Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  "Not bad?" Sharon exclaimed after laboriously chewing and swallowing her mouthful. "They're the best anywhere! O'Malley's is famous for them. That, and drunks."

  "I'm not one for bar food. But this is good."

  "Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. I'm going to need to lie down here and calm myself."

  "What do you expect? I'm French."

  "You're American. Your mother is French."

  "Ah, do not nit-pick with me or you will be in big trouble, you petite peste!" Lucie said in her best French accent, furrowing her brows sternly before laughing at Sharon's cartoonish mimicry of being attacked, both arms flying up, hands splayed, an exaggerated expression of terror on her face.

  Resuming her composure, Sharon said, "So, it's official? Chelsea probably isn't hiding anything, right?"

  "I don't think so," Lucie said, ripping off a smaller piece of the onion ring with her fingers and popping it in her mouth.

  "I don't know, she was acting weird. And that fake phone call! I don't think that was her mother calling her. Her phone didn't even buzz."

  "I think she's a very loyal friend and she's been friends with Bianca for a long time. She was upset. And that call, the oldest trick in the book. She even told me about it when we used to hang out, about faking a call when she was on a bad date."

  "So we were her bad date?"

  "Yes. I think you might have gone a little too far. I know you were trying to do the right thing, but..."

  Sharon nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, but one last thing. Were you ever a compulsive liar?"

  "What!"

  "A compulsive liar. I know, it sounded outlandish to me, too. But she was so apologetic afterwards I assumed it was one of those TMI slips we all make now and then."

  "Who said this?"

  "Bianca said it. That you two worked together and that you were infamous at the office for your bad habit."

  Lucie blinked and shook her head, sitting back. "I can't believe she would say that?"

  "She did. Were you?"

  "No! That's ridiculous. We did know each other years ago; we were both working at a hedge fund company on Greenwich Avenue. Actually, we were friends for a short while. Then we had a cooling off. I wonder...," Lucie said, trailing off. Why had Bianca said this to Sharon? Could it be due to what happened, what Lucie had witnessed that night in the small conference room at Pinnacle Funds? Perhaps Bianca thought she could cover for herself this way. But what a nasty thing to do, to smear blameless Lucie?

  Sharon interrupted her reverie. "You know, maybe it was something she heard from the office grapevine. You know how bad that can be: tons of false things mixed in with the true things."

  "Yeah, like how I'm an anti-Semite?" Lucie said dryly, eyebrows going up.

  "Yeah, just like that," Sharon said in an equally deadpan tone and nodding. "Well, we better get ready. It's almost eight. I guess I'm glad the other girls left, so we don't have to tell them the whole sordid story."

  Lucie laughed without mirth. "Like Chelsea would believe us."

  "She would once she heard the tape. Molly will certainly get the picture."

  "Molly's going to freak out."

  "We'll see, won't we?"

  They finished off the onion rings and Lucie found herself draining her second glass of wine too quickly. She hadn't been kidding earlier: she was terrified. She was also hopeful for the first time in weeks. It could work. It had to. But what if it didn't?

  Sharon excused herself to make a quick call to her friend, Alan. Lucie had heard the whole sad story about Sharon's old boss and hoped that Alan had simply decided to take a walk or something equally mundane and had missed Sharon's call. Watching Sharon walk away cupping her phone to her ear with both hands to block out the bar's hubbub, Lucie said a little prayer for Alan as well as one for her friend. Sharon was obviously going through a tough time.

  Even though she spent so much time helping Lucie and Alan, Sharon had to start thinking about herself more, get some rest. She was frazzled, pulled too many directions, starting to imagine things. To think that Bianca would push Kate down those stairs! Lucie shook her head at the thought. She remembered that night all too well and how Bianca had run down the stairs to help so fast she nearly fell herself and had to grab the bannister. Clearly horrified, she had halted at the bottom of the stairs, gawking at the two fallen women before rushing forward again.

