The Player Next Door: A Novel Read online

  “So, will our first paycheck deposit by close of business Thursday night or Friday morning …” My question drifts as a woman sweeps into the room and glides to the refrigerator, the wooly material of her faded black dress—far too heavy for this heat wave—swirling around her Birkenstock-clad feet.

  “Holy shit. Madame Bott still teaches here?” She always insisted on being called madame, though I doubt she has a French bone in her body. Tension curls through my limbs as childhood memories flood back. I didn’t see Madame Bott here last week while I was setting up. I would have remembered. I’ll never forget the woman who cornered me in our classroom at recess, holding a picture of her husband in her white-knuckled grip, demanding to know if I’d seen him with my mother recently.

  I had seen him—from my bedroom window as he was dropping off my mother late the night before—but I’d played dumb. Even at nine years old, I knew those adults were doing something wrong.

  “It’s Mademoiselle Parish now,” Becca whispers. “Her husband left her for one of the mothers on their daughter’s soccer team.”

  Didn’t see that one coming.

  I watch the woman, who must be in her early fifties, while absorbed by a strange sense of déjà vu. Age has added softness to her waistline and weight to her jowls. Jet-black hair that once reached her tailbone is now threaded with gray and sits at her chin in a frizzy bob.

  As a child, she intimidated me with her dark, calculating eyes and her thin smiles, and the way she was often caught muttering to herself. We were convinced she was a witch. She could still pass for one.

  “Does she still wear that talisman necklace with the bird feathers and the—”

  “Yup.” We share a look. “Last spring, one of her students broke his leg and insisted she put a hex on him for not finishing his assignment.”

  “I guess some things haven’t changed.” One thing that has changed is me. I’m an adult. An equal. I won’t be intimidated by this woman ever again.

  Flinty, dark eyes suddenly swing in our direction, landing on me as if homing in on a target. “Scarlet Reed.”

  My back stiffens. I don’t remember her voice being so shrill.

  Her lips stretch in a thin smile as she saunters over. “Wendy said she hired you.”

  I force a polite smile. “Hello … Mademoiselle Parish, is it?” I wait for her to wave off the formality and suggest her first name. We are both teachers now.

  “You came back. I heard you’d left, but you’re back.” She says it in an airy way, as if she’s learning this just now, through some unseen source.

  “Yes, I did. Mrs.—I mean, Wendy—made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  Her shrewd gaze roams my facial features, as if sizing them up, as if sizing me up.

  Yes, I remember what you did all those years ago, I want to say.

  Yes, I could have gotten you into hot water had I reported it. I probably still could.

  Does she feel guilty?

  I steal a glance at her necklace and the beaded eye staring back at me. She used to stand in front of the class and claim she was “all-seeing” as she toyed with that thing between her lengthy fingernails. Students called it her witch eye.

  Did it see Mr. Bott banging the soccer mom?

  She makes an odd hissing sound between her teeth. “You look like your mother.” I note a distinct edge in her tone, one fortified with distaste. “Time will tell,” she mutters under her breath, so low that I barely catch it. She turns on her sandaled heel and strolls out of the staff room, her lunch bag dangling from her fingers, her lips moving unintelligibly.

  “Okay, that was weird. Even for her.” Becca grimaces. “What did she say, at the end?”

  I never uttered a word to anyone about that exchange with Madame Bott all those years ago, and there’s no point doing it now. “Nothing new.” It’s just another line item on the long list of shit I’ve dealt with for being Dottie Reed’s offspring. What’s jarring is that I forgot what this felt like—being judged for my mother’s sins, and by people who should focus more on their own mistakes. I forgot what it felt like to have someone look at you and ponder if the clichéd apple-and-tree metaphor was accurate.

  I sigh, hoping the act will shed the uncomfortable cloak that comes with that old identity. If I let it get to me, I’ll start regretting moving back to Polson Falls.

  No, some things haven’t changed at all.

