Part One – Cracks in the Facade

The dawn of 1959 found Patty Love elbow-deep in a mountain of dishes, remnants of the previous night’s New Year’s Eve celebration. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a mocking glow on the mess that had taken over her home. The faint hum of Portia Faces Life crackled from the radio on the counter, the soap opera’s dramatic tones providing an ironic soundtrack to Patty’s domestic chaos.

Her floral dress was immaculate despite the work at hand, cinched neatly at the waist by a sunflower-patterned apron. Her red hair, tied into a tidy ponytail, gleamed in the morning light.

To an outsider, she might have looked like the perfect 1950s housewife. But Patty’s manic smile—wide, infectious, and just a little too sharp at the edges—hinted at something more beneath the surface.

“Oh, hello, dears!” she murmured theatrically, as if addressing an invisible audience, as if she were Lucille Ball. “It’s me, Patty Love—Rosella Heights’ homemaker extraordinaire. Two darling children, a dreamy husband, and a household that’s more work than a woman could ever manage without mummy’s little helper.”

She chuckled lightly, though no one was around to hear her. It wasn’t as if she was sober—well, not entirely. The bottle of little pink pills sat neatly on the windowsill above the sink, nestled between the soap and the sponge. She reached for it now, popping one into her mouth and swallowing quickly. The bitter taste clung to her tongue, but the familiar calm soon washed over her.

Across the street, the Hendersons were still in their pyjamas, laughing as they packed away their Christmas lights. Their carefree demeanour contrasted sharply with the morning hustle in her kitchen.

Freddie, Patty’s husband, sat on the porch, sipping black tea and flipping idly through the Rosella Heights Gazette. His professional eye scanning the articles for possible mistakes and scrutinizing the photos for quality. Someone else was in charge while he was on leave. He sighed, folding up the paper. He was having a much-needed break. Work could wait. For once.

Freddie relaxed into his chair. His chiseled features seemed to soften while his deep-set eyes looked on into the distance. She often wondered what was going on behind those occasional vacant stares that sometimes plagued his features.

He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, a testament to his disciplined routine. Freddie had the kind of rugged good looks that reminded Patty of Rock Hudson—a fact that hadn’t gone unnoticed by their neighbour, Betty Knight.

From her vantage point at the kitchen window, Patty saw Betty step outside, her blonde curls perfectly arranged, and her crimson lips curved into a knowing smile. Dressed in a fitted blouse and slacks that hugged her figure a little too well for Patty’s liking, Betty waved enthusiastically.

“Happy New Year, Frederick!” she called, her voice saccharine sweet.

Freddie looked up, smiling politely. “Happy New Year, Betty.”

Patty’s grip on the dish towel tightened as she watched Betty lean against the fence, her eyes lingering on Freddie just a moment too long. The two of them engaging in neighbourly banter that seemed highly suggestive from Betty’s Knight’s point of view.

“Betty Knight,” Patty muttered under her breath, her tone half amusement, half annoyance. “The queen of sophistication. Or so she’d have us believe.”

To the community, Betty was the perfect picture of grace—a wealthy widow who had moved to Rosella Heights after her husband’s untimely death in a boating accident. She hosted elegant garden parties and always donated generously at church fundraisers. Yet, there were whispers—rumours about Betty’s nights out at places that catered to a far different clientele than Rosella Heights’ tea-sipping ladies.

Patty had even seen her stumble home at some ungodly hour of the early morning on the arm of a diverse range of suitors. Their tipsy chackles caught upon the breeze disturbing Patty’s slumber on many a night. She pushed the thought aside as the sound of bickering erupted from the living room.

“Teddy, it’s my turn!” Lizzy’s voice rang out, high-pitched and indignant.

“No way! You had it all morning yesterday!” Teddy shot back.

Patty sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. Time to referee this latest domestic dispute.

Teddy, at fourteen, was tall and lanky, with sandy hair that always seemed to fall into his eyes. His love for theatrics often manifested in elaborate stories or impromptu performances. Lizzy, on the other hand, was ten and fiercely inquisitive, her untamed hair a reflection of her boundless energy.

Patty grabbed the broom from its post, and strode into the living room, her voice cheerful but firm. “Alright, my darlings, that’s enough. It’s far too lovely a day to waste indoors fighting over the television. Out you go—play in the yard while I finish cleaning up.”

“But, Mom—” Teddy began, only to be cut off by Patty’s pointed look.