  Bianca had been the one to hold Kate in her arms until the ambulance arrived. She'd been the one to call Kate's husband and take on the terrible task of informing him of his pregnant wife's accident, the baby lost. She'd been the one to make sure that Lucie didn't need the ambulance, helped support her to Sharon's car, waited in the emergency room for hours, and then sent Lucie a huge beautiful bouquet along with a sweet get-well card. Bianca had been nothing but kind, helping every way she could. There was no way she could have done what Sharon thought she did.

  And what did Sharon see? She had admitted it was just a suggestion of a movement, seen at a distance. Lucie had spoken frankly to Sharon once Chelsea had left and she had gotten all of the details: whatever it was that Sharon saw, it wasn't that. And that was that. Sharon had conceded, looking so abashed and forlorn that Lucie realized that, although Sharon was brilliant and saw things very clearly usually, when it came to Bianca, Sharon was blind.

  Just as Sharon returned to their table, Lucie remembered Bianca's allegation that she was a compulsive liar. It was so bizarre and the night had been so fraught already without the impending battle with Molly that Lucie dismissed it. It had to be what Sharon suggested, another rotten piece of fruit from the office grapevine.

  Sharon slid into the booth. "He's still not answering."

  "Maybe he went out for dinner? He probably doesn't want to stay home every night?"

  "Maybe," Sharon said, nodding, her face creased with concern.

  "Don't worry about it. Check on him on your way home."

  "I'm going to knock on his door at ten o'clock at night?"

  "You don't have to do that. Just check to see if his car's there. Then you'll know he's safe at home and you can call him tomorrow."

  Sharon shrugged. "I guess that's the only thing I can do. We've got serious business to take care of here, so Alan will have to just...hopefully have dinner somewhere. I wish I knew he had some friends who didn't practically live in bars. Then I could think he might be with one of them. Oh, well. So, are you ready?"

  "Ready as I can be."

  "Good. I'll go enjoy the fabulous toiletry experience of O'Malley's now. Where did I put my clothespin?" Sharon said as she got to her feet, referring to the smelly ladies room that Lucie had already visited before they got their onion rings and where Sharon would be hiding for the first portion of Operation Molly.

  "Wish me luck."

  "You can do it. No luck necessary."

  Sharon gave Lucie an assured nod and walked away. Lucie moved to take her seat on the other side of the booth where she could watch the door and see Molly's entrance. At five past eight, Molly walked into the bar and stopped just inside the door, her face screwed up like she smelled something bad. Lucie waved at her and Molly, not abandoning her look of disgust, crossed the room to her, weaving between the now-crowded tables and holding her purse in front of her like a shield. She also held a manila folder which contained the reason for their meeting.

  Molly stopped in front of Lucie and looked down at her with her lips still curled downward, clearly reveling in the moment and enjoying her dominant physical position as she loomed over Lucie.

  "Hi, Molly. Thanks for coming."

  "It worked, huh? No more little catering business for you. Too bad," Molly sang.

  "So it was you? Please sit. Make yourself comfortable."

  "Here? In this dump? That's a laugh. But I'll sit," Molly said, sliding into the booth across from Lucie.

  "Were you the one to spread all those lies, about the food poisoning?" Lucie asked, helpless anger charging through her and making her shake
.

  "I didn't say that. I won't say a thing. I don't have to. I'm just here to get your signature," Molly said, adopting a haughty attitude and pushing the folder she was holding across the table to Lucie. "Do you have a pen, or do you need mine?"

  Lucie looked down at the folder and then into Molly's gleeful eyes. "You lie a lot, don't you Molly?"

  "No. I don't. You do. You're the one who tried to make me look bad, lied to do it. Why? Wasn't I nice enough to you? Did you need me to coddle you like a little baby?" Molly made a little simpering face.

  "No," Lucie said, gripping the edge of her leather upholstered seat to keep from launching across the table at Molly and throttling her. "And you know that's not what happened. You were the one that sent that email."

  "You have no proof of that. I worked hard that night after Abe contacted me to show that it was you, in fact, who had a problem with Jews in the office."

  "Then why do you need me to sign this document of yours?"

  "I just do. Come on, let's take care of this," Molly said, nodding at the folder. "I'm not here for a social hour."

