“Oh, that.” Shannon waved her hand, knowing Claire had scored a point. “I can’t help it, I like trashy romances. Those big thick Jonathan Franzen and Ken Follett books are just not my thing. Reading that stuff feels like college homework to me.”
“I know, I know. You were a good sport to try.”
Shannon tried on a pair of Gucci’s and decided she didn’t like the tight fit, especially when she had to practically pry them off her feet.
“Speaking of unpleasant things,” Claire continued. “How did Dani handle your news?”
The question was like a two-by-four across the shoulder blades. Shannon’s breath left her in a silent rush. My news. She knew exactly what Claire was referring to, and until now she’d somehow managed to file it away in the very recesses of her mind. She swallowed to try to dislodge the unpleasant taste in her throat—the taste of fear and procrastination. “I haven’t talked to her yet.”
Claire’s face fell. “What?”
Shannon distractedly pulled a pair of Jimmy Choos from a box, pulling so hard that she sent a pyramid of boxes toppling. She was angry. Not at Claire, but at the whole goddamned circumstance of it all. She was angry at her body and angry about the timing and angry at Dani for wanting a baby so goddamned bad. It wasn’t bloody well fair. “Look, Claire. It’s not the right time, okay?” she said shakily.
“When is the right time? On the wedding night? When she starts bugging you again about the fertility clinic?”
“Cut me a break, will you?” Her tone was harsh, too harsh for what Claire deserved, but then, Claire had initiated this little confrontation. “I’ve only known my test results for six weeks. I need time to process before I tell her. I need some time for myself, okay? Is that so horrible?”
“No, of course not. Come here.” Shannon obeyed and sat down beside Claire, who put her arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a squeeze. “No one wants to hear that they’re infertile. It’s a tough pill to swallow, especially when you two were going to start trying for a baby. I know it’s tough, honey, believe me. And I’m here for you, okay?”
Shannon bit down on her bottom lip. She would not cry, not here and not now. She’d shed enough secret tears. “I know you are, Claire. And I will handle this my own way, okay? I just need a little more time.” Like a year would be nice, but that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen.
Mary, humming an indecipherable tune, strolled up to them. She was full of helpful enthusiasm. “Have you found anything yet? I can help you if you haven’t.”
Shannon pulled herself together and stood up, eyeing the black lacy bra and matching underpants Amanda was trying hard to hide behind her back. “Found something sexy, I see. Good for you, Amanda. Someone is going to be very happy with your selections I hope!”
Amanda’s face reddened and she tried to slide in behind Mary, but Mary was on the move, pulling more shoes out for Shannon to try.
“She’s so adorable when her auntie embarrasses her,” she whispered to Claire, but Claire was looking away, almost as red-faced as Amanda. Jeez! It was almost like they were cut from the same cloth, a generation apart, so prim and proper and shy.
“Try the Manolo Blahniks or the Pradas,” Mary suggested, producing a pair of each like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
Shannon tried to choose quickly, before Claire and Amanda got bored out of their minds. After trying on a couple more pairs, she settled on royal blue Manolo heels that weren’t as outrageous as she’d expected—only $220. Mary brightly offered a discount for Claire if she bought a pair too, but Claire gave the poor woman the most withering look Shannon had ever seen on her. She gathered up her purse and the shoes and asked Mary to lead them to the cashier before Claire killed someone.
The sales clerk, who probably made significantly less money than Mary and was incrementally less cheerful, rang up the purchases. Shannon pulled out her American Express, the gold-plated one she and Dani shared.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said after a moment. “But the card’s being denied.”
She couldn’t possibly have heard right. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The young woman tried the card again. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it won’t accept the charge.”
Shannon’s cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. It was obviously some bureaucratic mistake, but she wasn’t going to stand here and argue and plead her case like someone desperate. She calmly tried the Visa card she’d kept since she’d graduated from college, relieved when it worked.
