She makes her way into her en suite. As her bare feet touch the heated stone tiles, she reaches for the light switch, only to dim it when she sees her reflection in the mirror. Her face looks puffy, doughy. This is a problem. Tonight she needs to look her best.
Alice bites her lower lip and eyes the black jar that promises miracles from the Dead Sea. She feels as though she is swimming inside her own mind, only instead of water she is swimming in quicksand. She tries to remember the promise she made this morning, when she found her journal. But it’s no use. She can feel her resolve waning like a sugar cube in a cup of hot coffee.
She’ll quit tomorrow.
Alice opens the jar and finds her jet fuel. She slips one pill on her tongue and washes it down with tap water. She instinctively touches her left shoulder, even though the pain has been gone for a while now.
She is about to step into the shower when she hears a knock on her bedroom door.
“It’s me, Mrs. Dewar.” Malaika’s faintly accented voice echoes through the door frame.
Alice slips on her robe. “Come in.”
Malaika gently pushes open the door and walks inside Alice’s 800-square-feet bedroom. Malaika moved in one month ago, but Alice still hasn’t gotten used to the girl’s striking feline beauty. Malaika has long, honey blonde hair, a cat’s yellow-green eyes, and a wide mouth. She is busty but slim, and her skin is tanned. Malaika is also tall, although exactly how tall, Alice isn’t sure—could she be six foot? But Malaika’s most arresting feature is her skin: elastic, youthful, dewy.
“Mrs. Dewar?”
Has Malaika been speaking?
“How tall are you, Malaika?”
“How tall?” Malaika tilts her head. “One eighty.”
Fifteen years. The combined amount of time Alice has lived in countries where they use the metric system, and yet she has no idea how to convert that to feet.
“Mrs. Dewar, Allegra would like to wait for Mr. Dewar to come home.”
“Not tonight,” Alice says. She’ll need Nick’s undivided attention—an impossible task if Allegra is awake. It’s never one goodnight story with Nick. He’ll end up reading their two-year-old a dozen stories, sharing Dewar family tales, and singing to her while she falls asleep. And Alice will be left waiting like an unclaimed package at the post office.
Malaika looks as though she is about to say something but changes her mind. Alice is thankful when she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Alice had pored over resumés of multiple American nannies before deciding to hire the au pair from Switzerland who had seemed friendly and direct on her cover letter (Alice appreciated the directness more than the friendliness). Soon after Malaika’s arrival, Alice had been hit with about a dozen au-pair-related horror stories from the women at the ASC. Tales of unauthorized parties and trashed houses. Of husbands being seduced. Of children being neglected. Alice had ignored them. She might be a member of the ASC (a compulsory membership, one that comes with her last name), but she is nothing like those alarmist and insecure women. She chose to follow her instincts, thank you very much.
And life has rewarded her.
Malaika is hard-working and tireless, and Allegra adores her. What little girl wouldn’t want an au pair who looks like a life-sized Barbie doll?
Alice goes through her routine: ice cold shower, Hanacure mask, Georgia Louise Cryo Freeze tools, La Mer moisturizer. By the time she finally steps into her walk-in closet, she looks a bit more presentable. She applies a light layer of makeup and selects a simple outfit: dark jeans, a beige long-sleeved shirt, and a gray, cashmere sweater. She studies her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Almost ready.
She picks up her hairbrush and combs her platinum blonde hair, gathering it into a high ponytail at the crown of her head. She secures it with an elastic band and then pulls at it, letting go when she feels her forehead stretching and her eyes watering. She then styles it into a bun, using bobby pins to tack up the shorter strands. Alice can practically hear her stepmother’s voice—critical, domineering—as she pats on her hair to make sure that it is neatly in place. Tight bun, tight skin! And your skin needs all the help it can get, Alice.
She is in the living room when the landline rings. Alice cringes. There’s only one person who calls this number. She picks up the cordless phone and presses it against her left ear.
“Alice,” Tish says, on the other end of the line, “I’m calling to remind you about the meet and greet with the new neighbors. They’re moving in tomorrow.”
Alice lowers her body onto the arched chaise longue. She has a vague recollection of new neighbors, some fuss about them snagging a house on Backer Street. It had been discussed at tedious length during one of the ASC meetings.
“They’re moving into the Farrells’ house,” Tish adds.
Ah, yes. Heather Farrell use to own the gelato shop on Main Street. The house is practically across the street from Gina and Bobby, and about eight houses away from hers. One of the many disturbing, compound-like aspects of living in Alma is that all the Dewars live on the same street. It’s as tacky as it sounds.
Alice still remembers landing at JFK three years ago, before she and Nick had made the drive to his hometown. She’d never been to Alma before. She had elbowed Nick playfully, joking that once they settled in, they’d engage in small-town activities like waving at their neighbors and going to church. Nick had smiled and told her that Alma wasn’t religious: “It’s not really a church-type town. Actually, Alma Boots is their religion.” Alice had laughed at his sense of humor. Except, later, she found out that it hadn’t been a joke at all—it