“No buts, Theodore,” she said, began ushering them both toward the front door with her broom like they were left over remnants from last night’s party. “Out you go.” Freddie glanced up as the children spilled onto the porch, his brows raised in mild alarm. “Looks like you’ve got company,” Patty quipped, “Find something constructive for them to do. What about that cubby house?”

Freddie sighed and set down his tea while Patty glanced once more at Betty, who was now rearranging potted plants with her usual precision. The woman caught her staring, Betty’s crimson lips curved into a knowing smile, “Good morning, Patty!”

Patty forced a smile. “Morning, Betty. Happy New Year.”

Betty descended the steps, “How was your evening?” she asked, her tone just shy of innocent. “I take it that it was somewhat domestic…and quint…not unlike the hostess.” Patty gripped her broom firmer, her knuckles turning white, “As for me, I was having a particularly divine evening at Reginald and Roselyn Cash’s stunning homestead. The Mayoral ball is quite the pinnacle of the social calendar.”

“Well, you can have your fancy balls,” Patty replied. “I have my Freddie. My family. My friends. I don’t need the razzle dazzle like some.”

“Yes,” Betty sneered, “Your husband is quite the catch. You best keep a firm hand on him, or some unscrupulous temptress will surely enchant him away from you.” She titled her head to one side, “No matter how many cherry pies you bake for him.”

Patty’s smile tightened, “Let them try! If they dare! They’ll get the tail end of my broom just like any other rubbish that needs sweeping out.”

Betty’s smile faltered for just a moment before she straightened. “Always a pleasure, darling. Anyway, must dash. I have a luncheon with Milicent Stewart to discuss our next production of the Footlight Theatre Society.” She turned and sauntered back to her house, her heels clicking against the pavement. “So much to do so little time.”

Patty exhaled, her hand relaxing on the broom. Betty Knight might have thought she was the queen of Rosella Heights, but Patty wasn’t about to let her take the crown without a fight. And maybe a thumping from her broom.

**********

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of chores and quiet reflection. Patty worked methodically, wiping counters and tidying shelves, but her mind wandered. The scene with Betty lingered, gnawing at her in a way she didn’t fully understand.

Freddie had always been a good husband—steady, kind, and dependable. But there were parts of him she couldn’t reach, shadows that danced just beyond her grasp. She wondered if Betty saw them too and what she might try to do about it. The woman was much more worldly and sophisticated. She’d know exactly how to reach such a man.

Patty shook her head, banishing the thought. “You’re letting her get to you,” she muttered, reaching for Mr Sheen. “Betty Knight doesn’t matter. Not really.”

**********

The scent of fresh-cut wood drifted in through the open kitchen window. Outside, Freddie and Lizzy were hammering away at a cubby house, their voices mingling with the cicadas’ lazy drone.

“You’ve got to hold it steady, Lizzy,” Freddie said, crouched on one knee as he tightened a bolt. “If it wobbles, it’s no good.”

Lizzy puffed out her cheeks, pushing against the wooden beam with all her might. “It’s not wobbling!” she protested, though her tone lacked conviction.

Teddy lounged nearby with a comic book; his legs sprawled across the lawn chair. The vivid cover of The Phantom gleamed in the sunlight, showing the titular hero in his signature purple tights, his muscled frame caught mid-action.

Teddy’s eyes lingered on the illustration, his brow furrowing slightly. Something about the way The Phantom moved, the way his body was drawn—it made Teddy’s chest feel tight, like he was holding his breath.

“What’s that?” Lizzy asked, popping her head over his shoulder and startling him out of his thoughts.

“Nothing!” Teddy snapped, shoving the comic beneath his leg.

Lizzy narrowed her eyes. “Is it one of those grown-up comics? The ones Mom says are for delinquents?”

“No! It’s just... about a superhero. That’s all.”

“Hmph.” Lizzy turned and bounded back to her father who was desperately trying to hold up a plank on his own while calling for his daughter.

Teddy exhaled shakily, glancing down at the comic again. He didn’t understand why it made him feel this way—excited, embarrassed, and confused all at once. He flipped the page, skimming past an illustration of The Phantom saving a damsel in distress. It was the hero he couldn’t stop looking at, not the girl.

Patty watched the scene play out with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a glossy women’s magazine in the other. The pages were filled with images of perfectly styled women in sunlit kitchens, their lives so pristine they might have been cut from celluloid.

