It didn’t matter that she had known Leo for only a few hours, or that his death, while sudden, wasn’t tragic. She found his lifeless body. She heard Gloria’s primal cries. It was another unexpected loss. The simple act of being there popped a stitch in her slow-healing wound.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered to Dan.
He bowed his head and began mumbling along with the others.
“What’s wrong? Are you having a stroke?”
“Hebrew,” he mouthed, then lifted a stern finger to his lips, the way her mother had when she and April would giggle in church. “It’s the mourner’s prayer.”
The Pyrex dish in M.J.’s hands almost slipped from her grip. Dan could pray in Hebrew? Gloria was right. M.J. did move in with a man she barely knew: a man who might have a wife and kids or a connection to a terrorist organization or who might not be a man at all. Maybe he was a Stanford-engineered robot designed to administer experimental drugs on an orphaned girl no one would ever miss.
Dan hooked his arm around M.J.’s waist and pulled her toward him. Whoever he was, whatever his intentions, that simple gesture shattered the panes of her worst-case scenarios and restored her faith. Besides, they had only lived in the same zip code for a few weeks. New details were bound to present themselves, right?
There was a tap on her shoulder.
“What is that?” asked a heavily hair-sprayed woman, her pinched nose trained on M.J.’s foil-wrapped dish.
“Homemade garlic bread,” M.J. lied, because she was trying to pass off one of Mama Rosa’s appetizers as her own.
“At a shiva?”
“It was Leo’s favorite,” Dan offered.
“My brother ate garlic? With his stomach?” She rolled her pale blue eyes. “No wonder he had the GERD. That bread is probably what killed him.”
The service was over and a sudden burst of chatter woke the room. Black-suited men greeted one another with somber smacks on the back, while the women, like videos unpaused, seemed to pick up their conversations right where they had left off. Uniformed waiters balanced trays of champagne while children chased one another though the labyrinth of legs. And Gloria was at the center of it all talking to a fit, silver-haired couple who could easily play the role of “sexually active old people” in a Cialis commercial. Her bright smile suggested she hadn’t begun to feel the impact of her loss. And she wouldn’t. Not until everyone went home and she returned to her daily routine: a routine that would be forever stripped of its rhythms, patterns, and distinguishing marks. Where the once familiar would be foreign and Gloria would be left to wander aimlessly through it all, wondering who would zip her zippers and fasten her clasps.
“Why are we even here?” M.J. asked. “We didn’t even know Leo.”
Dan kissed her on the forehead. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“According to whom?”
“My Jewish guilt.”
“Is it Jewish guilt or Dan guilt?”
He lowered his watery gaze. “Both.”
M.J. wanted to pull him in for a hug, but the damn Pyrex dish. “Dan, this isn’t your fault. Even if you were home when I found him there’s no way you could have—”
He smiled weakly. “It’s not your fault, either.”
M.J. drew back her head. Had she told Dan about her superstition—that every time she lost herself to a moment of fun, someone died—or was that a lucky guess? “It’s not my fault, either? What does that mean?”
“It means we both need a good therapist.” Dan nudged her forward. “Come. I bet there are dozens in here.”
A baby-faced waiter approached M.J. with an empty tray and a full agenda. “How about I take that to the sunroom,” he said, reaching for her dish. “The buffet is already set up, so I can just slide it on in there . . .”
“That’s okay,” M.J. said, eager to delay what was sure to be an emotional encounter with Gloria. “I’ll take it myself.”
“Awesome,” the waiter said. “The sooner the better, though, if you don’t mind. I mean, it smells rad to me but some of the old folks are complaining.” He leaned toward her ear and from the side of his mouth muttered, “You know how they are.”
The sunroom was a glass-walled reprieve off the kitchen that was teeming with plants, thirtysomethings, and small talk. Hips were jutted, champagne glasses were swinging, forks were clanking, and friends were greeted with open arms and high-pitched squeals. The only thing they seemed to be mourning was the lack of vegan options.
