The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  “But I haven’t,” I say almost proudly. “I just didn’t want to go back to my desk until I was completely sure I had it under control.”

  “You do realize that when you stay in a bathroom long enough for people to notice, they assume that you have some horrible and possibly contagious intestinal problem. Or you’re goofing off. Or you’re crying.”

  My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

  “I have no doubt odds have been laid on exactly how long you’ll be in here.” She pauses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s also a side bet on whether or not you’ll still be working here after today.”

  Holy crap. I offer up a prayer that I haven’t thrown away this incredible opportunity over a stupid tabloid picture. “Are you firing me?”

  “No.” Jazmine’s eyes close briefly. Her exhale is long. “If you don’t want to work for me, you’re going to have to say so. In the meantime, here are a few things to consider:

  “One—chances are the photo in the Enquirer was set up by someone’s publicist or a publicist attached to her reality show. You need to learn how to tell the difference. Two—someone put that on your desk to hurt and embarrass you. To see if they could make you cry. It was a test of your strength, and you failed. Louise advised you not to cry because a woman’s tears are often used as proof that women are weak, too delicate for this work. The same applies to running and hiding.”

  My shoulders sag. It’s all I can do not to hang my head.

  “Do you think Rich Hanson instigated this?” Jazmine asks in a tone that sounds as if it’s meant to be casual but isn’t.

  “No. He said he came to talk to you. I just . . . He offered me a Kleenex, and I left because I didn’t want to take a chance on crying in front of him.”

  Jazmine’s sigh is long and jagged. “Bottom line, Erin, that photo is nothing compared to the things you’ll have to put up with if you intend to succeed in this business. You will encounter lots of oversize egos and tons of jealousy. Ulterior motives and agendas will abound. You will need a backbone and a poker face. No matter what happens, you’ll have to keep your head up and walk tall. This is not a business for sissies.”

  I roll the newsprint into a ball and drop it in the trash. “I’m not a sissy.”

  Jazmine looks down, her eyes taking me in. I’d give anything to tower over people like she does.

  “All right, then. Let’s go. There’s work to be done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say as firmly and positively as I can. If I didn’t think she’d take it the wrong way, I’d salute.

  “You do know that you don’t have to be tall to walk tall,” she says.

  “Technically, yes. I get the concept. But people do judge by appearance. Small is weak, blond is frivolous.” I straighten with resolve. “Which just means I’ve got to show them they’re wrong.”

  “Exactly,” Jazmine says as we move toward the bathroom door. “You can’t be such an open book. It makes people think they’re free to rip out your pages or try to break your spine.”

  We stop at the door. One of her dark eyebrows arches up in silent question.

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  She pushes open the door. Together, we stride out into the corridor. Or rather I stride out and she pulls back so that we move together.

  “I really should have told you not to eat that PayDay bar Louise left in her desk. Someone gave it to her as a joke years ago. I’m surprised they didn’t have to carry you out on a stretcher.” She pitches her voice just loud enough for the people we pass to hear.

  A text dings in on my phone. “Perfect timing on that book analogy,” I say with an overlarge smile. “Your cookies have arrived. Although my mother’s book club brings cookies and treats they bake themselves.”

  “So do some of the members in mine,” Jazmine replies with an even wider smile. “Unfortunately, baking isn’t one of my talents. And I’d rather bring something people will actually eat and enjoy and that won’t make them sick.”

  “Yes.” This time my grin is real. “I’ve heard that stomach pumping can suck a whole lot of pleasure out of an evening.”

  Jazmine laughs. “It’s not at all conducive to an in-depth book discussion.”

  We’re still smiling and chatting when we reach my desk. I have a crick in my neck from looking up at her, but I’m truly grateful that she got me out of the bathroom without embarrassing me any more than I’d already embarrassed myself. All I want to do right now is go home and crawl into bed. Maybe binge-watch a couple episodes of Insecure.

  “You know what?” Jazmine says. “I think you should come to book club with me.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’d like you to come to book club.”

  “Oh. Wow. That’s really nice of you. I’d love to, um, do that sometime. My mother really loves her book club.” And all the older women who are in it.

  I pause and sneak a casual peek around. Only a few desks are still occupied. No one is close enough to hear what we’re saying.

  “And thanks again for . . . well, for not firing me.” I nod and smile, only it feels a little bit like a boxer’s bob and weave.

  “Right.” Jazmine flashes a bright smile. “Do you want to follow me there? Or should I just share the address? Between the Covers is on your way home.”

  I wonder briefly why she’s still performing when there’s hardly anyone left to perform for. Then I realize she’s not.

  “Book club always cheers me up,” she continues. “Plus, nobody there will know anything about what you’ve been through unless you choose to tell them. It’s a great group. Sometimes my friend Angela’s oldest daughter, Lyllie, comes when she’s home from college.”

  I am caught flat-footed. And speechless.

  “And there’ll be wine and some truly killer cookies.”

  “You could just give me a cookie or two to take home with me.”

