The Mother Next Door

by Tara Laskowski

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

“A polished and entertaining homage to Big Little Lies and Desperate Housewives… The denouement is bonkers, but satisfying.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“A witty, wicked thriller packed with hidden agendas, juicy secrets, and pitch-perfect satire of the suburban dream.”
—Andrea Bartz, New York Times bestselling author of We Were Never Here

GOOD MOTHERS…
Never show their feelings.
Never spill their secrets.
Never admit to murder.

The annual Halloween block party is the pinnacle of the year on idyllic suburban cul-de-sac Ivy Woods Drive. An influential group of neighborhood moms—known as the Ivy Five—plans the event for months.

Except the Ivy Five has been four for a long time.

When a new mother moves to town, eager to fit in, the moms see it as an opportunity to make the group whole again. This year’s block party should be the best yet... until the women start receiving anonymous messages threatening to expose the quiet neighborhood’s dark past—and the lengths they’ve gone to hide it.

As secrets seep out and the threats intensify, the Ivy Five must sort the loyal from the disloyal, the good from the bad. They’ll do anything to protect their families. But when a twisted plot is revealed, with dangerous consequences, their steady foundation begins to crumble, leaving only one certainty: after this year’s block party, Ivy Woods Drive will never be the same.

“Suspenseful, compulsively readable… Extremely fun to read." —ShelfAwareness

*Don't miss The Weekend Retreat, Tara Laskowski's next novel of suspense. Available now for preorder!

Release date: October 12, 2021

Publisher: Graydon House Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

HALLOWEEN

Ladies and gentlemen, skulls and boys: by the time our Halloween block party is over tonight, one of us will be dead.

And I don’t mean dead as in dull, or dead as in zombified. I mean dead as in gone. Dead as in expired. Killed.

Murdered.

You may be feeling distressed about this, knowing what you know about Ivy Woods—the great neighborhood it is, the sweet, loving families that live there. How could such a tragedy happen in such a wonderful place? You may have traveled here yourself, as a child or as a parent, lured in by the local fame of the street and its ghoulish decorations each year. The lights, the smoke, the gravestones, and the moaning. The witches, cackling and handing out candy. The swarms of little Frankensteins and cowboys and robots and ballet dancers lugging their pillowcases and plastic pumpkin buckets filled with sugar and junk.

But Ivy Woods isn’t perfect.

Far from it.

Look closer. Look under the makeup and the masks, look into the windows of the perfect houses. Dig under the surface of those freshly mowed lawns and you’ll find the worms. I’ve looked—believe me, I’ve looked. There’s something about this street. There are secrets. I know from watching through the windows, from hearing the hushed conversations, from lingering on their faces when they think everyone else has looked away.

Oh they think they are perfect. They pat themselves on the back for throwing such good parties, for raising such fine children, for living in such big houses.

But they are pretending.

They don masks on this one single night to dress up as someone or something else, but in reality they live their lives this way.

We all do.

We hate ourselves. We are too fat, or too thin. We should work hard, be smarter. We are lonely and depressed. We are worried about money. We are ashamed of the way that our friends and family treat us. But we lie about it all. We hide behind a protective façade, fragile glass figurines inside elaborate dollhouses designed to look like perfect, safe, happy places.

Tonight it will all shatter.

Watch closely and you’ll begin to see what I see. There’s trouble in the air, a cold wind blowing in from far away, and it’s settled on Ivy Woods Drive. The secrets and the lies we tell ourselves and others will emerge tonight like spirits of the dead. Lines will be drawn. Sides will be taken. Someone won’t make it out alive.

I can’t save that person, but I’ll tell the story. Turn over the rocks, expose the worms. Pull back the masks.

Because I know their secrets, secrets that will destroy them all.

If they don’t destroy themselves first.

 

ONE

Theresa

The moms were having a party. I watched from across the street, through my living room window, as I ate my dinner of chicken piccata on the couch, sipping a hefty glass of merlot.

