by Cathy Holton
Annie flushed and wielded her toothbrush with renewed vigor. Why should she have to apologize for liking her life clean and orderly? Why should she feel guilty for preferring routine and discipline?
She had once overheard one of the younger moms at her sons’ school refer to her as that OCD room mother with the two-by-four stuck up her ass. And this simply because Annie had sent home notes asking that all mothers send in homemade treats for snack time and not store-bought, cellophane-wrapped treats loaded with preservatives and carcinogenic food dyes. Also nothing with more than five grams of sugar per serving. Or peanut oil. Or any kind of tropical fruit. Or nuts.
You’d have thought she’d asked for the still-beating hearts of their firstborn children for all the furor it caused. After that the other moms would watch her nervously when she came into the school. They called her Q-Tip. Q-Tip’s in the house, they’d say, giggling, or You better run that by Q-Tip before you hand it out. Although why they called her Q-Tip, Annie was unsure, unless it was because she had short, prematurely white hair and walked with the ramrod-straight posture Southern girls of her generation had been taught to use. Annie was pretty sure the nickname had a lot to do with that woman who’d first called her an OCD room mother.
She got even with her. She had her assigned to the calling-for-pledges committee for the annual school fund-raiser.
Annie finished the second row and started in on the third. Mitchell was home recovering from his fifth kidney stone and she could hear him moving around in the den. The boys had always been sweet when they were sick and she had hovered over them anxiously, but Mitchell’s illnesses irritated her beyond words. Especially the kidney stones. There must be something he was eating or drinking, or not eating or drinking, that was causing them. Annie figured anyone else would have gone through that first kidney stone and then figured out some way to keep from getting another one.
She sat back on her heels and looked around the gleaming kitchen. The boys were grown and away at college now, and it was just her and Mitchell rambling around in this big old house, but she wouldn’t have traded it for the world. Her dream house. As a girl she’d grown up in a small cottage in East Nashville, long before the area became fashionable with writers, artists, and musicians. On Sunday afternoons she would go for drives in the country with her parents to see the mansions and sprawling estates of the country-and-western stars, and pointing with a chubby finger she would say gravely, “I’m gonna have me a house like that one day” Her parents thought it was cute.
And now here she was. True, the house wasn’t as big as their neighbor, Alan Jackson’s, and they only had fifty acres instead of several hundred, but there was a pool out back and a guest house, and more bedrooms than she and Mitchell and the boys had ever needed. Not that they were as wealthy as Lola and Briggs Furman, of course, but their Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken franchise had done pretty well. They had stores all over the southeast, a Cluck-in-a-Bucket empire stretching from Miami to Little Rock, Arkansas.
No, she’d done pretty well in life for an East Nashville girl. And she’d done it by careful planning and by setting her goals out clearly in front of herself. Once she set her sights on something, Annie never wavered. Except for that one transgression her senior year of college, the one she tried never to think about, she had never been a spontaneous person. At twelve she’d been dragged to a Wednesday night fish fry at church and had listened as a blond-haired, blue-eyed fourteen-year-old named Mitchell Stites belted out “Lord, You Are My Fortress in a Time of Trouble.” The following Wednesday night, she was waiting in the car when her parents came out to drive to church. “Why, Anne Louise,” her mother asked in surprise, “have you found religion?”
“What she’s found,” her father said, winking, “is Preston Stites’s boy.”
“The one with the harelip?”
“No. The other one, who sings in the choir.”
The next week Annie invited him to come over to listen to music. Their house was small and lacked privacy but Mitchell was from a good, Godfearing family so Annie’s mother allowed them to go back to her bedroom and sit with the door open. They each carried a Coke and a plate of cookies. Mitchell sat on the floor and looked around in wonder and amazement at her room. Stiffly starched curtains hung in front of the spotless windows. Jefferson Airplane played on the record player.
