Page 5 of The Wives of Hawthorne Lane

Hannah

Hawthorne Lane

It’s late by the time Hannah starts her walk home from Georgina’s house. The sky has turned dark, and the stars sparkle overhead in an array of constellations that Hannah could never see in New York City.

She hadn’t planned on staying at Georgina’s, but there was something about her, something that seemed to pull Hannah into her orbit.

Everything about Georgina said right in all the places Hannah has always been wrong: Her hair, the color of a polished penny, fell in smooth waves past her shoulders, her clothes were elegant and refined, and the diamond tennis bracelet encircling her slim wrist gave the air of casual wealth.

Not to mention her house—the largest on the block, sitting dead center at the end of the cul-de-sac—which was incredible.

It’s clear that Georgina has taste. Hannah saw it in the small details: the vase of fresh white roses in the open foyer, the original artworks adorning the walls, the curated throw pillows strategically placed to make the house feel homey yet elegant.

That’s the kind of taste that money can’t buy.

Not that Hannah would know what that’s like, never having owned a piece of furniture that she didn’t have to assemble with an Allen wrench.

Mark had given her a credit card, told her to buy anything she wanted for the new house, but Hannah didn’t even know where to begin.

Preferences, as far as she’s concerned, are for people who can afford them, and she’s never been able to.

She has been worried about whether she’d fit in here, on Hawthorne Lane.

This place is so different from what she’s accustomed to.

She knows that Mark was raised in a neighborhood very much like this one, where there were dinner parties and impromptu games of kickball in the street.

Coming here is, for Mark, like coming home.

But it’s different for her. Hannah isn’t even sure what home feels like.

She’d known once, when her mother was alive, but that was a very long time ago.

Hannah did most of her growing up in foster care.

Which meant that she often wasn’t in the same place long enough to find her footing, to make any real connections.

And after a while, she’d given up trying.

She accepted that she was a girl who belonged to no one and nowhere. Until she wasn’t.

Hannah shakes her head. She’s not that girl anymore.

And Hawthorne Lane is going to be different.

She’s already met two of her neighbors, and despite the fact that Libby nearly hit her with her car, they’d both been warmly welcoming.

Libby had apologized to Hannah profusely and explained that she’d been distracted and hadn’t seen her coming around the side of the moving van.

Hannah had offered an apology of her own, admitting that she hadn’t been looking before she stepped into the street.

In the end, they’d both laughed at the awkwardness of the introduction, and Libby had jokingly promised to try not to mow Hannah down again the next time they saw each other.

The house is quiet now as Hannah slips inside and locks the front door behind her.

Mark must have fallen asleep after their long day of unpacking.

Hannah feels it too, the exhaustion that is ready to consume her.

She sets her purse on top of one of the many unopened boxes that dominate the space that will soon be her new living room.

She dropped the mail there earlier as well.

That was when she’d spotted Georgina’s name, familiar from the community forum, on several of the envelopes and realized the mailman’s mistake.

The rest of the mail is still there, the pile of scattered flyers, bills forwarded from their previous address in Manhattan, and takeout menus.

After being inside Georgina’s warm and spotless home, Hannah finds that she suddenly can’t stand the clutter of her own.

She’s eager to start unpacking, tidying away the mess, but it feels like a daunting task.

One that she knows she’ll mostly be doing alone once Mark goes back to work in a few days.

With a sigh, she quickly flips through the mail one last time as she makes her way toward the garbage bin.

That’s when she sees it—an envelope marked only with the address of the apartment in Manhattan where she and Mark had been living before closing on their new house on Hawthorne Lane.

There’s no return address, which strikes Hannah as odd.

She turns it over in her hand, inspects the back flap, and finds that it’s held closed with a small piece of tape.

She slides her finger beneath the flap, opens it, and pulls out the single sheet of paper folded inside.

In bold block letters, the word LIAR has been printed in red ink, like a slashed wound across the white page.

Hannah’s fingers start to tremble and her vision swims; the letters jumble and blur in her hands.

“Hannah?”

The sound of Mark’s voice just over her shoulder nearly causes her to jump out of her skin. She whirls around to face him, holding the offending paper in one hand, the other rising to her chest to still her thrashing heart. “You scared the life out of me.”

“Sorry. I thought I’d heard you come in.” He takes off his glasses, wipes them with the hem of his shirt. “What are you doing down here?”

His eyes lower to the piece of paper clutched in her hand, and she quickly crumples it in her palm before stuffing it into a garbage bag with the rest of the junk mail, burying it beneath wads of peeled packing tape and bubble wrap.

“Nothing,” she says, forcing a smile onto her face. Her lips tremble at the corners, but she’s hoping that it’s too dark for Mark to read the lie behind her teeth. “Just thought I’d tidy up a little before calling it a night.”

“I have a better idea,” he says as he takes her into his arms and lifts her onto the counter. “It’s our first night here”—he nuzzles her neck—“all alone in our new house.” He moves between her thighs as he continues, his teeth softly grazing her earlobe, “Why don’t we christen the place?”

Mark trails his fingers down her arms, and Hannah feels herself softening beneath his touch.

That letter could have come from anywhere.

Maybe it wasn’t even meant for her. She tells herself this as Mark lifts her top over her head, reaches for the clasp of her bra.

She tells herself that she has nothing to worry about. But then again, Hannah is a liar.