At dusk, they arrived one by one from the houses around the cul-de-sac, the glow of their phones like fireflies in the dying light. Dressed stylish but casual, ponytails and makeup, jeans and heels.

Viciously, effortlessly powerful.

The blonde mom was hosting. The one I’d noticed walking an oversize dog around the cul-de-sac, cell phone to her ear. She seemed to know everyone, always paused by one porch or another while her dog sniffed in the grass. Yes, my new neighbors were social butterflies. I observed their fluttering hugs as they converged in front of the house. My view inside was limited—a hallway beyond the screen door, painted red, like the inside of a mouth, and at the end, the corner of a giant island in the center of the kitchen where I imagined they set their Tupperware trays and booze.

I turned back to the TV. A wispy woman in a white nightgown was making her way down a dark hallway with one flickering candle. Lily must have been watching it before she’d gone out; my daughter binged on these kinds of movies, Halloween season or not. She loved all things creepy, Frankenstein and ghosts, serial killers and porcelain dolls. If it was undead or moaned in the attic, Lily was all about it.

Just before the woman reached the door where the knob was rattling violently, there was a loud bang outside, and I jumped. Another woman, getting out of a car this time. I shut off the TV, the fate of the wispy woman forever unknown, and went into the kitchen to wash my plate.

It was 7:30. Lily was at a friend’s house, and Adam had dived headfirst into his new job as principal of the local high school. He wouldn’t be home from Parent Night for another couple of hours at least. I was on my own and knew I should get out, go for a walk. I enjoyed wandering the streets of our new neighborhood, getting the lay of the land, especially at night.

I put on my sneakers and slipped a light cardigan over my T-shirt as I stepped outside. The sky was clear, the moon a ripe banana. I’d always been in love with this neighborhood—Ivy Woods—and my love had continued to grow since our family had moved here from Philadelphia three weeks ago. Our cul-de-sac ran up against a small lake that separated our homes from a town house community across the way. And even though we were only a dozen miles from DC, the woods around the neighborhood made us feel like we were in a secluded forest retreat, private and protected.

It felt so easy, so normal. The kind of place you saw on a dated sitcom, with large and wholesome families and golden retrievers and everyone learning important lessons. The kind of street that made you wonder how different your life would be if only you lived somewhere like that.

And now I did.

I walked down our driveway, turning left to leave the cul-de-sac. I passed these houses often, but I’d been so busy unpacking and getting us settled that I hadn’t actually met any of the neighbors yet. I’d seen them pulling out of their IKEA-organized garages in the mornings, jogging on the weekends, gathering at the mailboxes at the ends of their driveways. Never a hair out of place. Pencil skirt suits or designer yoga pants, whether on their way to work or instructing their gardeners where to trim the boxwoods. I’d been studying—their habits, their style. Figuring out how they operated, so that when the time was right, I would fit in.

Just as I reached the giant old oak tree at the opening of the cul-de-sac, I realized I’d forgotten my cell phone. I headed back, but crossed to the other side—where the party house beckoned to me like a big bright lamp.

As I approached, I slowed. The moms were chatting animatedly around a table, one woman’s words tripping over the last’s. Beautiful creatures, at ease in their lives and their homes. Several bottles of wine out, like they were planning on staying for a while.

I inched onto the dark lawn to the dogwood tree and pressed myself against the brittle trunk for a better view. One of the women was standing now, stretching her arm from beneath a purple-and-green pashmina to show off a delicate bracelet on her wrist.

I willed one of them to look up.

To notice me.

The blonde mom, perfect highlights framing her face, nodded her approval of the jewelry. I was betting she was the leader, the take-charge one who never flinched during an emergency, who would wrangle all of us behind her and face the tigers first.

I watched.

I waited.

A dog started barking in the distance, then another nearby, in the house. It rushed to the front door and pawed, heavy breath creating condensation on the glass.

The blonde mom frowned. “Cut it out, Barney,” she yelled. She took a sip of her wine.

I watched.

