Falling (4 page)

“How do you do?” Emma extends a hand to Gina. “I'm Emma.”

Gina's smile is polite, if not warm. “Which one of you is the tenant?”

“Me.” Emma raises a hand. “I just moved in this morning.”

“I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other,” she says eventually. “I stay over a lot next door.”

“Great,” says Emma. “You'll have to pop in for a cup of tea.”

“Right,” says Gina, who mumbles vaguely—something along the lines of how nice it is to have met her—then walks off to the other end of the bar.

“Not exactly warm and fuzzy.” Sophie pretends to whisper this, but she is within earshot of Dominic.

“I'm sorry.” He turns to face them. “She's a nice girl underneath, but not much of a woman's woman. It's just insecurity.”

“Why is she insecure?” Emma is perplexed. “She's gorgeous.”

Dominic shrugs. “Isn't it a female thing?”

They all turn to see Gina, at the other end of the bar, who smiles at them before beckoning Dominic over. It's clear he has no choice.

“Gotta go,” he mutters.

“Wuss,” mutters Sophie, as Emma just shakes her head and laughs. “You know why she just did that, right? Claimed her territory?” says Sophie, as Gina slides her arms around Dominic again, from the other side of the bar, and kisses him deeply. “She's threatened by you.”

“Why on earth would she be threatened by me?”

“Because . . . I don't know. There's something. I think he might like you.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” says Emma. “Never have there been two people less compatible than my landlord and myself. Just because neither of us is married doesn't mean we're going to jump into bed together.” She doesn't know why she feels the sudden need to defend herself, to insist that there is no possibility of anything happening, when she is beginning to notice she feels happy whenever he is around.

“It might be fun.”

“I'm not planning on finding out. Don't you think it's time we made a move to go home?”

I
t takes a while for Emma to open her eyes. She isn't sure where she is at first. The room is brighter than she is used to, and it smells different. Her head is pounding. As she swims up to consciousness, she cracks open one eye to see the light flooding in through the French doors in the bedroom.

Ah. It comes back to her. She is in the rental house. There are boxes everywhere. The light is flooding in through the sheer white Ikea panels on either side of the windows. She hadn't drawn them last night, not that it would have made a difference—they wouldn't keep out the brightness of this summer's day.

Last night. Oh God. The drinking. She makes her way to the bathroom, ripping open a box and digging through it until she finds a bottle of painkillers. Tipping two tablets into her hand, she leans over and puts her mouth to the faucet, swallowing the pills with a
mouthful of lukewarm water before walking back to bed and sinking into the covers with a moan.

Emma doesn't remember the last time she had a hangover. However bad she is feeling, though, Sophie must surely be feeling worse. Sophie didn't drink any water, and Sophie was hammered. Emma pats the bedcovers for her phone, and, squinting at the screen, she taps out a text.

You alive?

The dots appear, before one word.
No.

Emma grins and puts the phone down, closing her eyes to wait for the painkillers to take effect, trying to remember what happened last night. Dominic had been sweet and solicitous, looking after them at the bar, pouring them drinks on the house far longer than he should have. His girlfriend, Gina. Bitchy. Probably not who she would see him with only because he seems so nice, and she seemed . . . insecure and rude.

Nothing terrible happened, she is sure. And it was fun, even though it's not something she wants to do on a regular basis. Someone asked for her number; she can't remember who. She only remembers giving it to him, with one digit off.

An hour later, having dozed off again, Emma wakes, this time feeling guilty. There is so much to do today, so many boxes to unpack, so much organizing. She pads into the kitchen to dig out a jar of instant coffee from one of the boxes. (She hates instant coffee but always has some on hand in case of emergencies.) As she hauls the boxes from the high pile in the corner, there is a knock on the door. She's not as alarmed as she was the first time this happened, but she still can't help but wonder who could be knocking on the door?

“Hello?” Emma calls from the kitchen.

“It's Dominic,” comes the voice. “I've come to start working on the shelves.”

Emma catches sight of herself in the door of the microwave. She's in men's boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt, with her hair a tangled, frizzy mess. Shit. She doesn't particularly want to be seen like this, but she is stuck. She runs to the bedroom, grabs an elastic off the nightstand, and scrapes her hair back into a bun, then goes to the door, opening it a crack and peeking her head through.