“Dr. Hartwell!” rasped a woman. She waved him over with a tanned, bare arm, which absolutely did not jiggle, not even around the tricep. Something about the thick dark hair that spilled past her shoulders was familiar to M.J., like she had seen it before, maybe on a commercial for TRESemmé.
“It’s me, Britt Riley.”
Prickles of humiliation began to metastasize inside M.J.’s body. Britt wasn’t a hair model, she was Dan’s Lycra-loving Realtor, the one she accused of having a yeast infection. And now she had a mustard stain on her white blouse that M.J. was trying not to look at.
With a casual step toward the buffet table, she began shifting homemade lasagnas, casseroles, and salads to make room for her contribution. She found a spot by the lox but continued to fuss because there was no way she was turning around—not until her burning cheeks cooled and her heart stopped beating Morse code for awkward.
“I brokered the deal on your cottage,” Britt told Dan. “Maybe you don’t recognize me. I cut bangs.” She scissored her fingers for emphasis.
“I know who you are,” he said. “It’s the Dr. Hartwell part that threw me. You’ve always called me Dan.”
Britt flicked her hair toward the two women behind her and with a subtle hitch of her thumb whispered, “Single girls like single doctors. Work with me here.”
“Not single!” M.J. blurted, having no time for pronouns.
“This is M.J.,” he said, steering her into the conversation. “My girlfriend. You were actually introduced a few weeks ago over Skype.”
The dimple just below Britt’s bottom lip deepened and softened, deepened and softened while she strained to remember. Then her whiskey-brown eyes widened. “Ah, yes.”
“I’m from New York,” M.J. explained, in lieu of an apology. “I didn’t realize it was normal to dress like that until I moved here. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Dress like what?” Britt asked, forehead crinkled, thirsty for Botox.
“You know . . .”
“I don’t.”
“The whole activewear thing. New Yorkers wear that stuff to the gym, but then they change. I like it, though,” M.J. tried. “I mean, if anyone can pull it off—”
Dan cleared his already clear throat.
“Well, I’m from New York, too,” Britt said. “And I always wore activewear. Tons of people did.”
“You’re from New York?” M.J. asked, willing to forget all about the woman’s Just Do It approach to style. Finally, someone who understood her longing for food delivery and people who don’t check CAUCASIAN on a census. “Which part?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Where? Prospect Heights, Park Slope?”
“Flatbush.”
M.J. giggled. “My old friend Katie used to call her pubic hair Flatbush when she took off a pair of tights: ‘Next Stop, Flatbush Avenue,’ she’d say, just like the announcer on the five train.”
“So, Britt,” Dan interjected. “How do you know Leo?”
“My husband did the Goldens’ landscaping for years.”
M.J. cut a look to the tangle of vines outside the glass walls.
“It’s been a while,” Britt said. “Paul has been so busy. Anyway, he’s around here somewhere, I’d love to introduce you—”
“There she is!” A blond, swizzle stick of a woman approached Britt; arms splayed, professionally whitened teeth bared. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” she bellowed. “And this summer I am not taking no for an answer. You are joining the Do
wntown Beach Club. Trust me, your kids will ab-so-lutely love it.”
“My kids are going to sleepover camp.”
“Well, then you and Paul.”
Britt looked past the woman’s shoulder and into the kitchen, where a shaggy-haired man was eating chicken nuggets off his twelve-year-old daughter’s plate. “Maybe.”
“Promise you’ll think about it, m’kay? The rooftop bar has been totally renovated, the library has been converted into a hot-yoga studio, and need I remind you, no tourists.”
Dan lovingly smoothed the back of M.J.’s hair. “Maybe you could join.”
“Me?”
“It sounds like a great way to meet people.”
“Not if you like tourists,” M.J. said.
Dan laughed.
The woman evaluated M.J.’s black slip dress with a quick flick of her eyes. “Are you a local?”
“She is,” Dan boasted.
“Why don’t I know you?”
“I just moved here,” said M.J.
“From New York,” Britt added, with an air of Look at what the hoity-toity cat dragged in.
