Page 13 of Circle of Strangers
9
“Come on in,” Mara says with an effortless smile that implies we’ve been friends for years.
I step inside, where the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mixing with something floral—like an overpriced boutique candle.
With each step down the airy, double-height foyer, her house unfolds like the pages of an interior design magazine. Minimalist. Cold. A long white couch that probably cost more than Will’s car stretches across the living room, artfully draped with a cashmere throw. Abstract art fills the walls—massive canvases of black-and-white lines intersecting in ways that look accidental but definitely aren’t. The kitchen gleams, all high-end stainless steel appliances and marble countertops, untouched by the mess of daily life.
No toys. No crayons. No sign that children have ever crossed the threshold.
“Your home is gorgeous,” I say, running my hand along the back of a leather dining chair. “It’s like an art gallery. I’m not convinced that anyone actually lives here.”
Mara grins, handing me a black coffee in a glass cup that belongs in some upscale café.
“Oscar and I appreciate nice things,” she says with a shrug, as if it’s that simple. “It’s not like we have anything else to blow our money on. No kids, no gambling addiction, we’re not big into traveling ...”
I can’t help but compare it to our house, where the couch cushions are always lumpy from the kids’ forts, and there’s an ever-present trailof crumbs no vacuum can conquer. Our appliances hum with the quiet resignation of a decade of use. But in this house, everything gleams, as if untouched by human hands—or the chaos of love and family.
No sign of human life anywhere.
Coffees in hand, we settle into the living room, Mara curling up on the long sofa, tucking her legs beneath her in a way that suggests she’s relaxed—but her tight shoulders say otherwise.
“How’s Will?” she asks, stirring her own coffee, eyes glinting with what I can only describe as curiosity. I make a silent note that she didn’t butcher his name like she did mine—not that his name is easy to butcher. “He was saying he was a hospitalist before you moved here? I can’t recall his specialty.”
“He’s an anesthesiologist.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Her eyes illuminate, as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard, and immediately I’m convinced this is an act. “I knew it started with ana. So he’s teaching now?”
“Yes.” I’m not offering her an ounce of detail if I can avoid it.
“He seems nice.” Her eyes grow distant for a second. “He spoke very highly of you at the party.”
I lift a brow. “That’s what you two were talking about?”
She nods. “Pretty much.”
Her hand was on his arm and they were cracking up ... about me? I’m not sold.
“He said something along the lines of you being amazing in the kitchen and how he’s amazing at standing around looking useful,” she says, toying with her pendant again, dragging the letters back and forth along its delicate chain.
That doesn’t sound like anything Will would say. True, he loves my cooking, but standing around looking useful isn’t a way I’d ever describe him because he doesn’t just look useful, heisuseful. He’s a competent man. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise.
I smile—a little too broadly, maybe. “Will’s great. I’m lucky to have him and I try to remind him of that every day.”
Mara exhales a dreamy sigh. “You two do seem like the perfect couple. I always see him outside riding bikes with your kids. And watching the two of you interact ... there’s so much love there. It’s like this easy gentleness. The way he touches you. The way you look at him. I just want to bottle it up and drink it, I love it so much.”
How much has she studied us?
Is she always watching?
And why such an interest?
Up until the other day, we were complete strangers.
“What’s the secret to a happy marriage like yours?” Mara asks.
I don’t mean to, but I bristle at the question. It’s personal. Invasive.
And she might be doing research.
