The Swap Read online

  The agency insisted that all financial help be funneled through lawyers. Mia’s family had not arranged counsel yet, so we would have to reimburse her for the doctor’s bills, the prenatal vitamins, and the maternity wear. But I sent her gifts: a rich buttery lotion that would prevent stretch marks; a diffuser and several calming essential-oil blends; tickets to a concert she wanted to see. She was moved and grateful. Our bond developed.

  But I needed more. I needed to meet her in person, to share a meal with her, to hug her. “We should go to Chicago,” I said to Brian. “I don’t want our first meeting with Mia to be when we take her baby away.”

  He agreed, so I shared the news with Mia on a video call.

  Her brow furrowed. “I’ve got a big exam coming up,” she explained.

  “We’ll work around your schedule,” I offered. “We’ll come whenever it works for you.” She smiled then and relaxed. So we set a date and flew to O’Hare. Mia wanted to meet us at her favorite restaurant in Wilmette. Her parents would have us over for dinner the following evening, but we would meet alone first. It made sense to me. This would be an overwhelming encounter. As I settled myself into the booth of the Italian joint, I was jittery, emotional, on the verge of tears. I had brought Mia a gift—a necklace with two heart pendants. It had been expensive, but I wanted her to have it. I loved her and what she was doing for us.

  We waited for an hour. And then for two. I sent her an e-mail, but it bounced back. My Skype insisted there was no such address. We went back to the hotel, where I fell on the bed and wept. Brian paced the room, muttering incredulities to himself. In the morning, I called the agency.

  “What’s going on? Did she change her mind?”

  “She may have,” the woman said. “Or… it’s possible there’s no baby.”

  “What?”

  “Some girls like the attention. The gifts and the messages.”

  “But we saw her bump! She sent us the ultrasound photo!”

  I heard the woman sigh. “There are websites devoted to faking a pregnancy.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “These sites offer fake test results, sonogram images, latex bumps and breasts. We try to do our due diligence, but sometimes they slip through the cracks. I’m sorry.”

  Our baby had never existed, but to me, she had died. I took a leave from work to grieve in private. In addition to our loss, I was humiliated by our gullibility. We had wanted a baby so badly that we’d ignored the red flags. Friends, relatives, and colleagues would be talking about us. How could we not have seen that Mia was a liar? That her bump was fake? That her parents would have been involved if she was legitimately pregnant? And then, Brian suggested the move.

  I needed counseling; I can see that now. But starting a new life seemed more important. I could seek help when we were settled… except that Hawking was sorely lacking in mental-health services. Even if there had been a psychologist, residents would have been too embarrassed to visit. Everyone knows everything in a town this size. So I had suffered in silence. And then, one day, Freya walked into my shop. She charmed me, lifted me out of my funk, convinced me that I could be happy again.

  Freya’s friendship was my lifeline.

  11

  Most people were wowed by Freya’s beauty, style, and charisma, but there was more to her than that. She was creative, visionary, a truly talented artist. She had come into my store carrying a large cardboard box. She’d set it on the countertop and extracted several pottery pieces. The bowls, vases, and platters were somehow rugged and delicate at the same time, the glazes evoking the sea and the sky and the beach. They fit perfectly into my aesthetic, and I knew I had to stock them.

  I’d suggested we discuss terms over coffee, so we moved to a cozy café across the street. At a tiny table, with two steaming lattes (Freya’s was a beet latte with almond milk), we discovered we had much in common. In addition to sharing a passion for art and design, we were the same age, married without children, and struggling to adapt to our new environment. And though we didn’t articulate it then, we were both lonely. I think we recognized that in each other.

  Soon, we were seeing each other on a regular basis: for coffee, lunch, or wine. We had dinner with our husbands twice—once at Freya’s magnificent waterfront home, once at our modest bungalow. I’d been ashamed of our slightly run-down cottage set back in the woods, but Freya and Max pronounced it “homey and cozy.” Despite their differences, the guys had hit it off, too. Brian and I had never really had “couple” friends. In the past, I would become friendly with a woman only to discover her partner was a pompous ass. Brian would introduce me to his buddy’s wife, who’d turn out to be competitive and snarky. But we liked Max and Freya in equal measure.