“I'm not even dressed,” she says. “Can you give me five minutes? I had no idea you'd be here so early.”

“It's eleven o'clock,” says Dominic. “Bit too much drinking last night?”

She blushes, but laughs. “Thanks to you constantly refilling, yes.”

“Here.” He hands her a cup of coffee through the door. “I thought you might need this.”

“Good God! Are you the greatest landlord ever?”

“I aim to please,” he says.

“Thank you. This is amazing. Can I just put some clothes on? Give me five minutes. Is that okay?”

“See you in five minutes.”

Emma runs to the bathroom and looks at her face in the mirror. Her eyes are puffy, her skin grayish. She washes her face and splashes it several times with icy cold water, pinching her cheeks to bring some color back into them. Her makeup bag sits on the dresser; she looks at it, but no. It would be ridiculous to put makeup on. Maybe just the tiniest bit of concealer to hide the shadows under her eyes.

Her clothes are still packed, but she finds a clean T-shirt and denim shorts. A roll of deodorant—the shower will have to wait—a
spritz of perfume, and a shakeout of her hair before gathering it back again, and she is, if not her best self, at least presentable.

Not that it should matter in the slightest, she tells herself. But she wants to redeem herself after last night.

She's soon back to open the door again. But when she does so, she's greeted by a surprise.

“Hello.”

There is a small person next to Dominic, holding a toolbox. Emma crouches down to look him in the eye. She isn't very used to small people. Most of the women she worked with in New York were single, and those who were married tended to keep their families and work lives separate. Emma hasn't spent very much time with children at all. She sees Sophie's son, Jackson, from time to time but he is so young, and her time with him sporadic.

It's not that she doesn't like children; it's that she never feels entirely comfortable around them. She wonders whether it's better to talk to them the way she hears other adults talk to them—in a singsong voice, like a child herself—or to talk to them as if they were adults themselves.

Because she is never sure who to be or how to act, she is convinced this awkwardness makes her someone whom children will dislike. She once read that it is good to crouch down to look children in the eye so they see you as being on their same level. Hence her crouching now.

“I'm Emma,” she says, holding out her hand to shake his. “You must be Jesse.”

Jesse doesn't say anything, but he takes her hand, even though he doesn't look her in the eye. Emma wishes she had something fun to tempt him out of his shell. A dog! A cat! Any kind of small animal.
But she has nothing other than herself to offer. “I like your haircut,” she says lamely. “Is it a Mohican?”

Jesse looks at her then. “Mohawk. It's called a Mohawk,” he says gravely, as if he were the teacher and she the student.

Emma nods. “In England, where I come from, I think we used to call them Mohicans, but Mohawk it is.” She's aware that she is babbling and worries that she's sounding stupid, so she stands up, gesturing them both inside. “I guess you're going to help your dad?” she says eventually, as Jesse nods and marches past her, lugging the toolbox with him and setting it down in the little room that will be a library, before opening it and extracting a tape measure.

Emma leaves them to it. They are measuring, and sawing, and sanding. It all seems very professional. Every now and then she hears Dominic talking to his son, as if he were a colleague and not his child. He asks Jesse's opinion, and waits to hear what he has to say, appearing to seriously consider everything the child offers.

“Should I put this shelf here or here?” she hears.

“Put it higher so she can fit big picture books on it, too,” says Jesse.

“Great idea,” says Dominic. “I bet she has a lot of picture books.”

Emma experiences a slight pang when she hears this. She doesn't actually have many picture books, but she does have an awful lot of hardcover novels, and more than a few coffee-table books. She is tempted to go in and check on their progress but doesn't want to interfere. Perhaps she should make them some fresh lemonade.

Emma busies herself in the kitchen, squeezing lemons, adding sugar, then unpacking her pots and pans, the pantry items, putting everything away. Halfway through one of the boxes, she finds her wireless speaker and sets up her playlist on her phone to play the sounds of summer.

Seconds later the voice of Jack Johnson fills the air. Emma sings along, moving through the tiny galley kitchen. For the first time in a long time, she feels the burdens of work, of banking, the stresses and pressures of the career treadmill, beginning to lift. As she continues to unpack, she swells with the thought that this is her life now. That she has a future filled with all kinds of possibilities. A wave of excitement builds deep inside.

Dominic comes out of the library and stands in the doorway. It takes Emma a little while to sense that she is being watched; she flushes a bright shade of red when she sees him.

