What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [56]
“No, I want you to go first.”
“Ladies first.”
“Okay, fine,” said Alice. She took a breath and looked at the house, imagining fresh paint, a mowed lawn, a toddler running around in circles. It was madness, of course. It would take them years to fix it all up. They didn’t have the money. They were both working full-time. They didn’t even own a car! They had agreed they would not buy a house that needed anything but superficial renovations.
She said, “I want it.”
Nick said, “I want it, too.”
Alice was in seventh heaven. Everywhere she looked there was something new and wonderful to see. The big square sandstone pavers leading up to the veranda (Nick’s idea); the glossy white wooden window frames with glimpses of cream-colored curtains; the pink bougainvillea climbing frothily up the trellis at the side of the veranda (she could swear she’d only just thought of that idea the other day—“We’ll have our breakfast there and pretend we’re on a Greek island,” she’d told Nick); even the front door, for heaven’s sake—at some point they must have finally got around to stripping it back and painting it.
“We had a list,” she said to Elisabeth. “Do you remember our list? It was three foolscap pages of things we needed to do to the house. There were ninety-three things on that list. It was called “The Impossible Dream.” The last thing on that list was “white stone driveway.” She bent down and picked up a smooth white stone and showed it to Elisabeth in the palm of her hand. Had they crossed everything off on that list? It was nothing short of a miracle. They’d achieved the Impossible Dream.
Elisabeth smiled tiredly. “You made a beautiful home—and wait till you see inside. I assume you’ve got your keys in your backpack there.”
Without needing to think, Alice bent down and pulled out a fat jangle of keys from a zippered pocket at the side of the backpack. The key ring was a tiny hourglass; she knew where it would be, but she had never seen it before.
She and Elisabeth walked up onto the veranda. It was beautifully cool after the heat. Alice saw a set of cane chairs with blue cushions (she loved that shade of blue) and a half-empty glass of juice sitting on a round table with a mosaic top. Automatically, she went over and picked up the glass, hefting her backpack over her one shoulder; she kicked against something with her foot and saw it was a black-and-white soccer ball. It rolled away and hit the wheel of a child’s scooter lying on its side, with shiny ribbons tied around the handles.
“Oh,” she said in sudden panic. “The children. Are the children in there?”
“They’re with Nick’s mother. It’s his weekend for the kids. Nick is back from Portugal tomorrow morning. So he’ll drop them back to you Sunday night, as usual.”
“As usual,” repeated Alice faintly.
“Apparently that’s your usual procedure,” said Elisabeth apologetically.
“Right,” said Alice.
Elisabeth took the glass of orange juice from Alice’s unresisting fingers. “Shall we go inside? You probably need to lie down for a while. You still look so pale.”
Alice looked around her. Something was missing.
“Where are George and Mildred?” she said.
“I don’t know who George and Mildred are,” said Elisabeth in a gentle, dealing-with-crazy-person-here voice.
“That’s what we called the sandstone lions.” Alice gestured at the empty spot on the veranda. “The old lady left them for us. We love them.”
“Oh. Yes, I think I remember them. I expect you got rid of them. Not quite the look for you, Alice.”
Alice didn’t understand what she meant. She and Nick would never have got rid of the lions. “Just off to the shops, George and Mildred,” they’d say as they left the house. “You’re in charge.”
Nick would know. She would ask him. She turned around and lifted the keys to the door. The locks were new to her. There was a solid-looking gold dead bolt, but her fingers instantly found the right key, holding down the door handle and pushing with her shoulder against the door in a practiced, smooth movement. It was extraordinary the way her body knew how to do things—the mobile