She flipped to an article titled “How to Keep Your Husband Interested in 5 Easy Steps”. Patty rolled her eyes but kept reading, her lips twitching at the absurd advice: “Always greet him with a smile,” “Never complain about your day,” and the kicker—“Make sure dinner is on the table when he arrives home.”

Patty closed the magazine with disdain, where were the articles on How to Keep Your Wife Happy in 5 Easy Steps?

"Patty!" Freddie called out from the cubby, interrupted her thoughts. “You’re going to love this when it’s done! It’s got all the bells and whistles.”

Patty smiled indulgently, raising her glass. “Just don’t forget the ‘No Mothers Allowed’ sign. Lizzy will insist.”

Later that afternoon, the family gathered under the shade of the gum tree, sipping cold lemonade as they admired the half-finished cubby house.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Freddie said, his fair hair glistening in the sun light, as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“It’s going to be the best cubby ever,” Lizzy declared, her grin stretching from ear to ear. “I think it needs a trapdoor.”

“Trapdoor?” Freddie grinned, crouching to tighten a bolt. “What for? A spy base or an easy escape route.”

“Could be both!” Lizzy said, her eyes lighting up. “Anything is possible especially when dealing with combustible elements.”

Patty guessed that vibrating exerciser really did mix up her kids after all. The girl loved all things science and construction while the boy lounge around reading comics and daydreaming.

Patty watched on, a small smile playing on her lips. Oh well, at least they kept her entertained. And her pills made such matters so much easier—they softened the edges, quieted the doubts, and let her pretend she was in her own idyllic TV show.

**********

Later that evening, the Loves gathered in the living room. The children sprawled on the floor, watching The Adventures of Robin Hood on their small television, while Freddie dozed in his armchair.

Patty settled onto the couch, her book club novel in hand—Peyton Place, a scandalous bestseller that had caused quite the stir among her friends. The small-town secrets and simmering tensions in the novel weren’t so far removed from Rosella Heights, though Patty doubted her neighbours would admit it.

Her eyes skimmed the page, though her focus was elsewhere. The day’s events replayed in her head—the bickering, the chores, Betty’s too-bright smile. What were her genuine intentions?

Freddie stirred beside her, his hand brushing hers as he adjusted his glasses. “You alright, darlin’?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

Patty glanced at him, her smile softening. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Outside, the cicadas droned their nightly chorus, the faint hum of a far-off motorcycle blending into the summer sounds. Somewhere in the city, if the rumours were true, Patty imagined Betty slipping into a dimly lit speakeasy, her laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and the smoky haze of jazz music.

Suddenly, Patty felt a pang of resentment. She wanted what Betty had. The woman had no responsibilities but for herself. Betty Knight did whatever she wanted without entrapment and duty. She was her own person with desires and wants. Perhaps that was her reasoning for loathing such a woman?

**********

Next day, while Freddie was off fishing with his best friend Phil and Lizzy had finally pestered her brother enough to go swimming at the river, the cozy ambiance of Patty’s living room was quickly infused with the chatter of her friends—Myra, Flo, Lucy, and Cindy—as they gathered around the coffee table. Each held a copy of “Peyton Place” open and dissected with fervour.

“My dear girls,” Patty introducing them to her unseen audience. “Myra, the bubbly airhead with a heart of gold whose sponge cakes never fail to rise. Flo, the forward-thinking salon owner always ahead of the trends. Lucy, the opinionated organizer of our book club, sticking to the rules of life. And Cindy, the dutiful librarian, the calming influence who keeps us all grounded.”

They had all come together through Lucy’s book club, and today’s discussion was focusing on the latest scandalous revelations in their current read.

“I can’t believe the things that happen in ‘Peyton Place.’ Who would have thought?” Myra exclaimed, wide-eyed and animated.

“It’s the quiet ones you must watch out for, Myra. Just like our dear Cindy here,” Flo chimed in with a playful wink, eliciting giggles from the group. “Immersed in all that knowledge. She could be planning anything.”

“Flo, we’re here to discuss the book, not gossip,” Lucy interjected, her tone prim and slightly disapproving.

Patty chuckled softly, enjoying the banter among her friends. “Oh, but isn’t gossip part of the fun?” She teased, taking a sip of her drink. “Honestly, we learn about so many scandalous inclinations.”

The group erupted into laughter, the sound filling the room with warmth and camaraderie as they delved deeper into their lively discussion of Peyton Place.