“You look happy,” he says.

“It must be this house. I think it's having a magical effect on me.”

“It's living by the beach. It has a magical effect on everyone. It's why I would never leave. I think it's the light, but it feels different from anywhere else in town. Living down here reminds me of growing up. Kids are out on bikes, free-range. Like time has stood still.” He pauses. “Want to come see the shelves? We're almost done.”

“Sure. I made you lemonade.” Emma puts down the dishcloth, picks up a pitcher and glasses, and follows him into the library. She takes a deep breath before looking at what he has built. The shelves are ever so slightly sloping to the right. Not all of them, but at least two. There are giant seams at the top, and although they will clearly do the job of holding books, they are hardly a thing of beauty.

“Fantastic,” says Emma, mustering every dramatic skill she has ever possessed. “I can't believe you've done this in just a few hours. Wow! These are brilliant.”

“I'm pretty good at making things,” says Dominic, proudly.

“My dad can build anything,” says Jesse, proudly.

“You are clearly a man of many talents,” says Emma, as her brain furiously ticks, figuring out how she's going to fix the sloping shelves and seams.

“Want me to start loading the books on them?” says Dominic, good-naturedly. “I can put the carpet back, too, if you'd like.”

“No, no, it's fine,” says Emma quickly. “I'm going to paint the shelves and I haven't decided what color, so I'll put the carpet back after I've painted. Thank you so much for this. It's amazing.”

“No problem,” says Dominic. “I'm going to run over to the deli and grab something to eat for Jesse and me. Can I get you something?”

“I'm fine,” says Emma. Actually, she's starving but she doesn't want to ask anything more of Dominic. “But thank you. For everything. Maybe you guys can come over for dinner one night this week so I can thank you properly.”

“That would be great,” says Dominic, although Jesse narrows his eyes slightly and says nothing. Emma notices, realizing that Jesse may like her as a neighbor, but he may not feel the same way about a friend who might get in the way of his time with his father. “Speaking of dinner,” Dominic continues, “I'm having some friends over on Wednesday for a barbecue. Good people. You should come. You can bring your friend Sophie if you'd like.” With that, Dominic and Jesse gather up their tools and say good-bye.

Two hours later, Emma returns from the hardware store with moldings, molding pins, filler, sanding blocks, primer, and paint. The boxes left to unpack will have to wait. The shelves are only a few millimeters off, but Emma knows it will be all she focuses on every time she looks at them. She can nail pins into the back and lift the shelves to straighten them; put the molding onto the fronts of the shelves to disguise everything else. She will fill the gaps with caulking, prime them, and paint them a glossy pale greige. All subtly done,
so they are perfect and it won't look like she went back to “fix” Dominic's hard work.

She will turn them into something beautiful. This is what she does. This is what she is good at. And there is nothing she loves more than a challenge.

I
've made delicious cake,” says the extremely well-groomed and flawlessly made-up woman who ushers Dominic inside, where a perfect lemon almond cake sits atop a white china plate stand. Cans of flavored seltzer are stacked on the counter, next to a silver ice bucket filled with ice, glasses, and whimsical napkins with an illustration of a glass of wine and text:
It's 5 o'clock somewhere!

“And I have cookies and fruit for the kids. Hi, Jesse!” Lynn says, as she leans down and gives Jesse a high five. “Weldon's in the playroom, sweetie. You want a juice box or some cookies before you go?”

Jesse shakes his head before running up the stairs to the room above the garage that was once a bonus room but has now been repurposed into a playroom, complete with basketball hoop for a passion Weldon's dad very much hopes he will soon develop.

Dominic sits down at the stool at the counter, looking around.
“This house is beautiful,” he says to Lynn, getting up quickly to examine the open shelving on one side of the kitchen. “I love these shelves.”

“They aren't new!” Lynn says.

“I know, but I never noticed them. I just built shelves for a new tenant so I'm noticing shelves in a way I hadn't before.”

“I didn't know you were handy.”

“There are a lot of things you don't know about me,” says Dominic.

“Really?” Lynn raises an eyebrow. “Want to tell me more?”

Dominic blushes. He had no intention of flirting with Lynn, the mother of Jesse's best friend since preschool. He knows Weldon's dad, even though he doesn't see him much, since Tom commutes into the city every day. Tom is more of a weekend dad, the kind who throws himself into coaching Little League and driving his kids everywhere on the weekend, because during the week he's lucky if he even gets to see them.