“How fortuitous,” the other woman said. “The DBC is having a new-recruits luncheon next week. I could drop off an invitation if you’re interested.”
“That would be great,” Dan said, before M.J. could stop him. “We live right next door.”
“Easy enough,” she tittered. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’ve been so thrown by this whole Leo thing I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Kelsey Pincer-Golden, Michael’s wife.”
“You gave Gloria that garden gnome, right?” M.J. asked.
Kelsey raised her right hand. “Guilty! I mean how darn jolly is that little guy?”
“Incredibly darn jolly,” M.J. said, thinking of the gray ash smudges that pocked his dwarf head like bullet holes. “She loves it.”
“Phew.” Kelsey dragged a hand across her wide forehead, wiping away sweat that wasn’t there. “Because I just ordered another one. You know, to keep Gloria from getting lonely.”
M.J. twisted the gold wedding bands on her thumb. “I’m sure that will help.”
“Right?” Kelsey mouthed, then turned her attention to the buffet table. “Beach season is coming, ladies! I better get some food in me before I lose my curves.” She lifted a plate from the bottom of the stack and surveyed her options.
“Try my bread,” M.J. said, hoping to placate Dan with her attempt to socialize.
“Garlic?” Kelsey raised an overplucked brow at buttery round rolls. “Michael did just bury his father, so it’s not like he’s going to get frisky tonight, right?” She took an investigatory nibble, swallowed, and paused, as if evaluating a fine wine. Then with a suspicious squint said, “Is this from Mama Rosa’s?”
“How did you know?”
“Round bread, roasted garlic, and real Parmesan,” Kelsey said. “It’s a small town, M.J. You can’t get away with anything.” She tilted her plate and released a piece back onto the dish. “They have a gluten-free option. You know that, right?”
“Ha.” Britt’s lips curled into a vicious smile. “Now you have a yeast problem, too.”
“We should say hi to Gloria,” Dan suggested. This time M.J. agreed.
They found her in the living room, sitting on a love seat between two women who flanked her like bookends as they pored over her wedding album. There was young Leo licking icing off her finger during their wedding reception, the happy couple in a chauffeur-driven Paramount Pictures golf cart. The sign on the back bumper read, MARRIED: TAKE ONE.
Gloria smoothed the air bubbles in the plastic sheet that bound the faded images to the cardboard page. “We made it, my love,” she sniffled.
The bookends held her close.
“We should come back another time,” M.J. said to Dan, feeling morbidly voyeuristic peering down at them like that. She never could stand the hot, heavy burden of being watched while she cried. The sympathetic pouts, the frustrated sighs, the wishing aloud that there was something, anything, the watcher could do. But of course there was nothing. And so M.J. would stop her sobbing midstream and their pained expressions would soften with relief. It was a selfless gesture. One that ultimately meant M.J. would have to pack up her emotional blue balls, endure their throbbing while she searched for a private moment to empty herself out. And why put Gloria through that?
But Dan didn’t shy away from the awkward or infirm. He injected himself into the main artery of the moment with a syringe’s precision. “I wish I could have been there for him,” he said, hugging his way into their intimate huddle.
Gloria lifted her glistening eyes and surrendered to Dan’s professional embrace. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he said, holding her while she shook. “So, so sorry.”
“Aortic aneurism,” she told the wet spot she’d left behind on his dress shirt. “The coroner said it happened fast. There was nothing you could have done.”
“The flowers are beautiful,” M.J. said, for no good reason, as she hugged the widow.
“Did you tell Dan about Gayle’s offer?” Gloria whispered into her ear.
M.J. shook her head, surprised that she had the wherewithal to remember their little secret, let alone concern herself with it at a time like that.
“Good.” Gloria winked and then motioned for her friends to stand. “M.J. and Dan, meet my girls.”
The one on the right was Liddy Henderson. Tall and broad with a gray pixie cut and red-framed glasses, she had a no-nonsense way about her. Dotty Crawford, however, was the opposite. Dressed in a tunic and leggings, she had the merry plumpness of a grandmother who never grew tired of licking the bowl.