  One night at dinner, when Freya bemoaned the island’s lack of a SoulCycle, we planned more vigorous visits. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, before I opened the store, we went for a forest hike. It was a walk, really, the path meandering gently through the woods and along the coastline. The rain forest felt magical, almost prehistoric with its massive cedars, abundant ferns, curtains of moss. It was on these walks, our environment so private, isolated, almost confessional, that our friendship grew and deepened.

  Our standing date was weather dependent, of course. The island got a lot of rain, which Freya struggled with. It can be depressing for people who come from sunnier climes, but I was used to it. I’d spent my entire life in the Pacific Northwest—or as we Canadians call it, the South Coast. I was born and raised in Vancouver, moved to Seattle when I married Brian. I had spent my life in the gray and the gloom. It wasn’t the weather that caused my malaise.

  It was a bright but mild morning, perfect walking weather, when Freya mentioned her connection to Low. “I hear my favorite student applied for a job at the store.”

  I knew Freya taught pottery classes to a group of seniors. I couldn’t recall anyone from that demographic looking for work.

  “Her name is Low Morrison,” Freya elaborated, over the crunch of her expensive hiking boots on the pine needles underfoot. “She’s tall.”

  “Oh. Right.” The unique name and stature of the girl instantly sprang to mind. Her résumé still sat alone in my drawer. I’d expected to receive more applications, but the summer hiring pool was small on the sparsely populated island. And I was competing with higher-paying, more dynamic employers like the marina, the kayak rental shop, several restaurants, and two ice cream stores. Apparently, teens were not that keen to stand behind a counter helping gray-haired tourists pick out a soap dish.

  “She’s kind of… intense,” I said. “I’m not sure a gift shop is the right fit for her.”

  “I know she seems odd, but she’s sweet,” Freya said. “And she really wants to work for you.”

  “But why?” I had to ask. Low Morrison seemed more suited to a solitary profession—like, working after hours at a grocery store stocking very high shelves.

  “She loves ceramics and art in general. And she’s a talented potter,” Freya explained. “And once you get to know her, she’s quite fascinating.”

  “Really?” My curiosity was piqued.

  “She lives in a sex cult.”

  I stopped walking. “Pardon me?”

  Freya laughed. “It’s true. We had a few drinks one night and she told me all about it. Her parents are polyamorous. They live on a commune with their lovers and a bunch of goats and chickens.”

  In the onslaught of information, I didn’t register Freya’s mention of drinking alcohol with the taciturn teen. “Wow. No wonder she’s so… different.”

  “She’s not, though,” Freya said. “She’s shy. And she’s been ostracized by the other kids because of her family and her looks. But she’s smart and creative, and she’ll work hard for you. I really think you should give her a chance.”

  Freya’s championing of the unusual girl was effective. I felt for Low. And I wanted Freya to see my compassionate side. But I had a business to run. “I’ll think about it,” I
promised.

  “I actually respect her family’s lifestyle,” Freya continued, as the trail afforded us views of the slate blue ocean. “Sex and love without possessiveness or jealousy? I think it’s admirable.”

  “Really?” I prompted. Some would have dismissed Freya’s opinions because of her beauty, her California accent, the fact that she was hiking through the forest wearing overpriced, designer athleisure wear. But she had hidden depths. I loved our philosophical discussions.

  “Everyone swaps partners on this island, and then they judge Low’s family for making it official. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.”

  The island’s free-love culture was well-known. Brian and I had discussed it before we moved, speculating on how much was real and how much was legend. But it wouldn’t impact us, we knew. We were committed. Solid. Traditional even.

  “True,” I mumbled.

