“Sarah,” her mother scolded scathingly.
Sarah realized what she’d said. “Butt is not a curse word,” she defended herself. Remembering an argument with her mother from fifteen years before, she added, “And neither is snot.”
Playfully her mother reached over to cover one of Quentin’s ears. “Please don’t use that kind of language around me, even to make a point,” she said. “Your marathon isn’t the answer to everything.”
“Neither is bridge.”
Quentin was dummy on this hand, appropriately enough. He laid down his cards for Sarah to choose from and watched her intently as she played. Sometimes he scrutinized Sarah’s face, then her mother’s, then hers, fascinated or—if he shared Sarah’s opinion—alarmed at the likeness.
Sarah was able to contain herself while she controlled the cards, but when she finished and the bidding began for the next hand, she couldn’t stand it. She hardly ever sat still for this long. Just one more hand. Hyped from her run that morning, she tapped her feet under the table.
“Don’t fidget, sweetie,” her mother said as Beulah, the dummy for this hand, left the table. Sarah had noticed during the session that Beulah seemed to take a break from Sarah’s mother every time she was dummy, which didn’t surprise Sarah in the least.
“Don’t scold, Mom,” Sarah said. “It doesn’t become you.” Then, as she watched her mother rearrange Beulah’s cards to her liking with busy efficiency, she asked, “Has Beulah done any better this session?”
“Beulah,” her mother said derisively, “just took me to four with only five points in her hand, as you can see, and we’re vulnerable.”
“Maybe you should play poker instead of bridge,” Quentin suggested, the first words he’d spoken other than bridge bids since Sarah’s mother sat down. “Poker and bridge are a lot alike. Your poker face would come in handy. And you wouldn’t have to count on anybody but yourself.”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” her mother said dismissively, studying her cards.
Quentin said, “Of course, poker’s more of a man’s game.”
Sitting back in her chair with an amused smile and one eyebrow arched, Sarah’s mother examined Quentin like a tiger looking over a piece of meat. “Is it, now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said guilelessly.
Sarah’s mother leaned toward the table again and began to play the hand. “Perhaps it’s you who needs to play bridge instead of poker. If your whole life is poker, playing the game isn’t fun.”
Quentin shot Sarah an alarmed look. Sarah shrugged. Her mother liked to scare people.
Her mother scared Quentin again at the end of the session when she asked him to accompany her to the teller machine in the lobby as her bodyguard. She asked Sarah to get them a table for dinner in the restaurant. Clearly this was a ploy to grill or threaten Quentin alone, but Sarah knew that attempts to dissuade her mother weren’t worth the effort. She moved to a table in the restaurant and waited obediently.
Quentin looked stricken when they returned, but he managed to pull out the chair for Sarah’s mother before informing Sarah that he’d be waiting for her at the bar.
“Won’t you join us for dinner?” Sarah’s mother asked, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he said. “I already et.” He actually said et. “I’m sorry you missed the barbecue I grilled up earlier.”
“You were supposed to be working on my album,” Sarah said.
“I did that, too. I was multi—” He ran out of words.
“Multitasking?” Sarah suggested.
“You amaze me with your book learning.” He leaned down to kiss her lips softly, then held her gaze with his green eyes for a few seconds, giving her strength, before crossing the room and easing onto a barstool.
Sarah didn’t blame him. It could be that he’d already eaten, or that he wanted to give her time alone with her mother. Most likely, fifteen minutes of Sarah and her mother sparring was all he could stand. Sarah knew the feeling.
“Happy early birthday, sweetie,” her mother said, passing her five hundred-dollar bills under the table, as if she was afraid they’d be mugged in the hotel restaurant. Sarah tried to accept the gift graciously. She didn’t mention that she still had three thousand dollars in poker winnings in her bag.
They chatted for a few minutes about relatives, and Sarah’s lying, cheating, soon-to-be-ex-husband, and Wendy, whom Sarah’s mother had met several times and disapproved of as “brazen.” But Sarah’s mother had nothing but praise for Quentin.
“Such a gentleman,” she said between dainty sips of she-crab bisque. “And so handsome. If only we could get him out of that faded T-shirt.” She glanced up at Sarah. “So to speak.”
“He’s not exactly the corporate mogul you always said you wanted for me, Mom,” Sarah pointed out. “And he’s very talented, but he doesn’t seem all that bright. This is one of those times you’d be telling your bridge friends, ‘Thank goodness intelligence descends through the mother.’ ”
“Brains aren’t everything,” her mother said. This was counter to everything else her mother had ever said in her life. “But he might be smarter than you think.”
“Mom, he acts so dumb sometimes. He’d have to be absolutely brilliant to play dumb that well.”
Her mother raised one eyebrow. “Well, he pushed us into five spades and then doubled us, and the only reason we made the contract was that you threw away your eight of diamonds.”
“You’re saying he knows what he’s doing ? I thought he was overbidding.”
