behind her back

Chapter 1: The Helpful Neighbor

The air in the old orchard was thick enough to chew. Eric swung the scythe in a tired, practiced arc, the blade whispering through the stalks of goosegrass and cow parsley before thunking dully into the hidden earth. Sweat traced a path through the dirt on his temples. Tara wanted a path cleared to the old stone well, a romantic notion for her garden, and he loved her enough to spend his Saturday doing it. He loved her enough for a lot of things.

“Need some help, handsome?”

The voice was light, melodic, coming from behind the veil of willowherb. Eric straightened, a hand going to the small of his back with a soft pop. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

A girl stood at the edge of the clearing. She wore a simple sundress, yellow with little white daisies, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that cast a shadow over most of her face. One strap of the dress had slipped down a tanned shoulder. She carried a small wicker basket brimming with green apples.

“Oh. Hey,” Eric managed, leaning the scythe against a tree. “I didn’t think anyone else was out here.”

“I get that a lot.” She stepped closer, the basket swaying deliberately on her hip. “I’m Vicki. I live on the other side of the woods. Saw you working away out here all by your lonesome.” She tilted her head. The hat shadow shifted, revealing sharp cheekbones, a full mouth glossed pink. Pretty. Young. “Looks like hard work.”

“It’s something,” Eric said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his sweat-soaked shirt and grass-stained jeans. “Eric. My wife and I just moved into the old house. The Abbott place.”

“I know it.” Vicki’s smile widened. She set the basket down, pulled out a bottle of water, and held it out. “Here. You look parched.”

“Thanks.” He took it, their fingers brushing. Hers were cool. He unscrewed the cap and drank deeply, acutely aware of her watching him. “You’re out picking apples kind of early, aren’t they?”

“I like them sour,” she said with a giggle. It was a bright, infectious sound. She took a step closer, peering at the half-cleared trail. “So you’re Tara’s husband.”

“You know Tara?”

“Know of her.” Vicki shrugged, the loose neckline of her dress gaping slightly with the movement. Eric quickly averted his eyes back to the safety of her face. “She’s got quite the reputation around here. For being… particular.”

Eric felt a flicker of defensiveness. “She knows what she likes.”

“I bet she does.” Vicki reached out, not for the water bottle, but to pluck a stray leaf from his shoulder. Her knuckles grazed the damp cotton over his collarbone. She let her hand linger. “You seem like a guy who likes to please people.”

The air, already thick, became syrupy. Eric’s mouth was dry again. He took another swig of water, but it didn’t help. “Just trying to get settled.”

“Mhm.” She swayed, the hem of her dress swishing around her thighs. “You know, I could help. I’m stronger than I look.”

Before he could answer, she bent over to pick up the scythe. The dress pulled tight across her rear. Eric stared, then violently wrenched his gaze away, staring instead at a knot in the oak tree. He heard her little grunt of effort, the swish of the blade through air.

“See?” she said, presenting the tool with a flourish. She was close again, breathing a little quickly from the exertion. A scent wafted from her—something sweet, like vanilla and crushed green apples. It cut through the smell of damp soil and crushed grass. “Not so hard.”

“Yeah,” Eric croaked. A furnace had ignited in his gut. He was burning up. He could feel a treacherous heat pooling low, a tightening in his work pants that was utterly, completely wrong. He took a step back, his heel catching on a root. He stumbled.

Vicki’s hand shot out, steadying him by his bicep. Her grip was firm. “Whoa there, big guy. You okay?”

Her touch was electric. Through the thin cotton of his sleeve, he could feel the cool of her fingers, the surprising strength. He was painfully, obviously aroused now, a fact the loose fabric of his jeans did nothing to hide. He saw her glance down, then back up to his face. Her lips parted.

“You’re… really warm, Eric,” she murmured. Her thumb stroked a small circle on his arm.

He jerked his arm back as if scalded. “I should get back. To the house. Tara’s expecting me.”

Disappointment flashed in Vicki’s eyes, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a knowing, closed-lip smile. “Of course she is. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.” She retrieved her basket, hooking it over her arm. “It was nice to meet you, Eric. Really nice. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

She turned and walked back into the dappled shadows of the woods, her hips swaying with a rhythm that seemed meant just for him. He stood there, heart hammering against his ribs, until the last flash of yellow dress disappeared. Shame, hot and sour, washed over him. He adjusted himself, willing the physical reaction to subside. It took a long minute.

He grabbed the scythe and the half-empty water bottle, abandoning the trail. He practically fled back toward the house, the peaceful hum of bees now sounding like a taunt.

