Page 69 of The Getaway

Marley stared at the ceiling. “Like the meringue incident?”

“Like the meringue incident.”

The meringue incident had happened three or four years ago on one of their Hamptons weeks. It was why she and Magdelena had become casual friends. Somehow, Marley had gotten it in her head that she was an excellent amateur baker, even though she’d barely ever produced a passable batch of cupcakes in her life. Something was always burned at the edges or mushy on the inside. It might have been the result of her watching too many episodes of The Great British Bake Off during a bad bout of the flu.

Whatever the case, she had decided she was going to make lemon meringue pie for dessert one night, and everything had gone fine until it was time to make the meringue.

“Egg whites and sugar. How hard can it be?”

Turned out that, for Marley, it was pretty damn hard. The first meringue had stayed a goopy, watery texture, no matter how long she held the idiotic handheld mixer on high. Magdelena had offered to help, but Marley had politely shut her down. She had this. She could do it. The second meringue had retained a weird, gritty texture that no one wanted to eat. Marshall had tried it, and he had concurred. He’d cheered her on through the third, but it was another liquid mess. By that time, Marley was out of eggs and developing carpal tunnel from holding the mixer. It was then that Magdelena had silently, but pointedly, produced a stand mixer from the depths of the cabinets. Marley had assumed this contraption would solve all her problems. It was what they used on the show, after all.

Three more failed attempts, necessitating a trip to the market for Marshall that included a flat tire, and Marley had ended up hurling the lemon part of the pie into the ocean, then dissolving into tears in Marshall’s arms. He’d gone into town and bought them a pie—apple with zero meringue in sight—and no one had ever spoken of it again.

Except Magdelena, who, after a couple of days to allow Marley to mourn, had taken her into the kitchen and patiently shown her how to make the perfect meringue. They’d been texting buddies ever since.

In the darkness, she could hear her husband swallow back a sob. “He knew us really well.”

There was a soft knock on the door. Marley and Marshall both sat bolt upright, like mirror images. Marshall fumbled for his phone and turned on the flashlight. Marley heard a baby crying.

“Stay there,” he said to Marley, holding one hand toward the bed. He moved aside the chair he’d placed in front of the door—not that it was going to stop anyone, but it would at least give them a chance to wake up and defend themselves—and cracked it open. Instantly, the baby’s cries grew louder. The oddly positioned light from Marshall’s phone cast sharp shadows across his face. “Oh, hey,” he said, then opened the door wider. “Are you okay? Is Hazel with you?”

“No. I’m so sorry to bother you, and I know we’re supposed to stay together or whatever, but she thought it would be okay if I just came quickly.”

Tini stood there in sweatpants and a stained T-shirt, looking haggard and pale, her reddish-brown hair up in a ponytail with locks of hair falling out all over the place. Beckham wailed, red faced and tear streaked in her arms, his pudgy fingers reaching for Marshall. She held a full bottle in one hand.

“We can’t get him to stop crying. He doesn’t have a fever, but he hasn’t wanted to take his bottle,” Tini rambled. “Hazel and I and the kids . . . we’re so exhausted. And his mother . . .” Marley swallowed hard. Beckham would never see his mother again. “Is there any way . . . ?”

Marshall looked back at Marley, and she could tell he was thinking this was Josh’s responsibility.

“Of course we’ll help.” Marley jumped out of bed and cuddled Beckham into her chest. He rubbed his face against her, back and forth, back and forth, leaving tears and snot behind. “Marshall, get the bottle.”

“Bless you,” Tini said. She turned and fled before Marshall had even had a chance to shut the door.

Marley bundled Beckham up in one of her sweatshirts and took him over to the deep reading chair near the window, bouncing and shushing him along the way. By the time she sat down with him in her lap, he was hiccuping in his breaths but no longer wailing.

“Hey there, kiddo,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. He was soft and sweet and smelled of baby powder. “It’s Aunt Marley. You remember me, right? I took you on that swing that time in the park?”

Beckham stared at her face. He looked so exhausted, the poor little guy.

“He does sort of look like Lincoln, doesn’t he?” Marley said. “He has his coloring.”

“Yeah,” Marshall said quietly, leaning over the back of the chair. He still had the flashlight on, pointed toward the wall so as not to blind the baby. “I guess he does. And you can sort of see it around the eyes too.”

Beckham turned and rubbed his nose against her chest again.

“You hungry, bud?” Marley asked.

She looked up at Marshall, and he held out the bottle. She shook it in front of the baby.

He stared at it, tilting the top of his head into the front of her shoulder. He stuck one finger in his mouth for half a second, then reached toward the bottle, whacking the air in front of it. Tentatively, Marley brought the bottle to his lips and tipped him back slightly in her arms so he could drink. It didn’t take long for him to take to it, and once he was eating, Marley looked up at Marshall, feeling proud of herself.

Marshall smiled back at her.

36

Gemma

Startled awake by a knock at the door, Gemma refused to move a single muscle. Grant’s breathing was soft and even next to her. Maybe she had imagined it.