommmmmm!” Andrew wailed from the family room.
Alyson closed her eyes and put her phone facedown on the marble. Annoyed, she let go of any thoughts of preventing the ruination of dinner and made four quick strides to her walk-in pantry. She yanked open the frosted-glass door, grabbed the box of Cheez-Its from the shelf, and strode into the family room where Andrew was transfixed by an episode of PJ Masks. Alyson popped open the box lid, unfurled the inner plastic bag, and handed her five-year-old son the whole box.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Andrew simultaneously took the box from his mother with one hand and reached into it with the other. Alyson waited several seconds for a “Thank you,” or some kind of acknowledgment at least, but when Andrew didn’t look at her even once, and clearly wasn’t going to, she said, “You’re welcome.”
Andrew turned his head slightly, as if hearing a strange noise, but his glazed eyes never left the screen. He placed three Cheez-Its into his mouth and chewed them with his mouth open.
For a moment, she considered grabbing the remote off the couch next to him and turning the TV off altogether. She imagined Accepted-to-Yale George Sloan didn’t sit around dropping cheesy cracker crumbs all over the Sloans’ likely impeccable house while staring dumbfounded at the television half his life.
Not even when he was five.
But Alyson already knew what it would cost her to make such a bold move with Andrew—he could tantrum for hours when really triggered. Abruptly shutting off his show would do just that, and that wasn’t something she felt like dealing with right now.
After all, she had already spent the entire afternoon entertaining him and keeping him happy. She needed a break.
Of course, if Justin wasn’t preoccupied in the basement, he could help her parent their strong-willed son. At the very least, they could trade off every once in a while.
Leaving Andrew to his show, and keeping the peace, Alyson returned to her phone on the kitchen counter. She pulled up Bennet Sloan’s personal feed and clicked on the pictures. There were hundreds.
Alyson scrolled through the gallery, whizzing past holidays, birthdays, vacations, sports events—it was all here. Bennet Sloan spending his life with his arms around his children and his wife, Bonnie. Public, visual documentation that he loved them, enjoyed being around them, and wanted other people to know it! Why else does a man take the time to post these treasured family moments to share with his friends?
Bennet Sloan was a good father with a good family.
Justin Tinsdale was hiding, for reasons unknown, in their family’s basement.
Alyson’s heart beat hard in her chest as she left Bennet’s page and navigated back to The Enclave’s neighborhood page. A nervous dread trickled through her veins as she clicked in the new post box, typed her message, added her photos, and hesitated for only a split second before her thumb hit Post.
She placed her phone back on the counter in front of her. She took a step backward, as if trying on some level to separate herself not only from what she had knowingly just done but also any personal investigation into why she had done it.
Without wanting to give it any real thought, she bent down, opened her wine fridge, and slid out the half-empty bottle of chardonnay she had started last night. She poured the perfectly chilled, golden liquid into one of her wedding gift goblets. One clear thought rose above all her small attempts to justify her actions.
She was tired of the Bonnie Sloans of the world. Those perfect women, with their doting husbands, huge houses, imported cars, and Ivy League–bound children. It would do this neighborhood some good to realize that not everything was so perfect about people like the Sloans.
Alyson took a sip from her glass and felt, for the first time all day, some of the tension roping across her shoulder blades release. “It’s a public service,” she whispered to herself and took a drink.
Yes. The public had a right to know the truth.
Chapter Six
Truth be told, Bonnie Sloan fucking hated social media. Even though her face, and life, was plastered across multiple platforms because of her political campaign, personally she thought they were a blight to humanity, common courtesy, critical thinking, and rational thought. A simple-minded, multi-tentacled monstrosity that maimed, destroyed, and killed careers according to the shrill will of mob mentality.
She received a text message from Jessica Hampton late Saturday afternoon, right when she was in the middle of dealing with Bennet and Elijah’s latest battle of wills.
Umm, have you seen what someone posted on the Enclave page? It’s about George. You should take a look.
That night, after Bennet left to catch his flight to Atlanta to meet with both developers and potential investors, Bonnie sat at her mahogany desk. She gazed at the picture of her son’s distinctive electric-blue Jeep posted to The Enclave’s Facebook page. Bonnie had read this woman’s rant about her son’s deplorable driving habits: speeding, music blaring, complete disregard for the safety of small children. She found that she could not disagree with any of it.
George drove like an asshole—it was a simple fact.
No, being a pragmatic woman at heart, Bonnie couldn’t argue with—what was her name?
Alyson Tinsdale.
No, she couldn’t argue with Alyson’s assessment of George’s driving. What she did find irritating was the way this Alyson had chosen to handle her complaint.
Publicly.
Also, the whole thing read as incredibly disingenuous. Alyson had begun her public scree with, Does anyone know this driver?
