“Why would we have heard of Georgia St. Claire?” he asks. Then he repeats the name, thoughtfully. “St. Claire. Is she married to the state governor?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” The agent lowers her voice as if telling a delicious secret. “She’s the Black Widow.” When Jack stares blankly, she prattles on. “Oh, it’s just a nickname the press around here has given her. She’s had two husbands pass away in the last few years, and some say she’s killed them. Her third husband, Robert St. Claire, is still alive, but there are bets as to how long that’ll last.”
Talk about morbid gossip.
“I don’t know that I want my wife associating with a husband-killer.” The corners of Jack’s mouth kink up in an attempt at a smile. “What if that kind of behavior rubs off?”
“Mr. Davies, I’m sure that’s not the way it works, and—”
“That was a joke,” he says flatly. “Brooke wouldn’t dare associate with someone nicknamed the Black Widow.”
But I don’t even know her. How could I say who I would or wouldn’t hang out with? Surely I could make up my own mind about her man-killing tendencies. And it’s not like Jack will be around to police me.
“There’s more of the house to show you: the gym, the upstairs office, a handful of guest bedrooms. Allow me to show you. This way.” The agent glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and then continues the tour. “I wouldn’t let Mrs. St. Claire’s presence sway your decision to purchase the home, Mr. Davies. I can assure you there are plenty of wholesome housewives on the street for your wife to associate with.”
I was wondering how long it would take for them to leave me out of the conversation completely. It’s as if I’ve become invisible, a ghost walking the halls. I’m impressed with the agent, actually. Within my husband’s inner circle it usually only takes a few minutes, and she’s nearly finished giving the tour. Points for making an attempt.
After showing us everything the magnificent home has to offer, Jack moves the conversation to other couples on the street. He covers the husbands’ occupations and the length of time each couple has lived in the community. Listening intently, though pretending not to care, I stand in the backyard near the pool, relishing the warm California sunshine on my cheeks.
“All right, Brooke,” Jack says with a tone of finality. “Sounds like you could make some friends in the neighborhood.” He’s at my side again, though this time he doesn’t touch me. Clearly he’s interested in the home and ready to negotiate. His demeanor has completely changed, which leaves no room for emotion. It’s all business now. “You’ll be happy here. You can get involved in the board, too, if you’d like.”
Happy. I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.
I smile brightly, playing the part of a politician’s wife. He nods decisively in return.
“It’s done,” he tells the agent. “I just have a few other questions for you, about the security system. Brooke, I’ll meet you at the car.”
As he takes her by the elbow and leads her back into the house to talk business, I take in my new backyard. Flowering bushes and walkways leading to hidden places and fountains and birdbaths. It’s going to be peaceful here. I can already see my future. Following a tiny shaded path on the left side of the house, I tiptoe from one stone to another, beside towering ferns that take my breath away. The path leads me out front, near Jack’s and the realtor’s cars.
“Good morning! I’m Erin,” a woman yells from across the street. She takes a break from unloading groceries from the trunk of her Tesla to enthusiastically whip her arm back and forth over her head. I can’t remember if she’s the rumored husband-killer or if that’s the woman next door, but I like this one already. “Are you looking or buying?”
“Buying,” I holler back, and then check over my shoulder for signs of Jack. He’s nowhere to be seen. “My husband’s inside finishing up the details.”