“Jesus,” she muttered in disgust and relief to Claire, but Claire was too busy trying to avoid looking at the wares Amanda was about to purchase. It’s only lingerie for God’s sake. What the hell is wrong with everyone today anyway? Is there a hidden camera somewhere, making our lives into a reality TV show? She had the absurd idea of flashing her breasts at the ceiling, just in case.
Shannon returned to the hotel quickly, the declined card having spooked her. It might be something fluky, even though it had never happened before. Yet something unspoken and unsettling weighed on her. If there was something wrong, she wanted to know what it was.
She found Dani lying under a palm tree by one of the pools, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She was browning nicely already, like bread coming out of the toaster. Her eyes were sleepy and half closed, her arms limp beside her.
“What’s up, baby?” Dani asked in a faraway voice.
Shannon sat down heavily at the foot of her cot. “Our American Express card got denied at the department store.”
Dani popped one eye fully open. The effect would have been comical if not for the subject matter. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”
“It’s not,” Shannon responded coolly. She was not angry; she wanted answers. As soon as she’d returned to the hotel, she called the number on the back of the card and learned their credit had been frozen. They refused her an explanation over the phone. “I checked.”
Dani’s other eye popped open. In those eyes, Shannon saw so clearly the flicker of emotions flare and dim—alarm, concern, maybe even a bit of panic. And then, nothing. The blankness in her lover’s eyes threw her, and it was like approaching the edge of a cliff that she didn’t want to get too close to. It was frightening, because for the first time in their relationship, there was something hard and impenetrable between them—something besides the baby news. Each woman looked away.
“We’ll sort it out later. When we get home,” Dani offered casually. “I’m sure it’s no big deal.” This was not like Dani. She’d always been more than competent at handling their finances. In fact, she was sharp-eyed and precise about it, knowing to the dime what was coming in and going out of the house. Dani should be freaking out about this, not lying there acting like she was being told the bar had just run out of rum and would she settle for vodka instead. No, there was something most definitely false and concerning in her casual attitude.
Shannon’s spine involuntarily stiffened. She rose from the cot, her legs a little unsteady. The things that were going on between them—the distance, the secrets—was normal for a couple together as long as they’d been, she told herself. It was nothing they couldn’t deal with. Later.
Chapter Ten
Amanda
The Liberace Museum was on Amanda’s list of geeky things to do in Vegas. Same with the atomic testing museum, because anything to do with museums and history made her feel complete. A musty old building or a thick dusty textbook gave her a secret thrill, as if she herself were reaching back through time and becoming a momentary part of that era. She hoped Claire would go with her to the Liberace Museum today, not only because Claire had a car and could drive them, but because it might bring a return to the friendly banter between them. They’d gotten along so fabulously right from the start, and throwing her aunt in the pool was the crowning moment of their budding friendship. Amanda laughed to herself, remembering it. But something had changed in Claire since, because she seemed distant aro
und her now, uncomfortable. Amanda had absolutely no idea what she’d done to cause this change, but whatever it was, she wanted to put things right between them and be friends again. It felt, for reasons she couldn’t exactly identify, that Claire was her one true ally here. A kindred spirit.
She listened for Claire with her ear pressed up against her own door—their rooms were conveniently across from one another—and then opened her door just as she heard Claire emerging from her room. “Oh, Claire, hi! Um, listen, I was wondering . . . Would you like to go to the Liberace Museum with me this afternoon?”
Claire looked trapped. “If you want my car, you’re welcome to—”
“No. I don’t want your car. I want you to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason? Other than the fact that I thought you might like to.” Claire’s prickliness caused Amanda’s heart to sink a little. Really, did she have to be so defensive about a simple invitation?
Claire softened a little. “I, um, sure. I think that would be fine.”
“Look, I’m not asking you to do me a big favor, okay? If you don’t want to go, or if you have other plans, you don’t have to. It’s okay.”
