Ava, nearly two—were already far too familiar with the genre of animated talking trains. Every time Mark was home alone with the kids, he planted them in front of the television set.
“When was the last time you checked on them?” she asked.
“A few minutes ago,” Mark said vaguely, still scrolling through his messages.
Jaime headed to the playroom, just a short hallway down from the kitchen. Logan sat on the floor in front of the television, his eyes fixed on the screen, where Thomas the Tank Engine was getting a lecture from Sir Topham Hatt on the merits of being useful. Ava was curled up on the blue denim slip-covered sofa, her eyelashes curled down over rounded cheeks and her mouth slack with sleep.
“You okay, sweetheart?” she asked.
Logan, transfixed by the television, didn’t answer.
“You can finish this episode, but then we’re going to turn off the TV,” Jaime said.
Logan didn’t give any indication that he had heard her, and Jaime was reminded of his father. Is the addiction to electronic gadgets genetic? she wondered. Or learned? Either way, she might as well take advantage of the lull to put the groceries away.
When she returned to the kitchen, Mark hadn’t moved. Jaime turned her attention to the groceries, a job for which she had a well-planned system. Frozen groceries were put away first, of course, then refrigerated items. Cans were neatly stacked in their cupboard, arranged by size. She had once organized her canned goods in alphabetical order—an approach that had worked well in the spice cabinet—but hadn’t liked the way it looked, tiny containers of tomato paste dwarfed by hulking cans of imported tomatoes.
Finally—and this was her favorite part—Jaime decanted the remaining groceries into their specially designated containers. Pasta went into glass jars with hinged lids. Dish soap was poured into a tall blue bottle next to the sink. Sea salt went into a porcelain saltcellar she had found in an antiques store in Palm Beach. Sugar and flour were stored in glossy stainless steel canisters on the highest pantry shelf. Powdered laundry detergent went in a large white tin box that Jaime had stenciled “laundry soap” along one side in a swirly blue font.
She opened the pantry door to retrieve the pasta jars and then stopped, blinking at the mess. A box of cookies sat opened and unsealed. Where it came from, Jaime had no idea; she never purchased anything that contained partially hydrogenated oils. A crumpled bag of Doritos lay on its side, also opened, with the top folded loosely down and not a bag clip in sight. Boxes of crackers and cereal were no longer neatly lined up, but all askew, as though someone had pulled out every single box and then shoved them carelessly back in. The glass lid to the canister that contained the almonds was gone. Jaime looked down and saw it on the floor.
“Doritos?” Jaime said. “Oreos?”
Mark raised his hand. “Guilty.”
“When did you start eating junk food?”
“I didn’t. Emily was hungry when I picked her up, so I sent her into the store with a twenty while I took a business call. What you see there is the result of a twelve-year-old grocery shopping without supervision,” Mark said, still not looking up from his iPhone.
Emily was Mark’s daughter from his first marriage. And, as Jaime had learned in the four years she and Mark had been married, the problem with being the second wife—especially when your husband shared a child with his former wife—was that the first family never really went away. Mark’s ex-wife, Libby, called and texted him all the time, keeping Mark apprised of every last detail of Emily’s life. This constant contact had only gotten worse since Emily had begun to show real promise as a tennis prodigy. Mark—already a tennis enthusiast—was obsessed. He was at the courts nearly every day, chauffeuring Emily back and forth to her lessons, consulting with coaches, spending more time and money than seemed possible nurturing her talent.
“She made a mess,” Jaime said, bending over to pick up the lid to the almond jar. It was cracked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get her to clean it up,” Mark said. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Emily! Come down here.”
“What? Why?” a muffled voice called back from the general direction of the living room.
“I’d like to speak to you, that’s why,” Mark called back. He rolled his eyes at Jaime. “And just think, the teen years are still ahead of us.”
Emily strolled into the kitchen. She was very thin,