  Her look stops this line of defense and has me searching for another. “I mean, I haven’t even read the book.”

  “That, fortunately, is not a requirement,” she says smoothly. “I think you should come. It’ll give you something to do besides trying to figure out who put that clipping on your desk.”

  I look up and meet Jazmine’s eyes.

  This woman gave me a job when no one, including Louise, thought she should. And she has just rescued me from a bathroom stall. There is only one acceptable response to her invitation.

  “Sure. That would be great. I’ve already got the address in my phone, but I’d be glad to follow you.”

  Judith

  I ignore the doorbell, and whoever’s leaning on it, for as long as I can. When I finally yank it open, Meena is standing there. Her arms are filled with the mail that I haven’t bothered to go outside to retrieve. Her expression is a mixture of fear and irritation.

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve been trying to reach you all week. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Sorry.” I step back to let her enter. “I just . . . I haven’t been able to make myself talk to anyone but the kids.” I don’t mention how seldom they’ve called or how stilted those conversations have been. Mostly because I’m afraid they’ll somehow sense my guilt. Or ask questions that I will never be able to answer. “I don’t have the strength for any more awkward condolence calls.” My eyes tear up. “And if I ever see another casserole, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “You don’t look so good,” Meena says.

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t come all this way to tell me I look like shit.”

  “No.” She cocks her head and studies me. Doesn’t even try to hide her wince. “I came to take you to book club.”

  My snort of laughter is pure reflex. I haven’t been dressed in days and can’t remember the last time I showered. “There is no way I’m going to book club.”

&n
bsp; Her eyes land on the empty bottle of wine on the living room cocktail table. One used wineglass sits beside it.

  “Why not?” she asks, as if this is a reasonable question.

  “Because I practically killed my husband. And I’m in mourning.”

  “You did not kill your husband,” Meena says, following me into the kitchen where the sink is filled with more dirty wineglasses. Which I will wash and reuse when I run out. “You had sex with him and then you tried to get him to agree to work on your marriage.”

  “While he was either having a heart attack or already dead!” The words reverberate in the silent house.

  “You didn’t know that.” She states this as if it’s a fact, but I’m no longer sure what I did and did not know.

  “Because I was completely absorbed in myself and what I wanted.”

  “It’s not a crime to try to save your marriage.” Her voice and face reflect a quiet certainty I wish I felt. I don’t know whether I was trying to save my marriage or looking for an excuse to end it. If only I had shut up and paid attention, Nate might be alive right now.

  “What happened is awful, Judith. But it’s not your fault.”

  Tears fall as I stare at her. I want to believe her, but I can’t stop thinking about how angry I was. How ready I was to walk away if he didn’t agree to try harder, to change, to become the person I wanted him to be.

  She steps close and puts her arms around me, holding tight while I cry.

  “I haven’t even read the book. I haven’t been able to read anything at all.” I say this as if it’s the worst thing that has happened. When everything that’s happened is the worst I’ve ever known.

  “You know that doesn’t matter,” Meena says gently. “You’re coming for the company. To be with people who care about you.”

  This, of course, is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid. Because sympathy from strangers is bearable. Sympathy from people who really know you just opens the floodgates.

  “What will everyone think if I’m out so soon? Drinking wine and talking about books as if they matter when . . .” I can’t finish the sentence or the thought.

  “Assuming you take a shower first, and maybe put on a bit of makeup, all they’ll think is how great it is to see you.”

  “But . . .”

  “Judith. Honey. You have been through a lot. And I know it has to hurt like hell. But you can’t stay in this house forever.

  “We may not have passed the Equal Rights Amendment yet, but we are, fortunately, living in a time when a woman’s life does not end because her husband’s does. No one expects you to climb on a funeral pyre. Or wear black for a year. Or close yourself off from the world.”

  Meena places her hands on my shoulders and holds me away from her so that she can look me in the eye. “We don’t have to stay for the whole discussion. I’ll bring you home whenever you want. But I’m not leaving here without you.”

  “I can’t,” I say miserably. “I just can’t.” New tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. I no longer know whether they’re for Nate or for me.

  “You can.” She pulls me close for one last bracing hug. “We’ll go, we’ll have a glass or two of wine, eat something chocolate, and hear what people thought about the book. Then I’ll bring you home.”

  “But I don’t think . . .”

  “Fortunately, thinking isn’t required at the moment, either. Come on. You jump in the shower. I’ll lay out something for you to wear.”

  Sixteen

  Sara

  It didn’t take as much convincing as I expected to get Dorothy to come to book club with me. To my knowledge, it’s the first time she’s left the house since Mitch confessed his sins, except for occasional forays to retrieve bits and pieces of his possessions I threw outside.

  She hasn’t spoken since we got in the car and is still staring straight ahead, clutching her purse as we pull into the parking lot of Between the Covers. I’m no longer certain that the fact that she agreed to come is a positive sign. It could just be a desperate need to get out of the house for more than five minutes or be around someone who isn’t me.