“How come all your Barbie dolls are still in their boxes?” he asked. She had them neatly categorized by date of purchase and stacked on shelves beside a couple of open-faced fruit crates she had painted pink. Their tiny clothes were ironed and hanging on tiny hangers, arranged by seasons of the year, with the tiny shoes sorted in rows underneath.
“They stay cleaner that way,” she said.
He smiled and looked at her in wonder and admiration. “You sure are a funny girl. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
“You’ll need a coaster for that drink,” she said.
Annie finished cleaning the refrigerator grille and then sat back to admire her handiwork, pulling off her rubber gloves. The grille sparkled. You could lick it, not that she would, of course, but it was comforting to know that she could. If she had to.
She could hear Mitchell breathing in the den. With each out breath he wheezed like an old generator. Not that he was in any pain; he’d taken enough OxyContin to bring down an elephant. He just liked the drama of being an invalid.
“Hon?” he called. When she didn’t answer he said louder, “Honey, can you make me a sandwich?”
“I’m busy right now. I’m cleaning the kitchen.”
“You cleaned the kitchen an hour ago.”
“I’m busy.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll just come in there and make myself a sandwich. I’ll just come in there and make my own big mess.”
Annie stood up quickly. “I’ll get it,” she shouted. “Don’t you dare come near my clean kitchen.” She could feel him smiling from the other room.
Damn. She needed a break. She needed to get away from her life if only for a week. This beach trip would be just the thing. And she was looking forward to seeing Lola, Mel, and Sara again, to being with friends who knew her from before her Q-Tip days. Lola had promised Annie her own bedroom, and Annie had eagerly jumped at the chance. She and Lola had shared a room in London, and Annie had felt like she was babysitting a small child, one who wanted to chat all night, sleep all day, and couldn’t keep to a schedule if her life depended on it.
Forget London. This trip would be different. She had bought two new swimsuits and several trashy beach novels, had undergone a bikini wax, and had had herself sprayed with a fake tan.
Anne Louise was ready for anything.
Lola awoke from an Ambien-induced sleep. The room was dark. Her head felt thick and swollen, like it was too heavy for her neck. She would stop taking the sleeping pills no matter what Briggs said. She hated the way they made her feel, comatose and heavy, the way she couldn’t dream, as though sleep were a thing to be endured and not a release. She never took sleeping pills when she was with him. She never took any of her medication when she was with him. Briggs kept her as drugged up as a Saigon brothel girl but he never made her take anything.
She leaned over and pushed the button beside the bed and the automatic window blinds rose slowly. Bright sunshine flooded the room. She plumped the pillows behind her head and sat up slowly, letting her brain adjust to the new elevation, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Briggs’s side of the king-size bed was still rumpled where he had slept. He was an early riser. Early to bed and early to rise. No sleeping pills for Briggs.
There was a slight knock on the door and Rosa entered, carrying a small coffee service on a silver tray.
“Good morning, Meesis Furman,” she said, smiling and setting the tray down on a table beside the bed.
“Good morning, Rosa.” The girl’s aura was lovely, all pink and golden and standing out around her head like a halo, like a painting of some fifteenth-century
saint. She had a Madonna’s face and an aura to match. “Did you sleep well?”
The girl blushed but her eyes met Lola’s steadily. “Yes,” she said. “And I lock the door like you tell me to.”
“Good.” Lola smiled faintly and poured herself a cup of coffee. Briggs had a bad habit of abusing the help, especially those as young and pretty as Rosa, and Lola had given her a can of mace and had the deadbolt changed on her door the day she hired her. She had warned Briggs, too, and he had laughed and said, “What are you implying, my dear?”
Lola had thought it was pretty clear what she was implying.
She lay back on her pillows with the coffee cup and saucer resting on her chest. Rosa went around the bed and began to smooth the sheets where Briggs had slept. “Meester Henry, he looked good,” she said.
“Yes,” Lola said, thinking of her only son with pleasure. He had come home from Cornell last week and brought with him the girl he planned to marry. Neither one had said a word but she had seen it in their faces, in the way their auras flared and flickered toward each other, drawn like smoke through a window. It had made her feel peaceful knowing that he loved someone else, that he no longer needed her.