Flo’s eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, ladies, did I tell you about the faux pas during Christmas lunch? My grandfather was plying my cousin’s pooch with beer all afternoon. You can imagine the chaos and the unfortunate discharge from the mutt after wards. My sister is furious at the damage to her new argyle rug and Grandmother's vintage tablecloth will never be the same again. Not even a box of Tide will get out those stains. I, personally, loved it. Chaos is so delicious.”

Everyone burst into laughter, picturing the scene.

Cindy chimed in next, “Sounds heaven compared with spending Christmas lunch defending why I am not married to every woman in my family.”

Patty, sipping her coffee, felt a warm sense of camaraderie. “Ours was a pleasant Christmas until Lizzy tried to create a ‘scientific’ Christmas pudding. She lit the thing on fire with some concoction…almost set alight my curtains and it really didn’t taste right after that. Freddie was not amused. You know how he likes his pudding.”

Lucy sighed as she sipped her tea, coffee caused her heart palpitations, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Christmas at our place was, as always, predictably traditional,” she said with a touch of fondness. “Mother insists on the same routine every year. We started with church in the morning, followed by a meticulously prepared roast lunch with all the trimmings. Father carves the turkey with military precision while Mother fusses over the pudding, making sure it’s soaked in just the right amount of brandy. We listened to the Queen’s speech, and then it was parlour games and polite conversation until we all retired early. No surprises, no excitement. Just the same old, same old.” She shrugged, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. “But you know, there’s something comforting about it, even if it does lack the chaos and mishaps of a livelier Christmas.”

Myra dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her voice quivering with a mix of pride and sadness. “It’s been quite an emotional holiday for me,” she began, her friends leaning in with concern. “Tina left right after Christmas to take up a job at a big department store in the city. She’s so excited, but I can’t help feeling a little lost without her around the house.” She paused, taking a deep breath before continued. “And then there is my son. He is the first in our family to go to university, can you believe it? He’s off to study law,” Her voice changed pitch as she remembered something, “Oh, that reminds me, did anyone else catch Portia Faces Life this week? Oh, you could hear a pin drop in my house. It was so gripping.”

Suddenly, the mood shifted when Flo brought out a pack of tarot cards. She was always trying to egg on the girls to explore beyond their own comfort zones, but Lucy was having none of it.

“Have you lost all sense and propriety!” Lucy scowled, “Those are bordering of the satanic.”

“Maybe we should settle for some Mah-jong instead,” Myra interjected.

Patty sat in her chair; smile etch across her face. These women helped to keep her sane. They were her nature’s little helpers. Some days, without those women and her happy pills, she probably would scream until her voice gave out.

**********

After book club, Patty returned to her laundry, pinning the last of the sheets to the line when the rumble of a car engine caught her attention. She turned toward Betty Knight’s house and saw the sleek black car pulling into the driveway. The car certainly wasn’t from around Rosella Heights.

She moved closer to the fence, ostensibly adjusting the angle of the drying sheets, but her eyes were fixed on Betty’s porch. The blonde neighbour stepped outside, her lipstick bright against her fair skin, her expression calm but tense.

The man climbing out of the car was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit with a fedora shading his sharp features. He removed his hat as he approached Betty, revealing slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven jaw.

“We have a problem,” the man said, his tone low but firm.

Patty’s breath caught. She ducked behind the hanging sheets, her heart thudding in her chest as she strained to hear.

Betty’s face grew almost sinister, “I pay you handsomely to not have such things. Are my affairs too much for you to handle? I am sure I could find another Dick Tracy to do my bidding.

“I was not expecting the criminal justice system to cave to...your husband,” he spoke.

“Husband!” Patty froze, her fingers gripping the edge of a sheet, as Betty Knight slapped the man across the face, “Never utter such a word in my presence again! Am I making myself clear.”

The man grabbed her wrist, taking a firm grip, “You do that again, missus! And I’ll forget you’re a lady.” Betty wrenched her hand away, “Because your money is good, I’m going to help ya out by throwing a few decoys into the waters and see if that distracts his men.”

Her smile gleaming once more, “Expect a generous bonus for your efforts.” She sighed, “Now, why don’t I make us some tea and think nothing more about our earlier harsh words.”

Betty escorted the man into the house, scanning the neighbourhood for prying eyes, before following him through the front door.

Patty stayed behind the laundry line, her mind racing. She’d known Betty Knight had secrets, but this was something else entirely.

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