By the time he pushed through the creaking back screen door, his heart had slowed, but the grass stains were deep on his knees and the smell of her perfume felt stuck in his nostrils. The kitchen was cool, dim after the outdoor glare.

“You look exhausted, son.”

The voice was smooth, familiar. Tara’s mother, Gloria, leaned against the counter by the sink, a tall glass of lemonade in her hand. She was a handsome woman in her late fifties, her blonde hair perfectly set, her eyes the same pale blue as her daughter’s—but where Tara’s were often warm, Gloria’s were like chips of lake ice. She took a slow sip, her eyes traveling from his dirty boots up to his flushed face.

“Just clearing that path,” Eric said, his voice rough. He dropped the scythe by the door with a clatter.

“So I saw.” Another slow sip. A smile played on her lips, not kind, but assessing. She set the glass down with a soft click. “All that hard work, all by yourself out in that heat.” She pushed herself off the counter and took a step toward him. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

She didn’t move to get a towel. Instead, she reached out and brushed a piece of broken leaf from his sweat-damp hair. Her fingertips were cold. Her gaze was unwavering, penetrating, seeing right through him, seeing everything—the guilt, the heat, the confusion.

Eric stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence. Gloria’s smile deepened, knowing and utterly devoid of warmth.

“You’re just a mess,” she said quietly, her hand now resting on his shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

He stood frozen, her hand a cold weight on his shoulder. Her other hand came up, not to his hair this time, but to the front of his dirt-streaked work shirt. Her fingers brushed slowly, deliberately, picking at a burr stuck to the fabric just over his sternum. She leaned in. The soft, perfumed swell of her breast pressed against his arm through the thin silk of her blouse as she worked.

“Such a mess,” she murmured, her voice a low hum near his ear.

Her attention drifted downward. A piece of grass clung to the denim over his thigh. Her fingertips traced the path of the blade, dusting away the debris. The motion was slow, methodical. It traveled higher, to the strained fabric at the fly of his work pants, still subtly, undeniably tented from the encounter in the woods.

Her palm settled there, a slow, deliberate press, cupping him. She held it, assessing the reaction beneath her touch, her ice-chip eyes watching his face. Eric sucked in a sharp, silent breath. His whole body went rigid, a wave of nausea and electric shame rolling through him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t push her away. This was Tara’s mother.

After a lifetime, she withdrew her hand, straightening up as if she’d merely straightened his collar. “You’ll want to shower before dinner,” she said, her tone casual, conversational. “Tara’s making her pot roast.”

She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him trembling against the counter.

The shower was scalding. Eric scrubbed until his skin was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of Gloria’s hand and the ghost of Vicki’s perfume. He dressed in clean jeans and a t-shirt, feeling like an imposter in his own skin.

Dinner was a surreal pantomime of normalcy. The pot roast was tender, the carrots sweet. Tara, beautiful and oblivious at the head of the table, talked about her plans to repaint the sunroom. Gloria complimented her cooking. Eric moved food around his plate, his appetite gone. Every time he looked up, Gloria’s gaze was on him, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips.

“Oh, honey, I almost forgot,” Tara said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. She reached over and squeezed Eric’s hand. “I got a call from the agency today. That big client in Hartford? They want an in-person consult on the rollout. I have to go up tomorrow. It’ll be a few days.”

Eric’s fork stilled. “A few days?”

“Three, maybe four. I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely apologetic. “It’s terrible timing with us just settling in. But it’s a huge account. I can’t say no.”

“Of course you can’t,” Gloria said, sipping her wine. “You go and shine, sweetheart. We’ll hold down the fort.” Her eyes flicked to Eric. “Won’t we?”

The air in the dining room felt suddenly thin. The old house seemed to press in around him, its familiar creaks taking on a new, menacing rhythm. Tara smiled, grateful, unaware of the current that had just crackled through the room.

Eric looked from his wife’s trusting face to his mother-in-law’s placid, knowing one. The trap, so carefully baited in the sun-dappled woods, had just sprung shut.

The trap, so carefully baited in the sun-dappled woods, had just sprung shut.

Eric lay awake that night, the old house groaning around him. Tara slept soundly beside him, her breath a soft, even rhythm against the dark. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling, its shape morphing in the shadows from a continent into a leering face. Vicki’s laugh echoed in his memory, followed by the crushing weight of Gloria’s knowing hand. The two sensations—innocent flirtation and vile complicity—twisted together until he felt sick. He finally fell into a thin, troubled sleep just as the sky began to lighten.