  “Monogamy is completely unrealistic for some people,” Freya expanded. “I should know. I’m married to a professional athlete who’s hot as fuck.”

  Those precise words had run through my mind the first time I met Max Beausoleil. And every time after that. Hot as fuck. It wasn’t just his dark good looks enhanced by a sexy scar running across his lip; or his tall, muscular, athlete’s body. It wasn’t his fame and notoriety. When I met him, he’d been pleasant and engaged, but there was a darkness, a broodiness, a profound sense of tragedy about him. The combination was ridiculously attractive. Even Brian seemed enamored with him. (My husband’s overt fawning was significantly less hot.)

  Freya kept going. “Women throw themselves at Max constantly. I’d be naive to think that he never slept with anyone when he was on the road.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “I honestly didn’t care, as long as he used protection,” she said. “I didn’t want an STD. Or worse, a baby.”

  Her comment stung. We had been so desperate for a child and Freya was comparing a baby to a case of herpes. But I hadn’t yet told her about our fertility struggles, or the evaporation of our adoptive child. I was sure she wasn’t being insensitive.

  “But Max and I never talked about it,” she continued. “We never said, I love you, but I’m lonely. We’re apart so much, and I have needs.”

  “Did you…?” I didn’t want to articulate it, didn’t want it to sound like a judgment or an accusation.

  She looked over and met my gaze. “Sex and love are not the same thing. Sex is physical. Sex is fun.” She ducked under a heavy cedar bough. “The people on this island get that. Everybody cheats. At least they’re open about it.”

  “Not everybody cheats.”

  “Really? You’ve never?”

  “No… And I don’t think Brian has, either.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “My husband is a straight arrow. He’s just monogamous by nature. We’ve been together since college. I know him.”

  “Wow. And you’ve never wanted to be with anyone else, either?”

  “I didn’t say that.” My face was warm as I continued. “I guess I’ve thought about it. When I started college, I thought I would date and fool around and have fun. But I met Brian early on and he was so sweet and solid and… there. He was always there.…”

  “Do you worry that you missed out on things?”

  “Sometimes. At one stage, I actually brought up doing the hall-pass thing. But Brian couldn’t. He said the thought of me with someone else made him sick. And I wasn’t going to risk a great relationship just so I could have sex with someone other than my husband.”

  Freya stopped short. “So you’ve only ever had sex with Brian?”

  I was used to being judged for our sexual exclusivity. People seemed to think we were old-fashioned or prudish. They acted as if screwing a bunch of strangers was a rite of passage like going to prom or learning to drive. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, honey.” She looked at me with such pity. “We need to fix that.”

  “I love my husband,” I insisted. “He’s a good man. And… we have great sex.” I felt awkward sharing this intimate detail, but I wanted Freya to understand me, understand what I had with Brian.

  Freya held her palms up in front of her chest. “I was kidding, babe. I think it’s beautiful that you found the right person when you were a kid.”

  “We were in college, not kindergarten,” I quipped, as we began to walk again.

  “I totally get it,” Freya chirped. “Brian is smart and witty. They say that’s the most attractive trait to females. A sense of humor. And bonus—he’s super cute, too.” She looked over and smiled. “And, of course, he wouldn’t want to share a gorgeous woman like you.”

  “Thanks.” I felt myself warm in the onslaught of compliments.

  “But now that you live on this hippie island, maybe you can have your cake and eat it, too?”

  “What?” I chuckled, bemused.

  “I’m kidding.” Freya waved the comment away. “You and Brian fit together perfectly. You don’t need anyone else. You just make sense.”

  “You and Max seem like a great pair, too.” They did. Visually at least. His dark masculinity was a perfect complement to her delicate blond perfection.

  “Our relationship is complicated. We’ve been through a lot.”

  She was referring to the hit, the death, the lawsuit. I knew all about it. Everyone did. It had been in the news, off and on, for over three years. I gave her an understanding smile. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been so hard. Sometimes, I’m not sure it’s all worth it.”