“Sarah,” her mother lectured her, “the first step to winning at bridge is to know your partner.”
“The other thing you don’t know about my partner is that whatever he may formerly have had of a brain, he’s fried with coke.” She saw the wheels turning in her mother’s head. “No, not like RC Cola,” she clarified. “Cocaine.”
Her mother frowned. “He doesn’t seem—what do you call it?—wasted.”
“He’s not high right now,” Sarah admitted. In fact, he hadn’t used in the four days Sarah had been in Birmingham.
“The lobe that plays bridge is still working,” her mother declared.
“Mom,” Sarah sighed, watching her mother pick happily at a Caesar salad. Her mother hadn’t pitched a boy this hard since Harvey Marvel, whose daddy owned the bank. Or maybe her mother wanted Quentin for herself. “Quentin is not canceling his next world tour to accompany you on your bridge tour.”
“He might.” Her mother winked. “Does he obey you?”
Sarah laughed out loud at the very idea. “Do you want him to obey?”
“I want him to follow the bidding conventions.”
Sarah said carefully, “Dad didn’t.”
“And if he had,” her mother said almost angrily, “I might have made Grand Life Master by now.”
Sarah changed the subject somewhat. “Quentin cooks, though.”
Now her mother was really interested. “Cooks what?”
“Breakfast. Indian food.”
“Can he make quiche?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “Do you want me to send you his résumé? I can make a good guess at it. Six years, prep cook at a restaurant. Six years, hospital orderly. Clearly he knows CPR. He probably knows the Heimlich maneuver, too, so if you choke on his cooking, you’re covered. Do you want me to ask him whether quiche is in his repertoire?”
Her mother shushed her escalating tone before whispering, “That’s not necessary, dear. It’s just that I’m not terribly fond of Indian cuisine. I once had an unfortunate experience with some curried potatoes.” She took another dainty bite and smiled sweetly.
“You know what I think?” Sarah asked. “I think you’re making excuses for a pair of intense green eyes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. I told you, I’m old.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and folded it neatly. “Although I have to admit that it’s fun to be goaded again.”
“Goaded?” Sarah asked blankly. “About playing poker? I don’t think he was goading you. He’s a chauvinist. Or he was warning you that other men are chauvinists, as if you didn’t already know.”
“I’m telling you, he was goading me. There was a gleam in his eye.”
“I didn’t see any gleam.”
“I saw gleam,” he mother insisted. “What’s known in poker as a tell. I’ve played bridge for fifty-three years, and I know a gleam when I see one.”
“You’ve played bridge since you were negative three years old?”
Her mother looked puzzled. That didn’t happen often.
“Because you’re only fifty now, remember?” Sarah explained. “You’re no good at living the lie.”
Her mother’s eyebrow went up. “Speaking of living the lie,” she said, “I don’t approve of your look.”
Sarah frowned. “No kidding.”
Her mother held up one hand for silence. “I don’t approve of the look, but I have to say that it’s put together well. You pull it off. Now you may say, ‘Thank you, kind Mother.’ ”
“Right.”
“Use your birthday money to buy yourself more of these”—she paused purposefully—“garments. Or more of whatever chemicals cause your pretty brunette hair to turn those colors. Your Quentin seems to like the look very much.”
Sarah had had enough. She put down her fork and leaned forward in her seat. “Mom. Seriously, now. Please don’t press this and mention ‘my Quentin’ like he’s the one who got away every time we talk for the rest of our lives. I would be tempted. I am tempted. But he’s in love with that girl from the band.”
Her mother finally heard her. She gazed at Sarah sadly. “Does he make you happy?”
“Yes,” Sarah said without hesitation.
Her mother looked away. “Does he make you laugh?”
Sarah had thought since the funeral that everything would be okay if her mother could just drop the poker face for a moment and mourn. Now that tears shone in her mother’s eyes, Sarah wanted her mother’s mask back in place, because her heart was being torn out. She reached across the table and took her mother’s hand.
Glancing past her mother’s shoulder, toward the bar, she saw Quentin’s green eyes on her even at this distance. He might have been watching them the whole time. Out of deference, he swiveled on his barstool and turned back to the bartender.
The statue of Vulcan, clothed front view, watched from atop Red Mountain as Sarah entered the expressway and the lights of downtown fell away on either side of the BMW. “Are you sure you won’t drive?” she asked Quentin. “I almost got us lost on the way over here. Would you drive us back to your house?”
“I’ve had a drink,” he said, “and the last thing I need is a DUI with no license.”
Lame excuse. He might not be much of a drinker, but right now he was a far cry from DUI. She tried to conceal her frustration as she switched lanes and took the exit. She was afraid that if she pressed him further, he’d press her back, and she’d reveal her own roots. Quentin and Owen were from a small town south of Birmingham. Their high school football team had come down to kick her high school’s ass in the state playoffs one year.