She sipped her coffee and watched Rosa work. “You have a lovely aura,” she said. Rosa frowned slightly but kept working. She was used to Lola’s ways. It was the oxazepam that had first given Lola the ability to see auras, but now she could see them without the drugs. It was how she read people, how she knew whether their characters and intentions were good or bad. She wished she’d been able to do this as a young woman. It would have saved her a lot of heartache.
“Carmen thought she would make a shrimp salad for lunch,” Rosa said. “Okay?”
“Yes. Shrimp salad will be fine.” Briggs’s aura was dark. His whole energy field was dotted with thick black masses like tumors.
“Your husband, did you ever love him?” he’d asked her a few weeks ago.
She’d looked up into his face and smiled. “It’s complicated,” she’d said.
“It shouldn’t be.”
Thinking of him, she was suddenly cheerful. Too cheerful to contain what she felt. Joy bubbled up from her toes to her fingertips, and she put her coffee cup down and flung open her arms exuberantly, wiggling her fingers. “Oh, Rosa,” she cried. “I’m so happy!”
Rosa, who was accustomed to Lola’s dramatic mood swings, came around the edge of the bed and hugged her. She patted Lola on the back. “Good,” she said.
Lola hugged her fiercely. She was deliriously happy. In another week she would see her friends and everything would be wonderful, the four of them laughing and carrying on like crazy women, like they had in college, together again for one last time.
“Meester Furman, he say he’ll be back in a few days. He flew to the island to make sure the house and the boat are ready for your trip.”
Lola pulled away. She smoothed her hair off her brow and stared at Rosa. “What?” she asked.
“He say for you not to worry. He say he’ll take care of everything. Just like always.”
The day, which had seemed so joyous just a few short minutes ago, became suddenly ominous. Shadows moved across the ceiling like rain. Lola put her hand to her face and lay back against the pillows. Rosa rose and tucked the bedclothes around her.
“You want to get up now, Meesis Furman?” Rosa’s aura flared around her head like a corona. Lola closed her eyes against its brightness.
“No.” The joy had gone, leaving in its place a dull feeling of dread. Lola tried to decide what to do but her head felt heavy. She couldn’t think clearly. They had agreed not to use the cell phones for a while. She could leave a message for him at the marina, warning him, but he might not get it for days. Lola turned her face to the window. “I’m tired,” she said. She covered her eyes with her hand. “And Rosa?”
“Yes?”
“Push the button for the blinds, will you?”
Chapter 2
SUNDAY
ara touched down in Wilmington, North Carolina, around two o’clock and made her way to the only bar in the terminal. Mel’s flight had gotten in forty minutes earlier, and Sara figured the bar was the best place to look for her. She was right. She heard Mel’s laugh even before she saw her, sitting at the bar with a guy in a dark gray suit.
“There she is!” Mel shouted in greeting, and the businessman turned to look as Sara walked in, pulling her carry-on behind her. Mel hadn’t changed at all, damn her. Her hair was shorter and blonder but she still had a figure like a Las Vegas showgirl, all legs and bosom. Sara, aware that she was still carrying postpartum baby weight from twelve years ago, kept her purse strategically in front of her belly as they hugged.
“How was your flight?” Mel said. In the light slanting through the windows Sara could see the lines around Mel’s eyes and at the corners of her mouth and she relaxed a bit.
“Not too bad. It’s a pretty short jump from Atlanta to Wilmington.” She had forgotten how tall Mel was, standing there in her stacked-heel sandals and jeans.
“What time does Annie get in?” Mel said, making room for her at the bar. Sara, Annie, and Mel were all flying into Wilmington, and Lola was sending a car to pick them up at the airport and take them to the ferry landing.
“Around three-twenty, I think.”
The man in the gray suit stood and nodded, gathering his bags. He handed Mel a card. “I’ve got a plane to catch,” he said, winking at her. “Call me.”