  “If you love him, it’s worth it,” I said.

  “I do.” Freya smiled. “And he’s hung like a stallion.”

  I laughed, enjoying my friend’s wit.

  When I went home to shower and get ready for work, I replayed our conversation in my mind. I’d never been one of those women who chatted about orgasms and vibrators and blow jobs over brunch. But Freya was so comfortable with the subject, so open about sex and desire and freedom. I was fascinated. And titillated. And I loved having a girlfriend with whom I could discuss even the most intimate subjects.

  Later that morning, when I opened the store, I pulled Low’s résumé out of the drawer. Freya had gone to bat for this girl, had assured me that she was a good kid who deserved a break. Freya’s word was enough for me. And I wanted to please my new friend. I called the number at the top of the page.

  12 low

  Even though Freya had personally vouched for me, it took almost ten days for Jamie to offer me a job. She was probably too busy—walking through the forest with Freya, going for coffee with Freya, having dinner with their husbands—to think about her business. On the other hand, she may have been waiting for more applicants, but that wasn’t going to happen. A rumor had circulated through my peer group that Jamie would be a tyrant to work for. She’d told a previous applicant that he wouldn’t be allowed a lunch break, would have to clean the toilet twice a day, and she would dock his pay by the minute if he turned up late. I’m not sure who started it.…

  My first day on the job was a Tuesday. We were into July now, and the tourist season was in full swing, but weekdays were relatively quiet—perfect for training purposes. Not that there was much to learn. It was a gift shop, not an ER. But Jamie took me painstakingly through my duties: dusting merchandise, gift wrapping on request, using the till and the credit card machine. Had Freya not mentioned that I was intellectually superior to most seventeen-year-olds? I could have figured out these mundane tasks on my own.

  I would work a couple of days a week and most weekends. Jamie chuckled as she gave me my schedule. “So I can have a bit of a social life.”

  With Freya. I tasted the acid of jealousy, but I forced a smile. “Works for me. I don’t have a social life.”

  “If you ever have plans with your friends or family, just let me know. We can always work something out.”

  “I never have plans.”

  “Well, you might one day.”


  “I doubt it.”

  Jamie gave me a quizzical look before changing the subject. “Let me show you the kitchen. It’s tiny, but it has a kettle and a microwave.” She smiled. “And I always keep cookies in the cupboard, so help yourself.”

  The job was meant to be a reconnaissance mission, an opportunity to monitor Jamie and Freya’s friendship, but I kind of enjoyed it, too. The store was a visually pleasing space with whitewashed plank floors, high ceilings, natural wood countertops. Even when it was full of customers, it still felt serene somehow. Jamie had curated a great selection of products, I had to give her that. I spent a lot of time dusting or wiping shelves. It gave me a chance to handle these beautiful objects.

  On my third shift, Freya came into the store. “Hey!” she said, her face lighting up to see me there. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s good.” I smiled at her. “Thanks for telling Jamie to hire me.”

  “I didn’t tell her to hire you. I told her that you’re smart and creative and a hard worker. She made the decision all by herself.”

  Jamie emerged from the bathroom then, her purse in hand. Her expression was dour, but she brightened when she saw Freya. “Hi, you.”

  “I see your shop assistant is working out well.”

  “She’s been great,” Jamie said, and I blushed a little.

  “Do you want to grab some lunch?” Freya asked.

  “Sure,” I said at the precise moment Jamie said, “Sounds great.”

  No one spoke for an awkward moment. And then, Jamie turned to me.

  “Do you mind if I go this time? I’ve been eating hummus sandwiches behind the counter since I opened. I’m dying to sit down and eat a proper lunch.”

  Bitch. She was possessive of Freya. Already. But I had known Freya longer, I knew her better. I had saved her from loneliness and depression. All the time we spent together in the studio, the night when we drank red wine and smoked a joint together, she hadn’t even mentioned Jamie.