  "Actually," Lucie said, feeling a thrill of fear run through her, picked up the first item in their arsenal and put it in front of Molly, a folder containing a letter Sharon and Lucie had co-written. "You're the one who's going to be doing some signing tonight."

  Molly jerked a little, glancing down at the folder. "What?"

  "It's a reference, a glowing one. It refers to my outstanding catering abilities and says that you've hired me for multiple parties that were all enormous successes. No mention of food poisoning, of course."

  "Ha! You're kidding."

  "No, I'm not. And you're going to stop with the whole rumor-mill business. All you're going to do is overflow with praise for me. You're going to tell everyone you know to hire me."

  Molly made a grimace of disbelief, let out another bark of laughter, and pushed the folder back at Lucie. "Go to hell. Why would I do that? Are you signing, or are you not?"

  Sharon walked up to the table, causing Molly to do a double take. "Sharon? What are you doing here?"

  "Payback is a bitch, just like you. Lucie, scoot over. I don't want to sit next to the creature-feature."

  Lucie grinned and scooted. Once seated, Sharon placed the small tape recorder she'd been holding in her hand on the table and said, "Guess what this is?"

  Molly looked at the recorder and then at Sharon. "What is this? I'm going to leave. I don't have time for this," she said, starting to reach for her purse.

  "Ah, ah, ah?" Sharon said, wagging a finger at Molly and then pointing at the recorder. "You might want to stay and hear this? I think you'll be very interested. And, you know what? I think the upper management at TMB would be fascinated, too! What do you think, Lucie?"

  Lucie nodded. "Definitely. Deeply."

  Molly froze. "What? What about upper management?"

  Sharon said, "What do you say we play it and find out how very riveting it is?" Then she pressed the play button, the volume on high. Molly's voice rang out, tinny sounding but easily recognizable as she drunkenly detailed her hatred of Jewish people, listing every small-minded clichéd prejudice out there and then a few creative and even more heinous ones.

  Molly's eyes grew wide before she snatched at the recorder, fumbled with it to shut it off, and flipping it open, grabbed at the tape. "I'll burn it. No, why wait?" Molly said, and started tearing the tape from the cassette and ripping it.

  Sharon and Lucie, both smiling, shook their heads slowly at Molly's frantic efforts. Molly, realizing that the two women weren't acting upset, looked up, mid-tear, strips of shiny black tape on the table in front of her.

  "What?" Molly said.

  "You don't think we wouldn't make copies, do you? We're a little smarter than that," Sharon said.

  Lucie pushed the folder back at Molly. "Sign this and do what I said, spreading the good word about Petite Soiree, and we'll never send a copy to anyone at TMB. Otherwise..."

  "Everyone, every last manager, will get a copy," Sharon said, smiling wickedly.

  Molly's face became very pale and then took on a faint green hue, her hand flying up and covering her mouth before she mewled, "Excuse me!" Then she jumped up, looked around, and ran for the bathroom, ostensibly to throw up. A muffled retching sound could be heard a few minutes later coming from the small ladies room, confirming.

  Sharon turned to Lucie. "That seemed to go well, don't you think?"

  Lucie grinned, still tingling from the confrontation, and said, "She's going to sign. I really think she will!"

  "Oh, ho, ho!" Sharon said. "Does she have a choice?"

  The two girls high-fived each other and waited for Molly. When she finally did return, looking washed-out and deflated, it became clear, as she sat down and slowly pulled Lucie's file closer and opened it, that Molly agreed.

  Vodka Martini

  Sharon pulled into Alan's driveway at just past ten. His house was dark, not a single light shining within. She flicked off her headlights and turned the key in the ignition, quieting the rumble of the motor so that it would not wake him. Waves of cricket song poured in through her open car windows and she could smell the comforting sweetness of fresh grass clippings in the air. That was it: Alan had been out mowing the lawn when she'd called, had forgotten to check his messages. Everything was fine.