Sara sat down on the stool, pushing her carry-on between her feet. She caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a pomegranate martini.
“What do you think?” Mel asked, watching the man in the gray suit walk away. “Married?”
“Definitely.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Mel smiled at Sara, giving her an appraising look. Sara had been a pretty girl, but she was a lovely woman. She seemed to have come into her own. She had filled out some since college; she was definitely curvier, but on her it looked right. Her hair was still dark and curly, although threaded now with highlights.
Sara, feeling Mel’s eyes upon her, glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and quickly looked away. “So how are you?” she said. It felt awkward but it was all she could think to say. It had been easier talking to Mel on the phone than it was sitting beside her, face-to-face.
“I’m good. Life is good.” Mel smiled and nodded her head, wondering if she sounded convincing. You couldn’t just pick up where you left off twenty-three years ago, at least not without a great deal of effort on both their parts. Maybe another drink would help. She raised her glass and nodded at the bartender.
Sara spun a paper coaster on the bar in front of her. “So how’s New York?”
Mel smiled. If she told Sara about New York, then she’d have to ask Sara about Atlanta, and neither one was ready for that. “I like what you’ve done with your hair,” she said, putting her hand up and lightly brushing Sara’s bangs. “You’ve added some highlights.”
“I had my upper lip waxed, too.”
“I had mine lasered. Isn’t modern technology wonderful?”
Sara glanced in the bar mirror again, fluffing her hair with her fingers. She tried not to stare at Mel, who watched her with an amused expression. “Remember in college when we used to slather ourselves in baby oil and lay out in the sun?”
“No. But I do remember how you used to roll your hair around a jumbo orange juice can and then sleep with panty hose wrapped around your head.”
Sara shook her head. “I can’t believe we were so stupid. I can’t believe we’re not dead from skin cancer.”
The bartender brought their drinks. “You don’t still do that, do you?” Mel asked innocently, raising her Cosmopolitan.
“What, slather myself in baby oil and bake in the sun? Of course not.”
“No. Wear an orange juice can and panty hose to bed.”
Sara eyed her steadily above the edge of her drink. “No,” she said.
“Too bad. That was such a good look for you.”
They stared at each other and slowly grinned. Mel tapped the edge of her drink to Sara’s. “Cheers,” she said.
They drank for a while in companionable silence, both happy now that the awkwardness between them seemed to be slipping away. A plane taxied past them on the runway. Far off beyond the distant rim of blue sky, a bank of white clouds drifted slowly. Mel sighed, set her drink down, and touched Sara’s arm. “Okay,” she said. “Show me the photos of your kids. You never send any photos with your Christmas cards.”
There was a reason for that, of course, but Sara said nothing, just leaned over and pulled her wallet out of her purse. She opened it to the school photos of Nicky and Adam.
“Wow,” Mel said, taking a photo from her. She flushed slightly, gently removing a smudge from the plastic with one finger. She hadn’t expected this. “He’s gorgeous. How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
Mel picked up the other photo. “And she looks just like you.”
“I know, everyone says that.” She had a picture of Tom, hidden behind those of the children, but she didn’t take it out, trying to walk the thin line between her own pride and Mel’s motherless, single state.
They both sat staring politely into her children’s faces and then Sara slid them back into her wallet and put it away. Mel turned around and set her elbows on the bar, sipping her drink. “Lola has a good-looking son,” she said after a while.
“Henry? Oh, I know. He looks a little like Briggs did at that age. And he’s a good boy, too. He adores his mother. They’ve always been so close.”
Mel smiled slightly, and set her drink down. “She was like a girl when we took that trip to England. Always calling him, Henry, we’re at your favorite place, the tower of London or Henry, I got lost on the tube and the Bobbies had to hunt me down. The two of them always giggling together over some crazy thing she’d done.”
“Did she get lost on the tube?”
Mel raised one eyebrow. “Repeatedly,” she said. “On the tube. In Harrods. Walking along Carnaby Street. You know Lola.”