I waited.

Then she looked up. She seemed to gaze right at me through the window. Flecks of bark snapped off the tree trunk as I squeezed, and they fell at my feet. Even though I knew the woman couldn’t see me out here in the darkness, I held my breath until she turned away.

 

TWO

Theresa

Adam had warned me the Welcome to Woodard event wasn’t going to be fancy, and unfortunately, he was right. They hadn’t done much to transform the gymnasium of the high school—public school budgets, I supposed. The bleachers were pushed to the wall like unclimbable ladders, and they’d arranged a mix of low-and high-top tables throughout the gym. Near the doors, a microphone and two bulky speakers had been set up for remarks. No mood music, unless you counted the squeak of the men’s shoes on the waxy floor. The local community newspaper I’d worked for back in Philly had Christmas parties swankier than this, and those had been in the basement of a chicken wings place.

It was as one might expect—lots of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous and handshakes and forgetting people’s names as soon as they said them. Five hundred and fifty and this is my wife, Theresas. There were jokes about sports teams—“Coming from Philly, you know you can’t be an Eagles fan anymore, right?” After a while I felt like my smile needed to be propped up by toothpicks. Much of the conversations were shoptalk about the school, the classes, the kids, and I drowned it out until I could finally excuse myself, feigning thirst.

The woman at the drink table appeared to be a parent volunteer, dressed as she was in a Woodard High T-shirt and khaki pants. Her shoulder-length hair curled with humidity, and her facial features naturally arced downward so that even when she threw a smile my way, it came off as defeated.

“You’re Adam Wallace’s wife, right?” she asked as I took a flat-looking Coke. There was no alcohol. “We’re so excited to have him here.”

I got a little thrill noting the clout Adam’s name brought here.

“That’s me,” I said brightly. “Theresa Pressley.” I held out a hand.

“Oh wow, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Georgeann. Georgeann Wilkins.” She handed me a thin white cocktail napkin. “Do you need anything else?” We both glanced at the table—there wasn’t anything else—and the woman let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Well, I guess if you need any help with anything, I’ve been here forever.”

After all the polite small talk at Adam’s side, Georgeann’s awkwardness made it easier to relax. “Oh you just must know everyone then,” I teased.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, but my flattery had pleased her. Her cheeks blotched red. “I mean, not everyone.”

Above us a section of basketball hoop netting had wrapped around itself, and I kept glancing up at it, wishing I was tall enough to fix it.

Georgeann busied herself rearranging soda cups. “Some of the folks here are more up on that stuff. I just volunteer where I can, help out. My son’s on the swim team, so I go to the meets...” She trailed off, her eyes focused behind me.

I turned. She was staring at my neighbor, the blonde woman who lived across the street. The woman stuck out from the crowd in a chic plaid dress with a pretty fall-colored, striped scarf. Like she was going to a wedding shower instead of a meet and greet in a dumpy gymnasium.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

Georgeann started waving in her direction. “Hi, Kendra!” she called, but the woman didn’t notice her. Georgeann dropped her arm. “Well, that’s your neighbor, Kendra McCaul. You’re on Ivy Woods, right?”

I nodded.

“Their Halloween block party is famous, you know,” Georgeann added.

“Is it?” I asked absentmindedly, as Kendra crossed the room in heels in a way that would’ve made my aunt Ruth—who could cover forty New York City blocks in stilettos—proud.

“Oh yeah. Hundreds of kids come by every year.”

Kendra was greeting another woman, pressing her hands in hers, air-kiss at the cheek.

“Hundreds?” I asked, facing Georgeann again. “Our daughter loves Halloween. That might make the move less painful for her.” Adam would like it, too—he’d grown up in a big family and loved reunions and parties and socializing. Halloween was one of those holidays I could take or leave, but this year it sounded like I would learn to love it. Which was fine. If it was tradition, we’d be going all in as good new neighbors.