  Still, it was good to be here, taking Lucie's advice. Sharon got out of her car, careful to lightly shut her car door, and walked toward the garage. In a minute, standing on tiptoes, she would see the gleam of Alan's car's body in the shadows of his garage and be able to fully relax. If only it could be easier than this. If only he would check his messages religiously like he used to. He didn't even use his cell anymore. Instead, it had become a car phone as soon as he was forced into retirement, kept in his glove compartment for roadside emergencies. "What do I need it for?" Alan had said, elaborately casual in his shrugging indifference. "No one needs to reach me these days except telemarketers and peppy volunteers working fund drives."

  Peering through one of the garage door's squares of glass, she widened her eyes, trying to see his car. It wasn't there. Margie's old car sat parked in its bay in the two-car garage, a green Volkswagen Beetle that Alan refused to sell, but his bay was empty, a few oil stains punctuating the floor. Sharon fell back on her heels, stung. Where was he? Maybe his car was in the shop for repairs?

  She turned and marched around to the front door. She would have to knock, wake him. He would be angry. She couldn't help it. She had to know he was safe and sober at home. If he was out at this hour, there was only one possibility: he had fallen off of the wagon, had gone out to a bar and started slamming down the drinks as if the world was going to run out of gin and he wanted in on the few remaining bottles.

  She knocked and rang the doorbell repetitively for five minutes. No lights snapped on inside, nothing moved. Sharon backed away from the house, looking up at the bedroom windows. The shades weren't drawn. He wasn't asleep. He wouldn't be angry. Because he wasn't home.

  Twirling on her heel, Sharon ran to her car. Then she stopped. Where would she even look? The only bar that she knew he frequented was O'Malley's, and she'd just come from there. She'd call anyway.

  "O'Malley's!"

  "Jimmy? It's Sharon."

  "Sharon? What's up?"

  "Alan isn't there, is he?"

  "What? No. He hasn't been here since the night you drove him home. Not once. Why? Is something wrong?"

  "He's not at home. He didn't answer when I called earlier, either. We have this daily check-in thing. I just...I was hoping he was there, that's all."

  "Sorry, sweetheart. No dice. Let me take your number and I'll call you if he shows up."

  Sharon gave Jimmy her number, hung up and then checked her messages again even though she knew better. Nothing. Where was he? He would have told her if he was going somewhere, even if he was annoyed with her recently. Unless her fears were right and he really was drinking.
But why? He was doing so well, she'd been sure he was coming out from under it after all.

  "Why, Alan?" she said, looking around the darkened yard that was so neatly kept, the lawn thriving and lush under Alan's care. Then she sighed raggedly, climbed into her car, and slowly backed out of the driveway while desperately hoping that his car would pull up then, Alan at the wheel and irritable with her babysitting, sober as a judge. When she had pulled all the way out and paused there on the street in front of his house, she realized she was waiting and pulled away, swearing under her breath.

  She drove home using back roads and made it all the way to her street, a winding road that cut through farmland and was utterly dark due the lack of streetlights, without a single idea of what to do. Tomorrow she would call him again, visit him after work if she had to; that's all she had. As she took the last curve near her house she saw the shape of a car's bumper jutting out of the long watery ditch made by a small creek that ran along the road. It was a silver Toyota Avalon. Slowing down, Sharon saw the jazz station's bumper sticker. Alan.

  Swerving over to the embankment on the other side of the road, Sharon started saying, "Oh, my God," repetitively under her breath, a frantic prayer. She leapt from the car and ran across the road to the Alan's car. It had plowed into the creek's ditch, which was rocky and shallow, crushing the front of the car. A shape was motionless against the wheel, resting against what looked like a circular pillow: the airbag. Oh, Alan!

  Sharon climbed down into the ditch, glad she'd worn jeans and sneakers instead of heels and a dress, and made it over to Alan's car door. It wasn't damaged and opened easily. Resting against the inflated airbag, Alan groaned.

  "Oh, thank God!" Sharon said, switching from prayer to praise. He was alive. It looked as if he had just been hit by the airbag, but she couldn't really see his injuries, even with the light from one of car's headlights reflecting off of the nearby greenery. The other headlight was out, probably smashed.

  She leaned in and touched Alan's arm. "Alan? Alan?"

  Alan groaned again, but did not move.

  Sharon prompted again, "Alan? Are you hurt? I'm going to call for help. I'll be right back."