  “Will everyone there know what’s happened with . . . Mitchell?”

  I would have thought the theft of her home would trump all else, but this seems to be her greatest fear, that strangers will know what her son has done. My greatest fear is that despite his reprehensible actions, Mitch might somehow end up with our house or manage to force its sale. Until I know what lies ahead, that fear is a mushroom cloud hanging over me.

  “Only if you tell them.”

  “Not even your boss?” Doubt etches her face and infuses her voice.

  “I’ve told Annell some of what’s going on, but no one else is likely to pry. It’s a book club, not an inquisition.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve never been to a book club before.” Her voice drops as if even saying “book club” is somehow dangerous, and I have to remind myself that she’s never even read in public. “Is everyone required to speak?”

  “No. No one’s going to force you to expound or argue about themes or meanings. But I find hearing what others think and how they reacted to different parts of the book and the characters brings a lot to the reading experience.”

  She nods but makes no comment. As we cross the parking lot, her eyes are pinned on the building. Despite the warm yellow light that spills out of the windows, her shoulders are rigid, and her chin is set in its most determined angle. Her pocketbook, which hangs in the crook of one arm, is held tight to her body, as if she’s afraid someone might attempt to take it off her person. Or maybe it’s just an additional protective layer.

  At the front door she hesitates, and I have to fight back my huff of impatience. Her son has turned out to be a liar and a cheat and has stolen her home out from under her, and she’s worried about going to a book club?

  “There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of,” I say a little more forcefully than intended. “It’s just a group of nice people who really like books.”

  She nods again, but her shoulders remain stiff. Her smile is small and tight. She steps through the front door with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner approaching the gallows.

  Inside, the scent of books wraps around us in welcome. I glance at Dorothy and note her quick intake of breath, and what might be a slight easing of her trepidation. Annell hugs me, and for a moment I’m afraid she’s going to ignore the invisible “do not hug” sign Dorothy keeps pinned to her chest, but as usual, Annell does exactly the right thing and offers a warm smile and a hand clasp. “I’m very glad that you could join us tonight. I’m a big fan of your daughter-in-law. It’s wonderful to finally get to meet you.”

  Dorothy manages a small smile as she takes in the seemingly endless shelves of books. “This is . . . this is quite nice.” She says this almost primly, but her eyes are bright and her breathing has kicked up a notch.

  “It is, isn’t it?” I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell Annell, but I’d probably work for free.”

  “I heard that.” Annell smiles over Dorothy’s head. “I’d worry that I was overpaying you, but we both know how lucky I am to have you.”

  As we make our way back to the refreshments, I watch Dorothy take in the children’s section, the cozy reading nooks, the signed book posters on the wall, like a castaway catching a first glimpse of a rescue boat on the horizon. Some of my foster parents grew impatient with me always having “my nose in a book,” but at least none of them tried to dictate what I should and shouldn’t enjoy like Dorothy’s parents did.

  At the drinks table, Meena offers a smile and a choice of red or white wine. Judith stands next to her, here but not. Her smile, when she’s introduced to Dorothy, doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dorothy says as I wrap my arms around Judith and hold her close. I have never u
nderstood why we use that word when someone dies. As if she’s somehow misplaced him. I’m the one who “lost” a husband. Or, more accurately, allowed him to be stolen.

  “So, you’re Mitchell’s mother,” Meena says.

  “Yes,” Dorothy replies, and in that one word I hear her fear. That Mitch has truly jettisoned her along with me and is not, as I suspect, just giving her time and space in which to forgive him. Because while she has every reason to be hurt and angry, when the dust settles, she will still be Mitch’s biological mother while I will be little more than a footnote in his personal history. The first wife. The one who didn’t even know she’d been cheated on for years. Ultimately, I will be a divorcée. Like Meena.

  I’m still processing all of this as we move on to the food table, where Jazmine Miller offers us chocolate chip cookies from a bulging bakery box and introduces us to her assistant, a young, petite blonde named Erin Richmond. Nancy Flaherty, who’s also new to the group, stands behind a platter of cupcakes decorated to look like golf balls, complete with white dimpled frosting. Golf tee earrings swing at her ears. Her sweater reads kiss my putt. Angela McBride and Jazmine’s assistant are nibbling on cookies and cupcakes.

  The first bite of cookie helps push back visions of myself as a more studious, less outgoing version of Meena. The second bite elicits a smile.

  “They’re great, aren’t they?” Erin says. “I’ve already had two, and I think there’s a third in my future.”

  “And that’s why those of us who don’t bake, buy,” Jazmine points out. “But I’m definitely going to have to try a golf ball cupcake.” She turns to Nancy Flaherty. “Did you make them?”

  “Yes. They’re a specialty of mine. In fact, it was because of my balls that I first got to meet Tiger.”

  Dorothy’s eyes go wide at this. They go wider still when Carlotta, Wesley, and Phoebe join us around the food table, along with a guy in an EMT uniform named Chaz. Perhaps I should have warned her that we’re not your garden variety book club.