Page 61 of A Love Most Fatal

Vanessa pushes up from her desk and takes a moment to straighten her skirt and smooth her already perfect ponytail;the picture of composure. “I don’t have time to think about this today. We have visits to make.”

I don’t know what takes place on their weekly visits, but I hear through the wall that Mary always takes a shower immediately afterwards, probably to wash cold blood off her hands. I might guess visits equals murder, poisonings, torture, etc. but I am open to the idea that it’s something much more civilized.

“Pick two of them and invite them to dinner on Monday. Call it a follow-up,” Vanessa says. “I don’t care who. Rumors will spread that I’m considering and that will appease them.”

I wouldn’t let any two of these men into my home, but I nod anyway and give her a thumbs up. “You got it, captain.”

22

VANESSA

The kids come over mostSaturday nights for a sleepover because it doesn’t matter how many years they’ve been married; Sean and Willa still go on weekly dates and then probably have sex loud enough to wake their neighbors. They are as in love as they’ve been since high school.

Usually the kids come over for movies, ice cream, crafts with their grandma, video games with Mary—there’s never a shortage of family members to entertain them, but tonight in a strange sequence of events, the kids are left with just Nate and myself.

Mary is God knows where doing whatever it is she does when she sneaks out on the weekends, Mom is out with a few of The Mothers, and Leo is making his appearances at our gambling establishments.

And Nate, well, Nate doesn’t leave.

I didn’t want him to assume he had to entertain two 12-year-olds on his Saturday night (not that he is one to have plans), but Artie beelined upstairs and knocked on Nate’s bedroom door before I could tell him otherwise.

Angel doesn’t even have her shoes all the way off before Nate and Artie are ambling down the stairs, talking about the Switch game Artie brought for them to play tonight.

“Auntie.” Angel grabs onto my forearm and lowers her voice. “My stomach is feeling weird.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” I pull her under my arm for a hug. Nate and Artie walk past towards the living room. “Have you eaten? Let’s get you something.”

I poke around the fridge and find a Tupperware of Mom’s bean soup that she made yesterday while Angel fills me in on the slumber party she went to the night before.

“Will you ask Mom again if I can get a phone?” Angel asks, her head resting on her arms on the counter.

“Yeah! Will you?” Artie yells from the living room.

“You have a phone,” I remind them, and they both sigh with different levels of dramatics. The two share a flip phone that can call and send texts.

“But we can’t have apps,” she says.

I ladle enough soup for the four of us into a pot.

“You have an iPad, though,” I point out. The twins also share that, and there are screen time limitations. Willa is better about all that childhood development and parenting stuff than I imagine I would be.

Personally, I love screen time. I get it. This is why I am meant to be an aunt and not a mother.

I nod toward the living room. “And then there’s the Switch. You’re swimming in technology, miss.”

“I do love my Switch,” she says, and looks off in her dreamer stare.

She looks so much like Willa with her plump pink cheeks and light soft hair that her mom braids into various complicated styles. Today, it’s in a simple braid that’s tucked under her oversized tie-dye fleece hoodie. Willa has always loved dress up and that extends to her kids, but she lets them wear the bright-colored, tacky pieces that are rite of passage for little kids. I love that about my sister.

Nate comes into the kitchen with his dog jingling in behind him as I’m serving soup into four bowls; he leans a hand on the counter next to me. I’m getting used to having to look up to meet his eyes at night. The dog circles a few times before dropping into the bed that now lives in the kitchen despite my protests.

Nobody listens to me in this house.

“Do you have any Tums?” he asks in a quiet voice. “Artie’s not feeling great.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Nate shrugs. “Maybe he’s constipated, I don’t know. Kids have stomach issues all the time.”

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