by Ann McMan
Table of Contents
Titlepage
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Books by Ann McMan
Copyright
About Bywater
For Domina and HB.
This book would not exist without the warm welcome you always provide—whether I deserve it or not.
This book also is dedicated to dear Father Jimmy
(and his Sister Adorers of the Divine Wrath).
Thank you for showing by example that God has a sense of humor.
“For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come . . .”
—Habukkuk 2:3
Chapter One
Going to a party was the last thing she felt like doing.
Well. Maybe having her fingernails pulled out with rusty pliers would actually be the last thing. But going to a party—any kind of party—had to be next in line right after that.
And a damn costume party?
Even worse.
Who in the hell besides Annette Funicello threw a costume party to celebrate their sixtieth birthday?
Rizzo, that’s who. Born on Friday the 13th, Rizzo was famous for her macabre masked balls. And this year, she promised to make it one for the record books.
Yippee.
Grace looked out the tiny window beside her seat. She hadn’t been anyplace in months. And this damn trip was costing her a fortune. But Rizzo was her best friend, and she had been planning this shindig for nearly a year—long before Grace’s relationship with Denise had hit the skids.
Hit the skids? Hell. Roared off a damn cliff was more like it. You had to hand it to Denise. She didn’t mess around. When she decided it was over, it was over. Capital O.
That had been ten months ago. And those had been an agonizing ten months for Grace. Ten months of trying to fit the broken shards of her life together into something that halfway resembled a human shape.
It was amazing. If you used enough duct tape and baling twine, you could patch yourself up well enough to walk around without a limp. It was the ego that was harder to fix. And this time, it was a toss-up to determine which part of her had taken the biggest hit—her ego or her heart.
It had been a classic setup. An old standby. A golden oldie. A Blue Plate Special. One Number Six.
She got dumped for a younger woman.
And it got even better. She got dumped for a younger woman with an indifferent IQ, a head full of hair product, and a perky set of store-bought boobs.
But those were the breaks, right? The universe giveth, and the universe taketh away. The Ten Thousand Things rose and fell. And that was mostly okay—unless, of course, you happened to be the poor schmuck standing in the crosshairs when all Ten Thousand of the damn Things came crashing down to earth and nailed your ass.
There was a ding, and above her head, the “fasten seatbelt” light illuminated. They were coming into Phoenix. They had a very short time on the ground before the flight would continue to San Francisco. She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t worth deplaning, and since she didn’t have to change seats, she decided just to stay put and enjoy the solitude.
For once, the landing was uneventful. The flight wasn’t completely full, so it didn’t take long for the rest of the passengers to collect their bags and head out into the heat. Grace leaned her head against the window frame and watched the bored-looking baggage handlers toss suitcases onto the conveyor like they were sacks of mulch.
It could always be worse, she thought. I could have to do that for a living.
Suddenly her job teaching English literature to bratty, self-important Gen-Z-ers seemed like more of a gift than a curse.
“Excuse me. Would you mind if I took this seat?”
Grace looked up to see a tallish woman wearing a tailored business suit standing in the aisle next to her row. She was holding a book and a briefcase.
Grace stared at her stupidly for a moment before she realized that the woman was politely waiting for her to move her shit off the seat.
“God, I’m sorry,” she said, collecting her notebooks and lesson plans. “Life at the center of the universe, you know?”
The woman smiled and sat down. “I apologize for disturbing you. I really wanted an exit row seat for the extra leg room, and all the other ones look taken.” She gestured toward the seats across the aisle. They were all tagged with magazines and empty barf bags. “I thought I’d try to move up before they boarded the passengers for the next flight.” She stowed her black leather briefcase under the seat ahead of her. It was a nice one. Monogrammed. Grace didn’t have time to make out the initials. “I guess we had the same idea,” she added.
“What idea?” Grace asked.
“Staying on the plane during the layover?”
“Oh, that.” Grace shrugged. “Ever been to Phoenix?”
The woman laughed. “Once—under duress. I swore I’d never do it again voluntarily.”
“Wise woman. Unless, of course, you’re into video gambling, in which case, you’re missing a golden opportunity.”
The woman pulled a small pair of reading glasses out of a sleeve on the outside of her briefcase. “To do what?”
“I dunno. Win lots and lots of tokens that you can redeem for oddly colored stuffed animals?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not much into stuffed animals. Nor am I very lucky, as a rule.”
“That makes two of us.”
The woman looked at her for a moment, and then extended her hand. “I’m Abbie.”
Grace shook it. “Grace. Also unlucky at games.” And love, she thought.
“Where are you headed?”
Grace smiled at her. “Same place as you, I’d imagine.”
“San Francisco?”
Grace nodded.
“Do you live there?”
Grace shook her head. “Nope. Never been there, in fact.”
“Really? Is this a business trip?”