“Dotty’s responsible for the flowers,” Gloria said. “She’s the florist at the Majestic Resort.”
“Well, I won’t be for long if I don’t return those vases,” she said, palming the back of her grayish-blond bob.
“You stole them?” Liddy asked, punctuating her inquiry with a melodramatic gasp.
“Borrowed. I promised Jules I would have them back by three.”
“Why so early?” Gloria pouted.
“Anniversary dinner.”
“Congratulations.” Liddy beamed. “How long have you two been dating?”
“The dinner is for our guests, smart-ass,” Dotty said. “Jules and I are curating it.”
“And what? The Liaison of Love can’t set a few tables without you?”
“She’s allergic to flowers.”
“Wait,” M.J. turned to Dan. “We know her!”
“We do?”
“Yes, the blond with the Southern accent. She was there the day we met, remember? She sprinkled glitter on our heads and said we were going to be together forever.”
“That would be Jules.” Dotty beamed. “The last of the true romantics.”
“Shhh, look, it’s the surgery sisters,” Liddy interrupted, her red-rimmed glasses fixed on two women in the front foyer.
Dotty squinted. “Is that Daphne Bic?”
Liddy pulled back her cheeks until her mouth morphed into bulbous fish lips. “We can’t be sure without her dental records.”
Gloria covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. “It was kind of her to show up.”
“What about Betty Bic?” Dotty said. “One more facelift and she’ll have a beard.”
They made a purring sound, then laughed.
M.J. watched as they tried to compose themselves, amazed by Gloria’s lightness during such a dark time. Were her friendships that strong, or had her relationship with Leo been that weak?
She glanced at Dan, wondering if their giddiness surprised him, too. But his attention was on a text message from his old surfing buddy Randy.
“Be right back,” he said, phone pressed against his ear.
“I’ll go with you.”
“Stay,” Gloria insisted, taking her hand. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Is it Kelsey, because I’ve already—?”
“No, this
girl I love. She’s like a niece to me. The two of you will be fast friends.”
They found Addie Oliver creeping out of the hallway bathroom like someone who didn’t want to be associated with whatever she’d left behind. She was dressed in a Ferrari-red wrap dress—exuding more confidence than one would expect from a curvy woman in a beach town of size zeros—with a plunging neckline that vouched for her commitment to sunscreen. There wasn’t a single freckle or spot to distract from her voluminous cleavage, only the bronze wing pendant on her necklace, which could hardly compete.
“Addie, darling, I’d like you to meet M.J.; she just moved here from—”
“Hey,” Addie said, as she smoothed her cinnamon-colored hair like a Miss America contestant preparing to take the stage. “Well, nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll see you around sometime.” She turned so quickly she generated a breeze that, any stronger, would have blown the family photos straight off the wall.
“Adelaide!” Gloria snapped.
Addie stopped with a jolt that jiggled her cleavage and revealed the gaping cups of her black lace bra. Were her straps undone?
“Where are you rushing off to?”
“Where am I rushing off to?” Addie repeated, louder than M.J. thought necessary considering Gloria showed no signs of hearing loss. “I’m not rushing off anywhere, Gloria, I’m staying right here outside the bathroom door and talking to you.”
She must have been on drugs. The nervous restlessness, the blotchy cheeks, the disheveled appearance—the younger set at City wore these warning signs like badges of honor. They’d swallow, snort, or smoke anything in the name of getting ahead. And poor Gloria was too seventysomething to see it.
“You two get to know each other and when I get back I’ll take you into Leo’s closet,” Gloria said, then with a deprecating grin, “You’re not afraid of a few skeletons, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m kidding. He’s got some to-die-for cashmere sweaters I’d like you both to have. Ralph Lauren, Purple Label, they’re worth a fortune.”
“What about your sons?”
“You mean the four ungrateful boys I raised who never call me? They can have the itchy wool from Macy’s.” Gloria turned the knob on the bathroom door.
The Dirty Book Club Page 6
