Page 10 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane

Hannah

Hawthorne Lane

“So, what did you think?” Hannah asks as she slides into bed next to Mark. He sets down his book, a hardcover spy novel with a splashy neon-green title, and looks at her over his reading glasses, which are still balanced on the end of his nose.

It’s not often that she feels their age difference, but in this moment she sees it. In the tiredness around his eyes, the lines that wrinkle the corners. It’s never bothered her, but when they first started dating, Mark had expressed some concerns about the twelve-year gap between them.

“I’m nearly forty,” he told her over drinks in an overcrowded Manhattan bar.

Mark had chosen the location—some trendy pop-up with floral walls and scripted neon signs—but as he looked around at the crowd, Hannah was certain it wasn’t lost on him that he was the oldest person there.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that? I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up. ”

“Age is just a number. If you find a genuine connection with someone, why let something so trivial as that come between you?”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to hold you back from living your life.” He sipped slowly from his eighteen-dollar martini, a heaviness in his eyes as they drifted away from hers.

“Can I be honest with you?” Hannah asked, leaning toward him to be heard over the blaring music. She saw Mark wince, as if he were bracing himself for disappointment. “I hate this just as much as you do.”

He laughed then, a full hearty sound that came from deep in his belly. “I think I might just fall in love with you, Hannah.”

“About the party?” he asks now, pulling her from the memory.

“Well, yes. And the people.” It was the first time Mark had met their new neighbors, not that it showed. He blended in seamlessly, as if he’d lived here all his life. He talked about golf swings and country clubs without missing a beat. Hannah was a little bit envious of it, if she’s being honest.

“They all seemed nice,” Mark replies. “Very welcoming.”

“They were,” Hannah concurs. “For the most part. Didn’t you think that whole thing with Colin and Georgina was a bit off, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, how he brought up the fact that he makes all the money in their relationship. I’d imagine it was kind of embarrassing for her.”

“Did he really say that? I must have missed it.”

“Not in so many words, but he implied it. When he made that comment about Georgina spending money while he’s out of the house. It felt like he was putting her down.”

“Oh, that.” Mark scratches his chin. “I didn’t take it that way. And I’m not certain Georgina did either. She laughed about it, if I’m remembering correctly. Seemed like he meant it as a joke.”

“I guess…” Hannah takes off her wedding ring, sets it in the ceramic dish on her nightstand. “I didn’t think it was very funny, though.”

“I can see how you might not,” Mark replies.

Hannah doesn’t know if her husband can see the interaction from her perspective or if he’s saying that because his credit cards are currently in her wallet too.

Hannah just started a new job in the children’s room at the Sterling Valley Library, but her income is nothing compared to Mark’s.

She is acutely aware that their house and everything in it was bought with her new husband’s money.

“But,” Mark continues, “Georgina seemed fine with it, and I suppose there’s no need for us to worry about it if she’s not.

” He takes off his glasses and folds them into their case.

“I’m going to turn in for the night. Early day at the office tomorrow.

Good night, my love.” Mark leans over and kisses Hannah chastely on the lips before rolling over, his back to her, and tucking the blanket around himself.

Mark might be right. Hannah could be reading too much into the situation.

After all, no one else batted an eye at Colin’s comments, not even Georgina.

She doesn’t know the first thing about Georgina’s marriage.

Maybe Colin isn’t the type of man who would knock his wife down simply because she was getting too much attention.

And yet…she can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on with their new neighbors.

She felt it in the things that weren’t said, all the details that were lost in the gaps between their words.

No one commented on Libby’s fake brightness, the sadness behind her smile when she cracked jokes about being the only single one at the party.

No one seemed to notice that Audrey and Seth barely interacted the entire time but that Audrey kept watching him across the yard as he chatted with the other men, or the number of times Seth topped off his drink.

They’d all talked to one another for hours, but Hannah left feeling like they hadn’t said very much at all, at least not about anything that truly mattered.

And then her thoughts move to her own marriage.

To the things she hasn’t said. It’s been nagging at her ever since that note arrived in their mailbox last month.

Hannah can still see the red letters, boldface and defiant, as if the word has been painted into her memory: LIAR .

She hates that she’s been keeping this from Mark.

She doesn’t want to have the kind of marriage where secrets grow between them like weeds, where they can spread and take root, killing every good thing.

And yet she can’t tell her husband the truth—not all of it, anyway.

This time, Hannah knows exactly what her mother would say.

She remembers the first time she’d said it, her hand gently rocking Hannah’s shoulder, rousing her from sleep: “It’s time to go.

” Hannah can still feel the stiff motel blanket, scratchy on her skin, the darkness of the room, how confused she’d been, wondering where she was and how she’d gotten there.

“Come on, baby, it’s time to go. He found us. ”

Hannah looks over at Mark, who is snoring contentedly beneath the thick down duvet, and edges out of bed. She reminds herself that she’s not that little girl anymore, that she doesn’t have to run, that she’s safe here, and she tiptoes out of their bedroom as quietly as she can.

Downstairs, she opens her laptop, balancing it on her knees. The screen fills the dark room with an eerie silver glow as it wakes. Hannah navigates to her email server and, for the first time in months, logs in to the account that Mark doesn’t know exists.

She holds her breath while it loads, waiting to see if there’s any new correspondence. There isn’t. An empty inbox shines back at her. Relief, solid and sure, washes over her. She knows she’s taking a risk, but she had to be certain.

The bed upstairs creaks; the sound of Mark turning over in his sleep. Hannah quickly logs out of her account, erases her browsing history, and sneaks back into bed beside her husband.