“She’ll love it,” Georgeann said. “You guys are living right in the middle of the in-crowd. They know everyone.” Georgeann fanned her face with a clump of napkins. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t gossip.”

“Oh no,” I reassured her. “You know what they say, ‘What happens behind the drink table stays behind the drink table.’”

She laughed, grabbed one of the watered-down Sprites, and took a swig like she was shooting vodka. “Kendra is the one who heads it all up. Rumor says she’s pretty militant about it, too. You know, that everything has to be perfect.” She smirked and did a scan of the crowd. “There’s another one of your neighbors. With your husband, actually.”

She pointed to a petite woman with a tiny knob of a nose, black hair cut into a severe bob that grazed the tops of her shoulders. I recognized her from the other night, too—despite her size, something about the way she squared her body suggested command. She was leaning in close to Adam, talking with her hands, and he threw her the warm smile that made you feel like you were the most important person in the room. I knew that smile well.

“That’s Bettina Price.”

Georgeann identified another neighbor, Alice Swanson, who was wrangling three young kids around a table. Alice was a good name for her, too—she seemed like the type that might slip curiously down a rabbit hole. She was as bouncy as her ponytail, moving swiftly to open plastic snack containers and set out toys. And at the same table sat the woman with the bracelet I’d seen through the window, head bent, oblivious, scrolling through her phone. Pia Burman, Georgeann informed me.

“They’re the Ivy Five,” Georgeann said. I made a mental count. Just four. I wondered who the final member of the band was. “But my friend Maggie calls them the Ivy Hive. You know, busy bees and all. But don’t worry. They’ll love you.” Georgeann’s tone was edgier now, like she’d drawn some sort of line between us. “I mean, you’re perfect. The principal’s wife, living on their street.”

The principal’s wife. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. My sister-in-law, Trixie, had warned me that suburban moms sometimes trended back to that old-fashioned mentality—just wait, they all sit home and bitch about their yoga instructors—but Trixie always had a sore spot for anyone who she thought had life easy.

I heard my name and saw Adam signaling from a corner of the room. He finally had a moment alone.

I said goodbye to Georgeann and hustled over. “I’m meeting the whole state of Virginia, feels like,” he said quietly, though I could tell he was pleased about it. He fixed my necklace clasp, which had fallen forward.

“I saw you talking to one of our new neighbors,” I said, curious.

“Ah, yes.” Adam’s eyes twinkled. “She told me they’d love for you to join in on their Halloween party planning meeting this week. I said I’d allow it, but that would count as the one time per month I let you out of the house without my supervision.”

That made me laugh. I bet it had made them laugh, too. He was going to be very good at his job. I could tell from the way everyone melted around his messy mop of hair, round wire glasses, his earnest talk about education and making a difference.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” he said, tugging me along before I could protest. I caught Georgeann’s eye as we passed, and she winked.

Kendra McCaul was in the middle of a story as we approached. “—and I was like, I completely had told you not to go with him, so what did you think was going to happen?”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Adam interrupted. “I just wanted to introduce you to my better half. This is my wife, Theresa Pressley.”

The women stood between two cafeteria tables, four of them with slight smiles, heads cocked at the same angle, a united front. An army with moisturizing sunscreen and Kate Spade purses, doused in Yves Saint Laurent perfume.

“Well, I’ll leave you all to it,” Adam said, patting me on the back and disappearing into the crowd. He forgot sometimes that not everyone was comfortable meeting new people.

Bettina broke the silence and introduced herself. “So, you’ve been married for a year?” she asked after we shook hands.

“Well, it’ll be a year in March,” I said. “Still newlyweds.”

“How did you meet?” Alice bent down to fish one of her children out from under a table. “I’m Alice, by the way,” she called from the floor, snatching a dirty penny from a toddler’s clutches.

“Uh, on a plane actually,” I said. They didn’t seem like the type, but I always braced myself for a “Mile-High Club” joke whenever I shared that fact.

“A plane! That’s so funny.” Pia, the oldest of the group, held out her hand and introduced herself."