Page 2 of The Change
“You think? And where is the husband?” Brendon asked. “My source says he hasn’t been in town since last fall.”
This time, Celeste refused to speak. She failed to see how Harriett’s marital status had anything to do with her lawn.
“He’s gone,” someone else confirmed. Chase Osborne was, by all accounts, living in the couple’s Brooklyn apartment with the head of his agency’s production department.
Brendon nodded as if everything suddenly made sense.
“I believe Harriett might be going through a bit of a rough patch,” Celeste offered. She wasn’t going to give him any more than that.
The previous October, Celeste’s husband, Andrew, claimed he’d seen two security officers drag Harriett Osborne out of the advertising agency where they worked and deposit her at the curb. Rumor had it that an altercation had taken place behind the closed doors of the CEO’s office. The promotion Harriett had been expecting hadn’t come through, and she hadn’t received the news gracefully. After hours, Andrew had peeked inside the office to confirm the stories he’d heard. The Cannes Lions and One Show pencils were back on the windowsill, but telltale gouges in the Sheetrock confirmed they had, indeed, been flung at the walls.
“I don’t understand. Why would they let her go?” Celeste knew she sounded like a fan whose idol had fallen. “You always said she was excellent.”
“And she is,” Andrew said. “But sometimes good’s not enough. The president is the face of the company. They decided to go with someone younger and fresher.” Celeste was on the verge of asking the obvious follow-up question when the grin on her husband’s face stopped her.
She gasped. “Oh my God, they chose you?”
“They did,” he confirmed.
She had to say something. “I had no idea you were in the running!”
“Neither did I!” He seemed so thrilled that she hadn’t had the heart to question their wisdom. Andrew was a decent account guy and a world-class schmoozer. But even she knew he was no Harriett Osborne.
It wasn’t until after the champagne had been popped, poured, and consumed that Celeste made it back to the question she’d intended to ask.
“How old is Harriett, anyway?”
“I dunno.” Andrew was already tipsy. “Forty-seven, maybe? Forty-eight?”
“You’re forty-four!” Celeste briefly teetered on the edge of panic. She’d been let go from her job while pregnant with their second child. After the baby was born, Andrew had encouraged her to take time off from her career to care for the kids. The family was now dependent on his salary. “Does that mean you could be out of a job in a few more years?”
Andrew chuckled as if the suggestion were silly. “Don’t worry about that, honey. It’s a bit different for men.” He reached out to stroke her cheek. When Celeste flinched, he must have realized he’d said the wrong thing. “It’s terrible, but it’s true. Now that I’m part of the leadership team, I’ll be doing my best to change things.”
Celeste was old enough to smell bullshit. She had recently turned forty-two.
In the six months since that moment, Andrew hadn’t been home much. His days ended later. The business trips lasted longer. He always apologized. The president of an ad agency had to work harder than anyone, he told her. Celeste knew it was a lie. He was fucking someone at his office. What upset her most was that he seemed to have forgotten she’d once been in advertising, too.
As Brendon Baker turned his Subaru down Woodland Drive, he had to work hard to contain his excitement. Home visits were his favorite part of the job. During the workweek, he was at the mercy of clients and committees, on an endless, hopeless quest for consensus. As the president of the homeowners association, he’d made it clear that the buck stopped with him. One of his first acts had been to fine the elderly lady on Cedar Lane who was infamous for keeping her Christmas decorations up all year round. Eventually her lien grew so large that the HOA foreclosed. After that, Brendon’s word was law in Mattauk. He had the power to make people grovel if he wanted to—and he always did.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Celeste spoke up from the passenger seat. “I don’t want to go in.”
“It’s for your friend’s sake,” he reminded her. “It will be easier for Mrs. Osborne if another woman is there.”
“I told you, she and I aren’t friends.” Celeste knew he wanted her there in case Harriett cried. “I don’t even know if Harriett will remember me.” It might be even worse if she did.
“How many complaints about the Osborne property did we receive while I was out sick?” Brendon inquired. It was Celeste’s duty, as secretary, to keep track of them.
“A few,” Celeste admitted reluctantly. She’d stopped counting at twelve.
“Those calls could be a liability for you during the next election,”he said. “Things could get ugly if the Osborne woman isn’t dealt with expeditiously. Word will get out that you’re the one who let the situation spiral out of control, and by this time next year, you’ll be back to baking muffins for the PTA.”
Brendon parked along the curb in front of 256 Woodland. A line of rosebushes planted parallel to the street had grown to form an impenetrable bramble shot through with lovely red-stemmed sumac and glistening poison ivy leaves. Climbing vines scaled the house and hanging ferns of prehistoric proportions dripped over its roof, shielding the interior from view.
“How can it have gotten this bad so fast? The house looks like Grey Gardens, and it’s not even May.” He swiveled toward Celeste with a schadenfreude smirk. “This lady’s not going to come prancing out in a leotard with a scarf on her head, is she?”
Celeste didn’t dignify the question with an answer.
Brendon’s sense of humor vanished when his joke flopped. “All right, let’s get this over with,” he ordered.