Claire seemed to shrink before the starkness of Amanda’s words. Her vulnerability was a wild contradiction to the woman Amanda’s aunt had always talked about so reverently. She had heard a lot about Claire from the days she and Shannon worked together. Claire was at the top of her field in OB-GYN in Chicago, chief of staff of her department at Prentice Women’s Hospital, ran a full practice, even found time to teach at the Feinberg School of Medicine. Shannon described Claire as commanding her kingdom with competence and authority, but was kind and patient too. The kind of person you could go to with your problems, big or small. Shannon worshipped Claire and had grown terribly concerned about her after her partner died. Shannon hadn’t said a lot about it, but enough for Amanda to understand that Claire had withdrawn considerably over the last few years. She’d given up her chief status at the hospital and barely taught at the university anymore. She was still damned good at her job—that hadn’t changed, according to Shannon, but she was a shadow of her former self. Sad a lot and not much of a joiner these days.
“I-I didn’t mean for you to think I was doing you a favor,” Claire stammered, fumbling and then dropping her room key card on the floor. She was clearly chastened, and Amanda felt bad for coming on so strongly.
“Please come,” Amanda said, reaching for Claire’s hand and holding it tight in both of hers. She was surprised at how warm Claire’s hand was, and how much it trembled. It was like a fragile bird in her hand, and she held it gently but firmly, surprised by her protective feelings toward Claire. “It’ll be fun. Well, not as much fun as it was throwing my aunt in the pool yesterday, but almost!”
Claire’s smile expanded slowly. “All right, you sold me on it, kid.”
Kid. Shannon and Dani often called her that, but coming from Claire, it was jarring and hurtful, insulting that Claire thought of her as a kid, a teenager, a child—someone not worthy of her respect and attention. Someone unworthy of her friendship. She wanted to scream that she was not a kid and hadn’t been for a long time.
“Well, shall we?” Claire said, slowly extracting her hand and picking up her key card to tuck into her back pocket. Amanda’s hand cooled quickly at the loss of Claire’s. “Let’s not keep Mr. Showmanship waiting.”
Amanda was quiet on the ride to the museum, but when she saw the building’s façade containing a giant music sheet and oversized piano keys, she gasped with pleasure. “Wow, that is so cool, isn’t it? I love when architecture is matched perfectly to someone’s personality. This is exactly what I would have expected of a museum named for Liberace.”
“Must be quite a challenge for architects,” Claire commented, “designing a building to match someone’s personality.”
“Oh, it is. And not only an actual person, but trying to personify a neighborhood, or an era, or an entire city. There are as many themes for buildings as there are stars in the sky.”
“What got you interested in art history from an architecture point of view?”
Claire’s interest in her line of study excited her. Surely it was more than perfunctory politeness—or at least Amanda found herself hoping so. Most people tuned out or changed the subject after a moment, but Claire seemed genuinely interested. As they strolled through the museum, Amanda told her more about her studies, about how she loved the lines and dimensions and solidity of buildings over, say, paintings or other less durable forms of art. She explained how the history and beauty of buildings had always fascinated her, starting with her dollhouses and play castles as a toddler. And while she talked, she couldn’t help thinking, do you still think I’m a kid, Claire?
They might both be kids in this environment of blue hairs. They had to be the youngest patrons by far, and it made them allies again, the way they’d been allies when they ganged up on Shannon at the pool. Without thinking about it, Amanda clutched Claire’s arm in companionship.
“Guess I should know all his albums by heart or something,” Claire suggested with a laugh. “I’d better not say this too loudly, but I don’t actually own any Liberace CDs.”
“Me either,” Amanda whispered back. “I barely even remember him when he was still alive. I just thought it’d be cool to come here and look around.”
“Hmmm,” Claire teased. “Cool if you’re seventy maybe.”
“All right, maybe cool was the wrong word.”
“I do remember seeing Liberace on television when he was in his heyday. The old ladies loved him back then, too. It always seemed to be an age thing, his fans. Or a gay guy thing. But this has to be a new crop of old ladies, since the old girls back then would all be gone now.”