Yes, Alyson, everyone knows this fucking driver. They know him, his car, his house, his mother, father, brother, and sister. They know his girlfriend, the school he attends, the sport he plays, his GPA, and—thanks to Bennet’s most recent brag post—that he will be attending Yale next year.
What is hard to believe, Alyson Tinsdale, is that you really don’t know any of this.
Because Bonnie suspected she did. This was nothing more than a passive-aggressive, chickenshit, social media pitchfork attempt to incite the neighborhood mob to like, comment on, and cow George, or maybe the Sloans as a whole, into contrite submission.
And if that was the case, well, there was a critical piece of information that Alyson Tinsdale, being new to the Enclave community, was missing.
Bonnie Sloan, having dedicated herself body and soul to this neighborhood, was the queen of its mob. By the time Jessica had alerted her, the post had been sitting on the page for hours, and it had only one like.
By Carl Wayland. And of course, he liked it—the neighborhood Don Quixote was on his quest to bring Bonnie and Bennet to heel.
Bonnie clicked on Alyson’s profile and scrolled through her page. She didn’t know her, but the name was ringing some bells. She stopped on a picture of Alyson crouching down and taking a selfie at the Enclave park with her young son, Andrew, who looked to be about five.
And then it came to her. Alyson’s son was in Gracie’s kindergarten class. Bonnie sat back in her chair and scoffed out loud. There was hardly a day that passed without Gracie coming home and reporting on Andrew’s behavior in the class.
Oh, the hypocrisy.
Bonnie closed her eyes and considered the multitude of ways she could make this woman’s life a living hell in this neighborhood. It would require almost no effort at all.
She leaned forward again and closed her laptop with a snap. But, unlike Alyson Tinsdale, who was young and rash, Bonnie had acquired a measure of restraint over the years.
Her phone buzzed against the wood desk. It was Jessica again.
Just occurred to me, this is the woman Gabby Lawrence asked me to invite to book club this week! What should I do?!
Bonnie thought about it for half a second before responding.
Invite her. I’d like to get to know her better.
Oh my God, you really are a politician now!
Ha, ha. She’s young, and she’s new. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Well, you’re a better person than I am. If I were you, I’d hop right on that post and hand that bitch her ass.
As much pleasure as that might give me, I suspect it would end up making my life more difficult right now, not less.
Okay, grownup. You have a point. Sending her the link to the book club page now.
Plus, age had also taught Bonnie to try like hell to keep her enemies as close as possible. They were easier to influence when they were within arm’s reach.
Someone knocked at her office door right before opening it. “Mom?” Elijah asked, sticking his head through the crack. “Are you busy?”
“No,” she said, putting her phone down. “Come in.”
Her youngest son slipped through the door and closed it behind him, turning the lock on the handle. When he turned back around, she could see the storm collecting in his features half a second before his eyes filled with tears. “Did Dad leave?” he asked, and whatever emotional restraint he’d been hanging on to broke with his words. The tears he’d been so obviously trying to hold back ran down his face.
Bonnie stood up from her chair. “Come here,” she said as she rounded her desk and met him in the middle of her office. She opened her arms, and her son lunged into her embrace, nearly knocking her off balance with his recently acquired size and strength, which he had no idea how to manage yet.
In so many ways, Elijah was still a little boy. But he was now operating in a body that had grown four inches over the summer and added twenty pounds. He felt huge in her arms as he sobbed into her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she said, rubbing his back and trying to help him calm down. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“Did he leave?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she said. “His flight takes off about six.”
She held him the best she could, the weight of him pressing into her. Elijah had always been the most emotionally volatile of all her children. Comforting him had been infinitely easier when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.
“I know you are.”
“Do you think he’s sorry?”
Bonnie sighed. “I’m sure he is,” she said. But in truth, she thought it was equally possible that Bennet was still in a rage over this recent dogfight with his son.
Elijah pulled away from her, his eyes downcast. “Can we call him?”
Bonnie ran her fingers through her son’s sweaty, disheveled hair. “How about we wait until he lands in Atlanta? He’s probably trying to get through security…or boarding.” But most likely he’s sitting at the bar in the United Red Carpet Lounge having a scotch and soda. “Better to call once he’s settled in his hotel room.”
Elijah looked even more crestfallen, but he nodded in agreement.
Bonnie wiped his face once more. “Are you okay?”
He nodded and took a deep breath. “I’m going to ride my bike to the lake…maybe fish for a while.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
He let her kiss his cheek, then turned and left.
When she was sure he was gone, she closed her eyes and let all her very real worries and fears settle into the lines of her face. She took a breath, and then another, trying her best to practice what her twice-weekly guided meditation sessions preached to her. She wanted to center herself, balance the chaos, stop resisting the reality of life as it was.
Quite frankly, it felt fucking impossible.