  Shane’s front door creaks open as I’m hauling cans of paint from my trunk. My attention veers to his porch before I can stop myself, and my stomach flips with a nervous flutter at the prospect of seeing him.

  But it’s Cody who trots down the steps, a football tucked under his spindly arm. When he spots me by my car, his brow furrows first with recognition, and then surprise. It’s still surreal to me that Shane has an eleven-year-old son.

  My arms are weighed down by paint supplies, so I offer Cody a smile and nod.

  He responds with a half wave.

  Shane emerges a moment later, and my stomach does a second nervous flip. He hasn’t shaved yet, his face still scruffy. I intentionally avoided peeping into his bedroom window last night, but I assume he showered.

  “That’s my new teacher,” I hear Cody say in his boyish voice.

  “Oh yeah?” Shane’s gaze touches mine for a moment before it drops to scan the paint cans in my hands. “What’s her name again?”

  I stifle a snort. He’s playing dumb. How cute.

  “Ms. Reed.”

  “Don’t you think we should go over and help Ms. Reed?”

  “But you said we’d play—”

  Shane snatches the football from his son’s impatient grasp and trudges toward me. “Hey, there!”

  Cody lingers behind, kicking a loose stone with his sneaker, reluctant to follow.

  “Go long!” Shane hollers over his shoulder.

  That seems to perk the boy’s spirits. He takes off, his skinny legs pumping fast as he tears across the sizable front lawn. That’s the great thing about our houses—deep lots. He reaches the other side of their yard just as Shane stops next to me, balancing the pigskin between the tips of his fingers. I forgot how big his hands are.

  “Heard you had a good first day.” His deep voice is melodic and soothing.

  I inhale the delicious scent of bergamot—yes, he showered. “Cody said that?”

  “Maybe not in so many words.” He smirks. “But his grunts were definitely happy grunts.”

  I chuckle as I consider my day. Yes, the teaching part went off without a hitch, despite the stale air and oppressive heat in the classroom. “Did you know Bott is still teaching there?”

  “Yeah, Cody asked to move schools before eighth grade.” Shane shudders. “That woman freaked me out when I was a kid.”

  “She still freaks me out.”

  He crooks his neck to check the label, and I admire the hard lines of his jaw. “What are you painting now?”

  “The kitchen.”

  “White?”

  “Yeah. I figured that’ll give it a fresh look, and maybe I’ll resist burning it down before I can afford to renovate.”

  He winces.

  “Oh, sorry. Should I not joke about things like that with a firefighter?”

  “Not if you’re being serious.”

  I laugh. “I’m not. I love my house. Old, rotted pipes, creepy basement, and all.”

  “Good. Because I’ve seen people do some crazy shit for insurance claims.”

  “Even in Polson?”

  “Especially in Polson. What about those?” He juts a chin toward the three other gallon cans in my trunk.

  I sigh, dreading the upcoming task. “Those are for the bedroom.” And the sooner I finish, the sooner I can hang my curtains and artwork. There’s something about waking in chaos every day that leaves me feeling … well, chaotic.

  “I’m working this weekend, but I should have some time next week, if you want help.”

  Why does Shane’s casual suggestion stir s
uch excitement? “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  He gives me a doubtful look. “I’ve been up there before. It’s a pretty big room. With a lot of edges. Are you sure?”

  “That inviting you into my bedroom for any reason is a terrible idea? Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “I’d be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.” The devilish smile he flashes and the way he studies my mouth suggest otherwise.

  And here we are, flirting again.

  “Dad!” Cody calls out, impatient.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Shane winds back and launches the football into the air with the same effortless grace he had at seventeen. The ball smoothly lands in the cradle of Cody’s arms. “Yup. Still got it.” Shane caps it off with a playful grin.

  I can’t tell if he’s referring to football or his looks. Yes to both, but he doesn’t need his ego stroked. “Eh.” I shrug, feigning indifference.

  His jaw drops. “What do you mean, ‘eh’? You saw me play in high school.”

  “A few times.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right. You went to all the games. You’d sit up on the right side, near the announcer booth. It was like it was your spot. For years.”