The next day passed in a blur of distracted activity. Tara packed, her energy focused on contracts and color palettes for her presentation. Eric helped, but his movements were mechanical, his mind elsewhere. Every time Gloria entered the room, his skin prickled. She moved through the house with a serene authority, asking mundane questions about groceries and mail, but her eyes, when they found his, held a private, dreadful amusement.

Evening arrived. Tara’s suitcase stood by the front door.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, more to herself than to Eric, adjusting the strap of her laptop bag. “Mom’s making lasagna tomorrow.”

Gloria smiled from the archway to the living room. “His favorite. I remember.”

The air in the hallway felt charged. Tara turned to her mother first. “Thanks for holding down the fort, Mom.”

“Of course, darling.” Gloria opened her arms.

They embraced, a brief, familial squeeze. But as Gloria’s arms went around her daughter, her hand, hidden from Tara’s view, stretched out. Her fingers trailed slowly, deliberately, across Eric’s hip where he stood just behind Tara. They traced the line of his belt, a cold, pointed caress through the fabric of his jeans. He flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. Tara, feeling him move, pulled back from the hug and looked at him, concerned.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” he choked out. “Just… tired.”

Tara nodded, then turned to him, wrapping him in a hug that smelled of her shampoo and her perfume—safe, familiar, everything he was betraying by his silence. He clung to her for a second too long. “I’ll miss you,” he muttered into her hair.

“It’s just a few days,” she whispered back, kissing his cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She pulled away, picked up her bag, and headed out the door with a final wave. The sound of her car starting was a promise of normalcy driving away.

Eric stood frozen in the empty doorway, watching the taillights disappear down the long, tree-lined drive. The silence of the house rushed in, heavy and expectant.

He went to close the door, but a presence stopped him. Gloria was there. She hadn’t moved.

Before he could step back, she stepped into him. Her arms went around his neck in a perfunctory hug, her body a rigid line against his. Her lips pressed close to his ear. The smell of her lotion, cold cream and roses, filled his nostrils.

Her whisper was low, arid, and utterly devoid of affection. “She’s gone.” A pause. The words that followed were crude, explicit, a blunt demand that tore through any pretense of decency. She stated it flatly, a need to be met.

Then she let go of him as if he were a piece of furniture she’d bumped into.

Without another glance, she turned and walked into the living room where her husband, Tara’s father, sat clicking through the evening news. She settled onto the couch beside him, picked up a magazine, and became a picture of domesticity.

From the hallway, Eric felt her gaze lift. She watched him over the top of the magazine, her eyes flat and patient. She watched him turn, a man moving through deep water, and start the slow climb up the stairs to the empty bedroom. She watched until he was gone, then turned a page, the sound crisp in the quiet room.

She watched until he was gone, then turned a page, the sound crisp in the quiet room.

The morning light cut through the trees in solid, dusty beams. Eric swung the scythe with a viciousness the overgrowth didn’t deserve. Thwack. Thwack. Each strike was a punishment for the thoughts that had haunted his sleepless night—Gloria’s cold hand, Tara’s trusting smile, the sway of a yellow dress. He was drenched in sweat within minutes, the decaying-leaf scent of the trail choking him. He just needed to finish this damn path. Finish it and lock himself in the garage, away from the silent, watchful house.

“Back for more, I see.”

The voice was a cool flute against the heat. He knew it instantly.

Vicki stood at the tree line, leaning against an oak. The outfit was different today, a study in contradiction. Tight black pants hugged every line of his legs, tucked into thick, olive-green knee-high socks. A loose, faded gray shirt hung off one shoulder, the neckline wide and slumping. No hat this time. His dark hair was pulled into a messy knot. He looked like a college student, or someone playing one.

“Didn’t take you for a glutton for punishment,” Vicki said, pushing off the tree and walking over. The socks rustled against the tall grass.

Eric lowered the scythe, his heart doing a clumsy thud against his ribs. “Just want to get it done.”

“Mhm.” Vicki circled him, an appraiser. Eric felt like a piece of livestock. “You’re sweating through your shirt. It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s hard work.”

“I can see that.” Vicki stopped in front of him, too close. His eyes, expertly made-up, dropped to Eric’s chest, then lower. “You’re putting your back into it. And your… everything else.”

Eric flushed. He grabbed his water bottle from the ground, took a swig to hide his face.

“You know,” Vicki said, picking up a long, twisted vine from Eric’s pile of cuttings. He ran his fingers along its length. “You have to be careful with this stuff. It looks soft, but it’s got a real strong core. Wraps around everything. Chokes the life right out if you let it.” He let the vine slither to the ground, then looked pointedly at Eric’s wedding ring. “Some things have a real grip.”