“No. Pleasure. I’m visiting an old friend.”
“Same here.”
“Small world.”
“Sometimes it is.” Abbie put on a pair of wire-framed glasses. Somehow, they made her look even more attractive. She glanced down at Grace’s pile of papers. “Are you a teacher?”
Grace shrugged. “So they tell me.”
“What do you teach?”
Grace sighed. “Right now, I’m teaching four sections of ‘Beowulf for Cretins.’”
Abbie laughed out loud. “I guess that’s code for Freshman English?”
“You might say that.”
“I think I just did.”
“Oh really?” She tapped her fingers against her ear. “I must have a trace of tinnitus.”
“From flying?”
“No, from straining to hear myself think.”
Abbie smiled. “Are you sure you’re not a nightclub comic?”
“Trust me,” Grace replied. “No one would pay to listen to anything I have to say.”
“Except maybe the parents of your cretins?”
“Oh, they don’t really have a choice.”
“They don’t?”
Grace shook her head. “Nope. For their kids, it’s either college, or forced internment in a gulag.”
Abbie raised an eyebrow. “Just where do you teach—Siberia?”
“Close. New England.”
“Ah.” Abbie glanced down at h
er feet. “That would explain the crampons.”
Grace laughed. “Yes. I was amazed that TSA didn’t confiscate them.”
“Well, things have grown slack since the first decade following 9/11.”
“So true.” Grace looked more closely at her. Damn. Dark hair. Intelligent blue-gray eyes. Killer smile. This woman was truly gorgeous. She was probably in her late forties. Classy, stylish. A great set of legs.
And totally out of her league.
Probably married.
When she could, she stole a glance at the woman’s ring finger.
Fuck. There it was—the inevitable band of gold.
It figured.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose I should let you do whatever it was you intended to do when you decided to remain on the plane.”
Abbie looked down at the book on her lap.
Grace followed her gaze. It was a parallel translation of Boccaccio’s De Mulieribus Claris. Of course, she’d be brilliant, too. Why was the universe so unkind?
“I suppose so.” Abbie sounded almost disappointed. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally such a chatterbox.”
“Oh, please.” Grace extended a hand. “Don’t apologize. I thought I was distracting you.”
“Well, if you were, it was a distraction I welcomed.”
They smiled at each other a little awkwardly. Like teenagers who had just been introduced at a sock hop.
A flight attendant who was making her way up the aisle from the rear of the aircraft stopped next to their row.
“Would either of you ladies like something to drink?”
Grace looked up at her in surprise. “Can you do that?”
The flight attendant made a grand display of looking over both shoulders. “As long as you don’t tell anyone,” she whispered.
Grace looked at Abbie. “Do you drink?”
Abbie nodded. “Whenever possible.”
“Okay,” Grace said. “Bring us two of your most indifferent, overpriced wines.”
The attendant smiled and nodded. “Red or white?”
“Red,” they replied simultaneously.
The attendant moved on toward the front galley of the airplane.
“Wow.” Grace shook her head. “I think my tinnitus is worse. I’m hearing echoes now.”
“That wasn’t an echo, it was an affirmation.”
“Oh. No wonder I didn’t recognize it.”
“Really? I guess it’s contagious.”
“You, too?”
Abbie nodded. “It hasn’t been one of my better years. But I think things are looking up.”
“Short term, or long term?”
“If I’m lucky, maybe both.”
“I thought you said you weren’t lucky?” Grace smiled at her.
“I figure that sooner or later, the law of averages has to catch up with me.”
“True,” Grace said. “And failing that, there are rumored to be certain drug therapies that are efficacious.”
“You mean, at producing medically induced delusions?”
Grace nodded. “Of course. It’s all the rage.”
Abbie sighed. “Nobody tells me anything.”
“Maybe you need to get out more?”
“Maybe I do.”
Grace was about to reply when the flight attendant approached them with a tray containing two plastic cups of wine.
“Here you go, ladies. On the house.” She handed them each a cup.
Grace looked up at her in surprise. “Really?”
“Yep. It looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for a bit longer than forty-five minutes. There are some storms rolling through the Bay Area, and they’ve pushed our departure back.”
Abbie looked concerned. “Do we need to get off the airplane?”
The flight attendant shook her head. “Not unless you get drunk and start swinging from the overhead bins.” She smiled at them. “Enjoy the wine.” She walked off.
Grace looked at Abbie. “I love JetBlue.”
Abbie held up her cup, and they clinked rims. “Me too.”
Grace discreetly looked her beautiful companion up and down. Might as well torture myself a little more. “So, if it’s not too personal, why have you had such a bad year?”
Abbie flexed the fingers on her left hand and stared at her lap for a moment without answering.
“I’m sorry,” Grace apologized. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Abbie met her eyes. “No. It’s okay. I’m not uncomfortable because of your question, I’m uncomfortable because of my answer.”