Dominic has lived in this town his entire life. He grew up going to school with the kids of policemen, garbage collectors, actors, and writers. He grew up in a time when everyone knew everyone else, when there were few class distinctions, when nobody cared how much money anyone had, or how big your house was. Very few families even lived in big houses back then. Now the McMansions in town have reached absurd proportions, much like the one he is sitting in now.

Dominic remembers the house that was here before. The Bennett house. He used to go to school with the Bennett kids. He got stoned, many times, in their unfinished basement, while the laundry tumbled around and around in the giant old machines on one side of the room.

That house is long gone. Lynn and Tom squeezed within the property lines a giant gabled manse that stretches out, almost meeting the edges of the plot. There is room for a small pool, with a high white fence to keep the neighbors out.

The floors of the giant house are a bleached driftwood gray, shiny chandeliers hanging wherever you look. Beautiful furniture has been tastefully arranged by a decorator, huge clamshells filled with tall white orchids, shelves dotted with the odd vase, a shagreen box, three artfully stacked coffee-table books. Everywhere there are vast gaps of empty space. Dominic has often wondered if there is a junk room somewhere, a small cozy space that houses all the
stuff
, a room that feels like part of a home. Because this isn't a home. This is a magazine spread. He often finds himself wondering how Lynn and Tom actually live in this space rather than tiptoeing around trying to keep everything perfect.

More and more frequently, Dominic finds himself around families like this. The husbands are gone most of the week, the wives rattling around in these giant, beautiful, soulless houses. He is aware that as one of the few fathers present, he is something of an . . . attraction? Distraction? He is aware—and it has taken him a very long time to fully realize this—that with his golden Italian-American complexion, his thick dark hair, his big brown eyes, and, okay, he'll go there, his butt (every girlfriend he has ever had has gone on and on about his butt), he's a welcome addition to the Mommy and Me groups.

If he hadn't gotten involved with the parents of other children, he would have gone out of his mind with boredom when Jesse was young. It wasn't that he didn't adore his son, but there were only so many days he could take him to the playground, or the bookstore, or the museum, or the maritime aquarium in Norwalk. The jellyfish were beautiful, but only for the first two hundred times. After that, even the seahorses got old.

Having a young, handsome, single man in regular attendance was the most exciting thing that had ever happened at the Mommy and Me groups. A couple of women were standoffish and rude, never looking
at him, barely responding when he said hello. They were the worst kind of
new Westport
, he felt: horribly entitled snobs. Later, though, he discovered that both those women had huge crushes on him (not that they would ever have done anything about it) and couldn't bring themselves to even meet his eye lest they turn beet red.

Regardless, Dominic found he loved the groups. He loved how the women gossiped, how they knew everything about everyone in town and had no compunction about sharing what they knew “within these four walls only.” The women would look at each other solemnly, crossing their hearts that they would never tell anyone. But Dominic knew they would spill the beans about everything they'd learned as soon as they left the driveway.

He loved that he got to see beyond their black Range Rovers and gigantic, multicarat diamond studs, to realize their insecurities and their fears. He also got to see their kindness, and their humor, and their willingness to help anyone in their community. He got to learn who they were before they became power mommies.

It was only a matter of time before Dominic fell for one of them. They all made such a fuss—flirting, welcoming him with open arms, teasing him, loving seeing him blush. They loved that he fixed things, that he was “good with his hands.” He'd walk into their houses for playdates and notice broken light fixtures, or shelves that needed putting up, or doors that didn't close properly, and he'd grab his toolbox from the truck and get to work. No charge, naturally, while the women simpered and smiled, thrilled at having a man around who knew what to do.

Amy was different. She didn't flirt, and didn't tease, although she did talk. They started organizing their own playdates outside of the Mommy and Me group, and after a few weeks she confessed her unhappiness. She was trapped in the wrong life, she said. She was
desperately lonely, she said. She and her husband had nothing in common, other than their daughter, Sara. She was convinced her husband was having an affair with a young colleague in his office who Amy had just discovered was accompanying him on all his business trips.

