Neighborly(9)

Then I’m jarred awake by knocking on the front door. I don’t know how much time has passed. Sadie’s still asleep, deadweight in my arms. I just need to stay quiet and whoever it is will go away. They’ll leave us in peace.

The knocking stops, and I let out my breath in a whoosh. I don’t need to go back out there. It’s a thought that’s at first comforting and then sad. I was having fun at the party; I don’t want to stay away just because of some lame handwritten note on cardboard. I don’t want to have to build my walls up again.

I hear a key turning in the lock, and I freeze.

It’s only Doug. My entire body loosens as I see him.

But it’s not only Doug. “Hey,” he says. “There are some people I really want you to meet.”

It takes me a second to realize that he means right then, as in, right behind him.

“I wanted Wyatt to try some of the Talisker,” he says, “and Yolanda hasn’t gotten a chance to meet you yet.”

The three of them step across the threshold. Despite my poor name recall, Yolanda is unforgettable. She was the one who returned Zoe to Stone and Brandon, the one oozing out of her halter dress. Now I bet that woman can breastfeed half the state. She has an absolutely beautiful face, with pale, luminous skin and eyes like emeralds. Her hair is long and blonde, and her blowout is starting to frizz, but it just makes her look softer somehow, more touchable.

“Are you sure it’s OK?” she asks, sotto voce because of Sadie.

“Definitely,” I say, mustering a smile. “Come in. Sadie can sleep through anything.” Sometimes that’s true; at other times, just a shaft of light can blow a whole afternoon. But I have a feeling she’s going to stay down this time. I wish I’d changed her ripening diaper before giving her the bottle. She teaches me a thousand little lessons a day.

Doug walks in, swaggers really, and I can see that he doesn’t need that Talisker. He’s pretty buzzed already. Wyatt and Yolanda enter much more tentatively behind him. He goes to raise the blinds, and I gesture toward Sadie so he turns on a lamp instead.

“Pardon our mess!” he yells as he goes into the kitchen. “We’re under construction!” I hear the clink of a bottle against a glass. He’s clearly not worried about waking Sadie with all that racket, but I don’t want to chastise him in front of our new neighbors.

I’m not in the mood for company, still bleary from my nap and a little self-conscious about the state of the house, but Wyatt and Yolanda do seem really lovely. Wyatt has a sweet, aw shucks manner that I wouldn’t have expected from a police officer. He’d be tall, dark, and handsome except that his features seem a few centimeters off, like he’s a poor reproduction of a classic painting.

“Please, have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the love seat across from me. There’s packing material on the floor and book boxes that I can’t empty until Doug bolts the shelves to the wall, since we’re in earthquake country. The nonoperational fireplace has become a repository for all sorts of detritus, and the mantel is laden with measuring tape, a hammer, nails, and other random tools. Doug already apologized for our mess, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, but still, I’m aware of it.

“I love how colorful it is in here!” Yolanda says. She and Wyatt take the love seat opposite Sadie and me, and she casts an appreciative glance around. “We are surrounded by white walls. It’s so sterile, you know?”

“How long have you lived in your house?” I ask.

“Six years,” Wyatt says. “It was a gift from Yolanda’s parents.”

“Not exactly a gift,” she corrects. “It’s my inheritance.”

“Lucky ducks!” Doug calls out. It’s a rare social blunder, I think. Doesn’t inheritance imply both her parents are dead? But neither Yolanda nor Wyatt seem offended. Doug carries in three glasses of whiskey on a plastic cutting board. “Couldn’t find a serving tray,” he says apologetically. “Kat, do you want an iced tea or anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

After everyone has their drinks, Doug puts the cutting board on the floor and sits down next to me. He leans back, his arm across the width of the cushion, and he looks down at Sadie and up at me with a slow grin. I’m not used to this posture from Doug, his version of a manspread. But then I see that Wyatt is already sitting this way with Yolanda. The phrase social butterfly never quite fit Doug. He’s always been more of a social chameleon.

“We should paint our house like this,” Yolanda says to Wyatt. “Bring in some color.”

“Sure,” he answers amiably. “Color’s good.”

Yolanda looks at Sadie. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more beautiful baby.”

Then we’re off and running. We talk babies, while Wyatt and Doug talk whiskey, followed by the Golden State Warriors and the NBA playoffs. Doug must have given Yolanda a pretty stiff pour because she becomes confidential quickly. She tells me about multiple rounds of IVF before she was able to have their twins, who just turned two a few months ago.

“Bran’s watching them now,” she says. “We tag team. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but sometimes you just need a break. It can be exhausting, having two.” She runs her hand along the shaft of her hair, smoothing it.