  I frown. “You saw me there?” He never told me that. I assumed I didn’t exist to him before that summer we dated.

  “Of course, I did. You wore this long, red-and-black sweater that you’d hug around your body like you were cold, even when it was seventy degrees out. I always felt like I should run up there and give you a hug.”

  I did always wear that sweater. It was old and ratty, and I loved it. And my fifteen- and sixteen-year-old self would have died from happiness had Shane Beckett run into the stands to even acknowledge me.

  “You stopped coming senior year,” he murmurs, more to himself, his brow puckering.

  How could I go? I couldn’t be in the stands after that summer, couldn’t handle not existing to him again, couldn’t bear watching Penelope maul him between quarters.

  Shane’s staring at me with an odd expression now. Has he finally figured out how far back my wild crush on him went? That the only reason I ever went to the games in the first place was to watch him? I didn’t care if the team won. I wanted him to win.

  I offer another nonchalant shrug. “What else was there to do on a Friday night around here?” Besides pine over Shane Beckett. Desperate to change the subject, I nod toward Cody, who is shifting the football from one hand to the other, waiting for his father to stop gabbing with his teacher so they can toss the ball. “How often do you have him?”

  Shane follows my gaze. “This week? Tonight and Thursday. Penelope has him for the whole weekend. We try to alternate. It all depends on my schedule, but she usually works with me on that.”

  “That’s nice of her,” I offer begrudgingly. If I’m giving Becca and Shane another shot, maybe it’s time I consider wiping the slate clean with her too. Or at least ease up on the satanic name-calling.

  “Dad!” Cody whines.

  “Just give me another minute, bud! Here, let me carry those up for you.” Shane reaches for the handles, his hands sliding over mine and settling there. The simple move has brought him well within my personal space. I’m acutely aware of the heat radiating off his body as he looms over me, waiting for me to let go—or maybe he’s enjoying the contact as much as I am.

  This feels as good as it did when I was seventeen, when he’d weave his fingers through mine.

  Scratch that. It feels better.

  I make the mistake of looking up, and I get caught in the gold flecks of his irises and fringe of long, dark lashes. It brings me back to so many years ago, to warm summer nights when we’d stand like this and I’d stretch on tiptoes and revel in the softness and skill of his lips. He always was an incredible kisser.

  He exhales and his breath skates across my cheek. The urge to find out if his lips feels better now than they did at seventeen overwhelms me. Suddenly, it’s impossible to remember why I won’t allow this—us—to happen again.

  “Hey, Dad! You ready?”

  Cody.

  I snap out of the spell and shake my paint can-laden hands free of Shane’s touch—and free my sensibilities from his magnetic charm. I take a pointed step back. “Seriously, Shane, I can handle this. I don’t need help.”

  “Were you always this stubborn?”

  “Were you always this desperate for my attention?” I throw back but soften the cutting words with a smile. “Go and play with your son. I can handle carrying a few cans of paint on my own. I’m not one of your damsels in distress.”

  He watches me intently, as if he wants to say something more.

  “What?”

  He gives his head an almost indiscernible shake. “Nothing. We’re having lasagna tonight. Plenty for three.”

  “You eat a lot of lasagna.”

  “It’s all I’m good at making,” he confesses with a chuckle. “And that kid is picky as hell. So? What do you say?”

  Eat dinner with Shane and his son? He throws that invite out so casually. Wouldn’t it be weird for Cody to have his teacher over for dinner? Would it make him question what’s going on between his father and me? Or maybe I’m reading way too much into the invite.

  Either way, it’s probably not a smart idea. “I have dinner made, but thanks anyway.”

  He nods to himself, as if he expected that answer. “Another time, then?”

  “Maybe.” I march toward my front porch, silently enjoying his continued efforts. When I reach my steps, I steal a glance over my shoulder to find Shane sauntering backward, still watching me, an unreadable smile on his lips.

  Has he figured out that he’s wearing away at my defenses? That one of these days, I just might bend, then break?