Her eyes flew open, and an anxiety that refused to be kept at bay settled beneath her breastbone. It seemed to her that just lately, the universe was attacking her life on every conceivable front—like an autoimmune disorder dispatching disease-fighting antibodies to attack all the once healthy and thriving aspects of her life.
She was exhausted. Never more than on days like today, when everyone around her was losing their shit and taking the stress of their existence out on each other. Meanwhile, she was required to reroute everyone back to emotionally stable ground in addition to never, ever, ever losing control of her own shit.
She felt like the captain of a jumbo jet plummeting to earth. Always maintaining an outward appearance of detached control while urging the broken machinery of their life to skid to a halt on a grassy field instead of imploding into a fiery inferno on the side of a mountain.
It was never her turn to release the yoke, throw her hands over her head, and start crying and screaming about all the many scary circumstances of life.
Bonnie left her office and padded on perfectly pedicured toes to her kitchen. Once she had interrupted the firestorm of Bennet and Elijah’s argument and sent them both to their respective corners, she had called Bennet’s mother, Marjorie, to farm out Gracie for a sleepover with Grandma. Escaping the drama, George had jumped in his Jeep and driven away of his own volition—undoubtedly to his girlfriend’s house. So now, with Elijah at the lake and Bennet at the airport, she had the house to herself.
They had received their monthly wine shipment today, and the bottles were still waiting in the butler’s pantry for her to sort and take down to the cellar. She grabbed one of the cabernets, not bothering to digest the accompanying information card about maker, region, flavor, and scents—she didn’t care right now. She placed the bottle beneath her counter-mounted corkscrew without bothering to cut the foil first. With one swift pull, the cork popped from the bottle and ejected onto the floor. She left it there, grabbed one of her bowl-shaped wineglasses from the cupboard, and headed out to her back patio.
The days were getting noticeably shorter now. The sun had set behind the mountains in the distance. A vibrant spectrum of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and purples swirled and blended with a collection of high-hanging clouds. A natural display so spectacular it looked more like an artist’s creation than anything that could be real. Bonnie poured her wine and noticed that her swimsuit from her morning swim was still hanging on the back of one of her patio chairs where she’d left it to dry.
She took a sip from her glass as she plucked the now dry suit from the chair and glanced into her side neighbors’ backyards. She didn’t see anyone out, but just to be safe, she retreated into the recesses of her covered patio before taking off her clothes and quickly slipping her suit on.
Next to the shed that housed the pool’s pump, she grabbed one of the folded towels from the cupboard and flipped on both the underwater light and the pool’s waterfall. She laid her towel on the stamped ebony-stained concrete at the water’s edge and then sat down with her glass and bottle to watch the skies over the Rocky Mountains shift and dance with color as the sun dipped farther west behind them.
Bonnie slipped both her feet into the water and leaned on her left arm while her right kept hold of the glass. She loved this view. Given different financial circumstances, she would be riding right next to Carl Wayland. Galloping along on his quest to preserve their ability to walk out their back doors and gaze into this wonder of a view every day.
But because her circumstances, and her family, were tethered to Sloan Investment, she wasn’t in the position to make decisions based solely on what she desired. Her choices had to be smart, calculated carefully, and, above all, perfectly defendable from any and all public criticism.
She couldn’t afford to be an object of scrutiny right now.
She was taking another sip from her glass when movement to the right of her periphery caught her attention. Bonnie turned her head. Two backyards over, a lone figure stood in his own yard, staring up at the Rocky Mountain skyline before him. Bonnie watched as he looked left, noticed her as well, then lifted his own glass in acknowledgment to her before taking a sip and then a seat in one of his outdoor chairs.
Carl Wayland had never hated Bonnie or her family, but he was a man long accustomed to getting what he wanted. There wasn’t any way Extreme Golf was erecting their monstrosity between Carl and his mountain view without a fight, and Bonnie knew it.
Bonnie finished the rest of her wine in one large swallow, planted both her hands on the smooth concrete beside her, and hoisted herself up and into the pool’s warm blue waters. In one movement, she slipped all the way under.
As she held her breath, her arms and hair weightless and floating up around her, it occurred to Bonnie that—despite the fact that it would completely destroy Sloan Investment—a part of her secretly rooted for Carl Wayland to win his war.
Chapter Seven
Already dressed and ready for school, Elijah sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the closed door to his room. His stomach twisted into its ever-present knot, and he tried using the deep breathing strategies the school counselor had taught him.
With sharp, angry claws, the anxiety fought back. Pulling at his insides, racing through his bloodstream, disassembling him at his core. His mind, unwilling to be silenced, landed with a thud on an “anxious thought.” With that foothold, his thinking took off in a dead sprint through all the other worries that drove his heart rate faster and faster. Feeding that voracious, unhinged entity that existed at his core, hell-bent, it flapped its enormous wings and launched him into a terrified panic.