“That’s intriguing.”
“Is it? Funny. From where I sit, it just feels pathetic.”
“Well, why not just put it out there and let me judge for myself?”
Abbie seemed to think about that.
“All right. Why not?” Abbie set her cup of wine down on the tray table and half turned in her seat so she could cross her legs. Grace had to fight not to stare at them. They really were things of beauty.
“I lost my husband to heart disease eighteen months ago, and I’ve been struggling with how his death should change the way I live. That’s really what this trip is about for me—figuring things out. Making choices.”
Grace was stunned, and moved, by Abbie’s honesty. She struggled with how to respond. “I can’t imagine why you’d find that pathetic.”
“Ah. That’s because you don’t know what the choices are.”
“Fair enough.” Grace shook her head. “And I thought I was on God’s shit list because I have to go to a damn costume party.”
Abbie smiled at her. “West-Coasters tend to have more eclectic tastes.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“What’s your costume?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “You don’t really expect me to tell you, do you?”
Abbie shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I more or less just showed you what’s lurking behind mine.”
“You’re wearing a costume?”
“Of course. That’s why my choices are complicated.”
“I begin to see now why you wanted to be seated in the exit row.”
“Do you?”
Grace felt her pulse rate accelerate. “I’m not really sure what we’re talking about.”
“Choices. Costumes.” Abbie smiled. “And emergency exits.”
Grace was beginning to feel like she needed to make use of one, before she made a fool of herself.
“Right. Okay. I’m going as a Greek philosopher.”
“Which one?”
Grace held up her hands. “Take your pick.”
“They’re really not interchangeable.”
“They are when you shop at Party City.”
Abbie laughed.
“But since you asked, I was thinking about Demosthenes.”
“An interesting choice. Why?”
“Because to pull it off, I only need a toga and a mouthful of pebbles. It greatly simplified packing for this trip.”
“But won’t the pebbles make it difficult to talk?”
Grace nodded with enthusiasm. “See? I knew you’d get it.”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “Cheater.”
“Not really. I hate talking to strangers.”
Abbie sucked in her cheeks.
Grace blushed. “I mean, generally.”
Abbie took a sip from her cup of wine. “Lucky me.”
Grace felt her pulse rate take off again.
They both looked up when the flight attendant appeared again.
“Drink up, ladies. It looks like there was a break in the weather action, and we’re going to start boarding in a few minutes. I’ll be back shortly to collect your cups.” She walked on toward the rear of the aircraft.
Grace and Abbie looked at each other.
Grace held up her cup. “How about a toast?”
“Okay.” Abbie followed suit.
“To having what we do become one with who we are.”
Abbie st
ared at her for a moment before slowly clinking plastic rims.
“You really are eloquent—pebbles notwithstanding.”
“Only on Mondays and Wednesdays, from nine-ten to ten-fifteen.”
Abbie looked at her watch. “It’s ten-thirty, and today is Friday.”
“It is?” Grace looked at her own watch. “Well, holy Grendel’s Mother.”
“I guess nobody tells you anything, either?”
“You got that right, sister.”
They finished their wine just as the first passengers started to board. As she fastened her seatbelt, Grace decided that maybe flying out for this party wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
# # #
Rizzo’s birthday shindig was being held at the South End Rowing Club on Jefferson Street—a landmark in the Fisherman’s Wharf neighborhood and a stone’s throw from the Fort Mason cultural arts complex. It was a perfect venue for a party, with beautiful views of the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges and a cavernous, wind-sheltered sundeck.
Rizzo promised that the guest list would be small—only twenty or thirty people—and she further insisted that Grace wouldn’t have to worry about blending in because everyone would be in costume.
Right.
But when Rizzo insisted, it was best just to capitulate and go along. Grace had learned that one the hard way. Rizzo was hardcore. A tough-talking, straight-shooting, don’t-blow-smoke-up-my-ass truth-teller who had survived more personal horrors than the combined casts of a dozen Brian De Palma movies.
You didn’t say “no” to Rizzo. Not without a good goddamn reason—and, in this case, Grace didn’t have one. A candy-ass case of ennui just didn’t count.
So here she was, feeling short and ridiculous in her blue-trimmed toga and sandals.
At least the damn outfit was uncomplicated. Some of the other ensembles on display were fantastic, jaw-dropping creations right out of an Edith Head catalog. Rizzo, herself, was unadorned. She insisted that, as the hostess and guest of honor, she had the prerogative to appear however she fucking well chose.
Nobody argued with her.
Rizzo worked the room like a pro, making certain that everyone felt welcome and that every empty hand was quickly filled with a fresh drink or a plate of hot food. And she kept a watchful eye on Grace, making certain that she didn’t drift off to any dark corners to brood or to hide from the rest of the crowd.
