Page 39 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane
“I appreciate you checking on me,” Georgina says to Hannah, “but I’m feeling much better now, and I really should go inside and get started on dinner.”
“I—” Hannah begins, but Georgina has already turned away from her.
Hannah watches as she hurries up her front walk and closes herself behind the door of her picture-perfect house.
—
Hannah slowly makes her wayback to her own house, her mind still reeling from her interaction with Georgina. It’s like she’s a prisoner in her own home. Hannah knows that she should mind her own business, that she has enough to worry about right now without taking on someone else’s problems, but she also knows that she won’t be able to. That now that she’s aware of what’s going on behind Georgina’s closed doors, she won’t be able to ignore it. She’s not a frightened, powerless little girl anymore.
She looks down at the envelopes in her hand, rumpled from her grip. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding them. And then she sees one that stands out from the others. A cream-colored mailer, sealed with a scrap of clear tape.
Hannah’s hands feel numb as she pulls it from the pile, lets therest of the mail drop, fluttering, onto the smooth black asphalt of her driveway. She slides out the note, and this time the message is crystal clear:Murderer.
There’s no denying it anymore. Someone, somewhere, knows exactly what Hannah is.
26
Libby
Hawthorne Lane
Ping.
Libby hears the notification from her phone as she helps her customer, an older gentleman who is looking for a bouquet for a new “lady friend” he’d met at the retirement village. It’s sweet, Libby thinks, the way he carefully considers each type of flower, taking his time to select the best ones.
“Let’s add some irises,” he says. “The blue will match her eyes.”
Libby wants to ask him if he was married before, if his ability to find love again took him by surprise, if the moving on ever became easier, but she doesn’t. Instead, she chooses the most vibrant irises in the bunch and adds them to a bundle of white roses that she knows will make the color pop.
“Yes, yes, that’s perfect,” the man says as he shuffles toward the register.
Ping.Libby’s phone chimes again. She usually puts it on silent while she’s working, but it has been a busy morning and she forgot about it entirely in the pocket of her apron.
Erica rings up the customer while Libby clips the stems of his blooms, wraps the bouquet in a sheet of brown paper, and ties it with a simple white bow. She smiles down at the finished product. It’s perfect.
Libby loves her job, loves this place. Sometimes she wonders where she’d be without it.
This, owning a flower shop, hadn’t been the plan. The plan was topursue a career in finance, a field that promised a steady, reliable career path that would ensure she’d never be left struggling, like her mother had been, to afford the rent on an apartment that smelled of mildew. Libby would have been good at it too. When she was in school, her professors often called her ideas brilliant and her contributions to the class discussions intuitive. She saw a promising future stretched out before her like a road paved in gold.
But then, just before her college graduation, Libby unexpectedly found herself pregnant. As she looked down at the pink plus sign on the little plastic stick in her hand, she could see that road, the path of her life, forking, splitting. At the end of one path, there was Libby standing in a boardroom, power suits and accolades, the kind of life she’d always envisioned for herself; at the end of the other, school parties, rickety Popsicle-stick crafts, sandwiches tucked into little plastic bags, all the small things that would make up her son’s childhood. For nine months she’d stood at the turning point, frozen. She wanted children, always knew she’d be a mother one day. But not yet. It was too soon. There was still so much she’d planned to do. She told herself that she could have both, that she could do it all. The thing all women were meant to want. But how? Even then, Libby understood that motherhood was going to demand sacrifices of her. That she would never again be wholly one thing. For the rest of her life, she would be a woman divided.
But then Lucas was born. As she held him in her arms for the first time, looked down into his impossibly tiny face, traced the curve of his perfect seashell ears, the decision suddenly became an easy one. She couldn’t imagine leaving him in someone else’s arms each morning while she fought and clawed her way up a corporate ladder. Who could ever love him like she did? Who would care for him the way she would? Libby no longer cared about what she was giving up; all that mattered was what she had gained.
And so Libby tackled motherhood with vigor. She signed up for every mommy-and-me class, read all the parenting books, attended every preschool class party. Her involvement in Lucas’s childhood felt like the most important thing she’d ever done. She didn’t miss the lofty discussions or economic analyses of her college days; shedidn’t find herself wishing for a wardrobe full of pencil skirts and silk blouses, daily train rides into a noisy city. Giving up her career aspirations didn’t feel sacrificial to Libby, not in the way she’d thought it would. She simply wasn’t that person anymore. Not since she became a mother—motherhood had changed her. Completely. Irrevocably. The love she felt for her son was all-consuming, her devotion to him filling all the space inside her.
Until it didn’t. Until the tiny baby that consumed her every waking hour started to demand just a little less of her, until she found herself only half engaged as she played blocks on the floor beside him, until she caught herself watching the clock that seemed to move impossibly slowly during the endless afternoon hours. The guilt she felt over this was debilitating. There was nothing more important than her son. And she was so fortunate to be able to be present for him in the way she was. And so, why? Why did it still feel like something was missing? Why did she find herself wanting more?
Libby wished she had someone to talk to about these things. Bill wouldn’t get it. Parenthood hadn’t demanded the same sacrifices of him that it had of her; he had stepped, smoothly, into his father’s shoes, taking over the family business. His life looked more or less the same way it would have had Lucas never been born. What Libby needed was someone who understood, who wouldn’t meet her with the usual hollow platitudes:They’re only little once—enjoy every moment!andA mother’s life isn’t her own; everything we do is for our children. As if she were expected to continually sacrifice herself on the altar of motherhood and never dare to want anything more for herself. As if by the act of procreating, a woman was required to endlessly give pieces of herself away until nothing remained. Libby had considered talking to Georgina. They’d formed something of a friendship during their pregnancies. But no, Georgina couldn’t possibly understand this restlessness Libby was grappling with. She thought of Georgina, with her chic outfits and styled hair, pushing her designer stroller through the neighborhood. She thought of Sebastian in his tidy seersucker overalls, his neatly combed hair; she thought of the jars of organic baby food that Georgina made for Christina, her beautiful baby girl that Libby couldn’t bring herselfto look at without a crushing sense of loss and longing, of jealousy so unwieldy that it forced her to keep her distance. Georgina had transitioned to motherhood as seamlessly as the seasons changed. She seemed so content, so sure of who she was and what she was meant to be doing, as if motherhood had fulfilled something in her that had previously been empty. How could Libby possibly explain that as much as she loved her son, it wasn’t enough for her? That she wanted,needed,something of her own before she lost herself entirely?
And then one day, as she was taking Lucas to story time at the library, she saw an advertisement for a floral-arranging class posted on the bulletin board.
“Making bouquets and stuff?” Bill asked, eyebrows raised in surprise when she first mentioned it. “I didn’t know you were into that.”
Libby hadn’t known either. All she knew was that it felt exciting to her, like it could be something forher,outside of being a wife and a mother, something she could love.
And she did. That one class soon became many. At first, Libby simply enjoyed how relaxing it was, trimming, bundling, creating something beautiful. She liked learning about the different types of flowers, experimenting with new arrangements. But later, she could feel her mind stretching and growing, old wheels beginning to turn once more when she considered the business it could someday become. She felt a small piece of her old self returning, the version of her she’d been before motherhood, as she created a business plan, calculated start-up costs and overhead expenses. The idea filled Libby with a renewed sense of purpose, of value. And when the time was right, she’d made it a reality and opened Lily Lane.
Libby hands the gentleman his purchase, the paper wrapping crinkling as he takes it in his arms, and she looks around her store. At the colorful displays, the hanging wreaths, the shop window bursting with autumn blooms. She’d done this. All of it. She created this with her own two hands.