Claire looked so serious suddenly that Amanda stopped walking. She hated this talk about age and generational differences. “What is it, Claire?”
“God, I just thought of something. Does this mean when you reach a certain age, like, I don’t know, sixty-two or something, that you start to love Liberace? Like maybe it’s an age milestone, like menopause.”
Amanda laughed and squeezed Claire’s arm pointedly. “I don’t know, you’re the doctor.”
“True, but gerontology’s not my specialty. Tell you what though, since I’ll get to sixty-two, oh, about twenty-one years sooner than you, I’ll let you know, okay?”
Amanda sighed grumpily. There she goes again, making a point of our age difference. It was like forever being excluded from a certain club, and it rankled her, because she’d never be a part of the forty-something club at the same time as Claire. She’d never be a part of any age group at the same time as Claire. It was an argument she could never win, a race where she could never pull even. She felt defeated before she’d even started.
“Claire?”
They stopped in front of a large glass case of Liberace’s elaborate costumes. There were boas and feathers and sequins and jewels, capes, belts and flared pants of all colors.
“Yes?”
“Earlier today,” Amanda waded slowly into her question. She didn’t want Claire to go quiet on her again, but she wanted to know what lay at the bottom of the distance Claire sometimes put between them, and still did with the age comments. “Sometimes you seem almost resentful of my age or something. Have I done something wrong? Do I offend you? Or should I say, does my age offend you?”
Claire’s brown eyes lowered, then raised again slowly, as if her eyelids were heavy and would not permit it. “No, Amanda, you do not offend me and neither does your age.”
“Then what? Will you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Claire offered a weak smile. “I was just in a bit of a grump earlier. I’m sorry.”
“But it seems sometimes like, I don’t know, like you’re mad that I’m twenty-six years old. Like my age is a detraction.”
“No.” Claire shook her head adamantly. “I’m sorry if
you thought that.”
“I’m sorry I thought that too. I was so worried I’d done something to offend you, or said something stupid, or that I’m a pain in the ass to you.”
There was so much sadness in Claire’s eyes sometimes, it made Amanda want to say or do something, anything, to make her smile.
“It’s just . . .”
“Yes?” she asked eagerly, hoping they were finally getting somewhere.
Claire read a plaque explaining the history of one of the outfits on display. It seemed like a long time before she answered. “I guess there’s no easy way to explain.”
“You could try.”
Claire wouldn’t look at her; she pretended to study another plaque as she spoke. “You remind me sometimes . . .”
“Yes?”
“Your youthfulness . . .”
Crap, not that again.
“Your energy, your vitality, your wit, your intelligence. You remind me sometimes that there’s a whole world out there, a whole world that’s exciting and interesting and worth living. A whole world I’m no longer a part of.”
Amanda gasped as tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, Claire.” Emotion thickened her voice.
“It’s okay,” Claire rasped, equally emotional, looking at her with those sad brown eyes again. “It’s not your fault or anything. It’s me. I’m sorry.”
“Please. Don’t apologize.” Amanda’s voice was stronger this time. She took Claire’s hand. Claire’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she didn’t resist, and the fragile bird was in the nest of Amanda’s hand again. “There is a whole world out there, and it is worth living. And you can be a part of it any time you want.” Please be a part of it again, she wanted to say. She tried to imagine Claire eating dinner alone, waking up alone, sitting alone in front of a TV at night. It made her unfathomably sad.
Claire was shaking her head, her lips pursed. Case closed. Discussion over.
They entered a large auditorium containing Liberace’s collection of cars—some gold, some silver, a Rolls Royce completely coated in shiny sequins. There was joy in this ostentation. An embracing of life and all its gifts. Amanda suddenly understood what it was about this man that people, especially older people, admired. It was his joie de vivre. It was about saying this is who I am and I am living my life to the fullest and having a damned good time doing it.
The Wedding Party Page 7