Dominic tried to be a good friend, to listen and advise without getting too involved. Amy could talk to Dominic, she said, because he was a man and understood her feelings in a way her girlfriends couldn't. Then they stopped talking about Amy's problems, and started talking about themselves. They found themselves smiling every time they saw each other. Amy would open her front door, beaming, and Dominic would find that he couldn't stop beaming in return.

They were both high on the other's company, on what neither of them acknowledged out loud was an unspoken attraction. Acting on it, Dominic knew, was a terrible idea. It wasn't that he hadn't had affairs with married women in the past—he hadn't always been the thoughtful, considerate man he was today—but it would only lead to heartache for everyone involved. It wasn't as if Amy was his soul mate.

There were times, though, late at night, when he couldn't stop thinking about her, wondering whether perhaps she
was
the woman he was supposed to be with. He would tell himself that he only felt that because she was unavailable. He had always been drawn to the unavailable because it wasn't real, it posed no real threat, it could only ever be an exciting fantasy.

And then something did end up happening. It couldn't
not
have happened. It was only a matter of time, no matter what Dominic may have tried telling himself. They had dropped the kids off at a gym class and were waiting together in her car. They had done this many
times before, but that day, neither of them could look at the other, and all Dominic could think about was touching her. The conversation had halted, and without thinking about it, without planning it, they were kissing, and it was electric, and amazing, and passionate, and life-changing.

Or it could have been, had Amy's husband not announced, two days later, that he was being transferred to Chicago and they were all moving. It was for the best, said Dominic, who was simultaneously devastated and relieved.

He had learned his lesson. However much he might flirt, however much some of these mothers might flirt back, he wasn't going to get emotionally involved again.

“So who's the new tenant?” says Lynn, cutting him a generous slice of cake, but none for herself. “I'm off the carbs,” she announces, sliding the plate over to him. “You can clearly eat whatever you want, but it's paleo all the way for me right now.”

“You look great,” says Dominic, because it's what he is supposed to say, although she does look great. Who wouldn't look great, he thinks, with daily workouts and hours of pampering?

“Really?” Lynn is delighted. “Okay.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I'm only telling you this because I trust you and I know you'll be honest with me. I haven't told anyone else, not even my husband, so you have to swear not to say anything.”

This is why I love these playdates,
thinks Dominic, delighting in being, once again, an honorary mom. “Swear,” he says solemnly.

“Okay. I went to the dermatologist last week. I got the works.”

“What does that mean, the works? Botox?”

“Oh, honey, Botox was just the beginning. I had Botox, Restylane, Sculptra, and Thermage. I had my lips reshaped and my crow's-feet
removed. Look!” She pouts and turns her head slightly to one side. “Cheekbones! I've never had cheekbones in my life!”

“You do look fantastic!” says Dominic, recognizing his place in these friendships—he's the handsome guy who makes these women feel good about themselves, brings a little bit of excitement into their lives without ever crossing the line. “If you weren't married I would—”

“You would!” Lynn bursts into peals of delighted laughter before squeezing his arm in a completely nonsexual but appreciative way. At least, that's what he hopes. “So tell me about the tenant. Is she young and hot?”

Dominic takes a bite of cake as he thinks about how to respond. The truth is, there is something about Emma that is enormously compelling, even though he would never think to describe her as young and hot. It's not that she isn't either of those things, but her qualities are quiet. She is attractive, yes, in her midthirties, he guesses, and seemingly industrious, and clever; a good person.

But finding someone attractive is not the same as being attracted to her. It was great that she came to the bar the other night, and she was cute and funny when she was slightly drunk, and that English accent of hers is adorable, but there's nothing more. He just likes her. She's someone he can see being the perfect tenant—reliable about paying the rent, pleasant to have around. But other than that, she's really not his type.

Gina, on the other hand? Gina is his type. Physically, at least. Italian American like him, she's fiery as hell, and smoking hot. She gives him shit all the time, but in a way that is completely familiar to him, and honestly, it might be the hottest sex he's ever had. Gina is up for it all the time, and there's nothing she won't say or do. She's definitely not the girl he's going to marry—she's never done anything beyond spending the night and is always gone before his son is
awake—but for right now, he's having fun, making no promises. It seems to work for both of them.

“The tenant seems great,” he says, pushing Gina or, rather, Gina's mouth out of his head. “I don't really know her. English. Quiet. Retired banker. I try not to get too close.”

“That sounds like the perfect approach,” says Lynn, who places her hand on his arm again and squeezes it just a second too long.