The metaphor was so blunt it was almost insulting. Eric stared at him. “What’s your point?”

“No point.” Vicki’s smile was all innocence. He bent over to pick up a fallen apple from the basket he’d evidently brought again. The tight pants pulled taut. He polished the fruit slowly on his loose shirt, right over his chest. “Just making conversation. You seem tense. All knotted up.” He took a sharp, loud bite of the apple, the crunch vulgar in the quiet woods. Juice glistened on his lower lip. He caught it with his tongue. “Maybe you need to… loosen up.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Vicki took another step closer. The sweet-green-apple smell of him mixed with the earthy decay of the clearing. “All coiled spring and no release. That’s not healthy.” He gestured with the apple toward the scythe in Eric’s hand. “Always swinging, clearing a path for someone else. Don’t you ever want a path cleared just for you?”

Eric’s mouth was dry. He was hard again, a swift, traitorous response he couldn’t control. It was humiliation, and something darker, hotter. “You should go.”

“Why?” Vicki’s voice dropped to a whisper. He leaned in. Eric could see the meticulous blending of eyeshadow, the faint dusting of glitter on his cheekbones. “There’s nobody out here. Just you, me, and all this… growth. Things get so overgrown if you ignore them.” His eyes flicked down to Eric’s groin, then back up, holding his gaze. “Might need some personal attention.”

He reached out, not for Eric, but for the handle of the scythe. His hand closed over Eric’s, which was still gripping the wood. His skin was smooth, cool. He didn’t try to take the tool; he just held Eric’s hand there, his thumb stroking the knuckle once, slowly.

“Your wife’s gone, right?” Vicki breathed. The words were soft, lethal.

Eric jerked his hand back as if burned. The scythe clattered to the ground between them. “What did you say?”

Vicki straightened up, taking another casual bite of the apple. He shrugged, the loose shirt slipping further. “Small town. People talk. She went to Hartford. You’re all alone in that big, empty house.” He chewed, swallowed. “Must be lonely. All that quiet. All that… space.”

The understanding crashed over Eric—the specificity, the timing. This wasn’t random. This was deliberate. The trap wasn’t just sprung; he was being played with inside of it. The arousal curdled into a sharp, chilling fear.

Vicki saw the shift in his eyes. The teasing smirk softened into something else, something more direct, more dangerous. He dropped the apple core. He closed the last bit of distance, so the tips of their shoes touched. He looked up at Eric through his lashes.

“I’ve got a lot of energy,” Vicki said, his voice low and clear, stripped of its earlier playfulness. It was a straight line, an offer. “And you look like you need to burn some off. I’m just through those trees.” He tilted his head toward the densest part of the woods. “My place is quiet. Private. No one has to know a thing.”

He let the invitation hang in the humid air. Then, with a final, lingering look that traveled the length of Eric’s body, he turned and walked away, not back toward the road, but into the deep shadows of the orchard. The knee-high socks disappeared into the tall grass, the loose shirt a pale ghost until it, too, was swallowed by the green.

Eric stood shaking in the cleared dirt, the taste of copper in his mouth where he’d bitten his cheek. The pulsing heat in his pants was now a brand of shame. He stared at the dark gap in the foliage where Vicki had vanished, a path leading somewhere he knew, with a clarity that felt like ice water in his veins, he was expected to follow.

The words hung in the air like the humidity. Eric stood frozen, staring into the gap in the foliage where Vicki's shirt had vanished. The path led into a darkness that pulsed with invitation. The wild part of him, the part that belonged to the man who'd gripped the scythe too hard when the conversation turned to loneliness, that part told him to go. The rational part, the part that still wore the wedding ring with pride, screamed at him to turn back to the house and scrub the copper taste from his mouth.

He took a step. Then another.

The grass swallowed his boots as he followed the trail, a snaking path through brambles and high weeds that seemed to have been trodden just recently. The trees closed in overhead, dimming the light until it was a green twilight. He could hear nothing but his own breathing, the crackle of his footsteps, and the distant, mocking buzz of bees.

The house emerged from the shadows like an afterthought. A small, weathered cottage with a sagging porch, its paint peeling in long curls. A bicycle leaned against the rail. Window boxes overflowed with dead geraniums. It was the kind of place that looked abandoned, yet the curtains in the window were a cheerful yellow print, freshly laundered.

The door was already open.

Vicki stood in the frame, leaning against the jamb, one hip cocked. The shirt had slipped further, revealing a sharp collarbone. "You came," he said, a lilt of triumph in his voice.

Eric stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. His heart hammered. "I shouldn't be here."

"But you are."