  It’s tempting.

  He doesn’t notice the football flying toward him until it slams into his backside. He jumps—more from surprise than anything, I think—and curses, but follows it up with a chuckle, as Cody’s childish giggles sound.

  My own laughter follows me into the house.

  Fifteen

  “What’d you say this place used to be?” Justine’s hazel eyes rove over the interior of Route Sixty-Six as she takes a long slurp from her pint.

  “Italian food. Luigi’s,” Becca confirms, inspecting the edge of her glass for cleanliness with a pinched brow. When she ordered a Blue Lagoon, I had to kick my beer-loving best friend beneath the table, warning her to not mock.

  We never ate at Luigi’s, growing up. My mom said it was overpriced and she didn’t like the vibe. From what I’d seen of the place, standing outside and looking in, it appeared a cozy, family-type establishment, with red-and-white-checked linens and murals of Tuscany.

  It resembles nothing of the Italian restaurant now, though, the inside lined with chalky-black board-and-batten walls and decorated with strings of industrial-style light bulbs that dangle from an equally black ceiling.

  “Was it any good?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah.” Becca nods fervently. “We used to come every year for my mom’s birthday. It was sad, when Luigi died.” She points at a spot not ten feet away, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Massive heart attack, right over there.”

  Justine grimaces at the spot as if the corpse of the old owner were still there. “Didn’t need to know that.”

  “But it’s good to see this place doing well!” Becca counters, beaming. “The patio is really nice, with the river next to it. Too bad it’s raining tonight.”

  “At least we got a table inside.” Despite leaving the city early, Justine got tangled in Friday rush-hour traffic and the two-hour commute stretched to three. The steak sandwiches she grabbed from the diner down from our apartment—one of a few things I miss about living in Jersey—were cold, the bread soggy, by the time she rolled in.

  Becca warned us that Friday nights here are “hopping.” I don’t know why I didn’t believe her—maybe because we’re in Polson Falls and I assumed her version of busy would be vastly different from mine. But wh
en we arrived at nine, the last of the families were filtering out, replaced by an upbeat, youthful crowd clad in cute dresses and stylish jeans. There’s even a bouncer at the door to card anyone who looks too young to take advantage of Friday night’s deal on shots and domestic beer.

  We snagged the last table available—a six-person booth with faux-leather backs and a dim conical pendant providing a low cast of light—but people seem content to linger around the bar, their hands filled with drinks, their voices with laughter.

  In the far corner, three guys in torn jeans and faded T-shirts are tuning their instruments. The singer, a straggly haired man in his thirties, reappeared moments ago, his clothes damp from the rain, a waft of cigarette smoke trailing behind him as he passed our table.

  “So, tell us who you’ve slept with here?” Justine asks with no preamble, her inquisitive stare locked on Becca.

  Becca chokes on her drink. “Uh … if we’re going to be playing Truth or Dare tonight, I think I need a few more of these.”

  “Ignore her. I do, all the time.” I pass Becca a napkin to dab the dribble on her chin.

  “What? I’m just helping you get the lay of the land.” Justine smirks. “Get it? Lay?” She’s distracted by two guys who stroll past, checking us out on their way by. “Who are they?” She tracks their backs with a keen, obvious stare.

  “Not sure, but they look really young.”

  “Just how Justine likes ’em,” I tease.

  Becca frowns, hesitates. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “I did, but he left me for another girl.”

  “She’s joking,” I say quickly as Becca’s eyes widen with shock. “His name is Bill and he’s amazing. Justine has been in love with him for years. He’s in Boston with his daughter this weekend.”

  “Not years,” Justine corrects, waggling her finger in the air. “I did not love him during those years that he was with that snake, Debra.”

  “They’re getting married soon,” I continue, ignoring her.

  Justine rolls her eyes but the playful smile emerges after a few beats. She won’t admit it, but I know she’s anxiously awaiting a proposal. Unfortunately for her, Bill is a bit gun-shy after his first disastrous marriage.