She knew from experience that if you grew up in a small town in Alabama, you had a car. If you were of driving age, you had a car. If you were poor and lived in the projects, you had a car. If you had to sell one of your kidneys to get it, you had a car. There just wasn’t any public transportation to speak of. You had to have a car. Especially if you were a lusty teenage boy.
It made no sense that Quentin, thirtyish, didn’t have a license. She would get to the bottom of this. She began to plan.
Quentin interrupted her thoughts. “Your mama’s nice.”
“You have got to be joking.”
“Nope. Our manager’s mama—wow, what a piece of work. The key is, could you stand to spend Christmas with her without staying drunk the whole time? And I think your mama passes that test.”
“You’d like to spend Christmas with my mom?”
“Yeah, I bet it would be nice,” he said. “I bet she lives in an old house, and everything is all decorated and fixed. I bet the house is big enough that you can kind of get lost in it if you want to be by yourself. And then, when you’re ready to go downstairs, I bet there’s lots of bridge.”
Sarah laughed, because he was right.
He went on, “I bet it gets to be a problem that there’s three people instead of four, or seven people instead of eight, and you have to round up somebody to play bridge with you. And it’s always somebody that doesn’t fit in, like the next door neighbor’s addled aunt Emmy.”
Sarah was cracking up. “No, it’s my mother’s gardener’s brother-in-law. When my mother can’t find a partner for the bridge club in Fairhope, she pays him to play with her, because otherwise he won’t go.”
“Exactly,” Quentin said triumphantly. “And I bet your mama isn’t much of a cook because she’d rather play bridge, but she knows all the best caterers, so the food is always great. And then, this is Fairhope, so when you get tired of food and bridge and relatives, you can go sit in the park and look out over Mobile Bay.”
Sarah glanced at him, but she couldn’t see his face in the shadows between streetlights. “How do you know all that?”
“I’ve been to Fairhope,” he said. “When the band started out, we used to work all week and play gigs at every honky-tonk in the Southeast on the weekends.”
Sarah said, “I meant about my mother.”
“She’s a lot like you.”
Which means you know all about me, Sarah thought. And he had known her four days.
“Seems like you and your mama don’t get along great, though,” he said. “You’re trying to work something out. And it isn’t bridge.”
“My dad played peacemaker.” Sarah sighed. “Or distracted us from our arguments. It’s hard for us to relate to each other without Dad standing between us.”
“He was a real funny guy?”
“Yeah.” Sarah smiled as she parked the BMW beside Erin’s Corvette. She left the motor running.
Before she could prepare herself for this, Quentin pulled her across the seat and into his lap. She demurred, pushing halfheartedly against his chest. He quickly pinioned both her wrists behind her back with one of his big hands.
The kiss was a tranquilizer. Any fight she’d had left in her escaped suddenly, and she opened her mouth for his.
Then she felt his thumb on her scar.
“Don’t!” she cried, jerking her hands free, backing up against the car door.
“Does it still hurt?” His low voice vibrated through her.
The house floodlights were off. She couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness.
He asked, “Did you go to the doctor when it happened?”
She didn’t even process the question. She was busy thinking Why did he have to do that? Her body still wanted him.
“Let me look at it,” he said.
“No!” she said. “Get out.”
“I want to get close to you.”
“I don’t,” she insisted. This was a lie. “I do,” she admitted, “but there’s this thing between us.” The thing’s name was Erin.
He laughed. “I liked it better two nights ago, when there was a thing between us and I made you come anyway.”
She turned forward, gripping the steering wheel. “Thanks for putting up with bridge and all.”
She could feel his eyes on her, watching her, waiting for her to say something else.
Finally he reasoned, “We’re adults. We can talk this out. This is all real high school.”
“If it were high school, you’d be driving.”
He slid his big frame out of the car and slammed the door.
She drove as fast as she could down the driveway, away from his touch on her chin.
7
Quentin stood in the driveway, watching the retreating taillights of Sarah�
��s BMW, considering her scar. At registration for the bridge tournament, she’d quickly called dibs on the north position. When her mother sat down at the table with them, he’d realized why: her mother played west. Sarah’s scar faced away from her mother.
But Sarah’s mother didn’t miss a thing. When he’d walked with her to the teller machine, she’d said with a hard grin, “You’re made, mister.”
“Ma’am?” It was all he could do to keep from laughing while the elegant pentagenarian raised one eyebrow at him just like Sarah, calling his bluff. She suspected he was putting on the hick act. But he didn’t laugh. If she really made him, that would be a serious problem. Unless she kept it from Sarah. It seemed that she and Sarah didn’t communicate.
She pulled her teller card and the cash from the machine and tucked them in her purse, then turned back to him with her arms folded. “How did she get that mark on her chin?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. She had it when I met her.”
Sarah’s mother raised that eyebrow again as she glared at him. “You look after her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he’d promised. But he couldn’t keep that promise if Sarah wouldn’t let him.
It was so frustrating. He walked through the garage to his house, closed the door behind him, and was about to bang his head when Owen bounded up the stairs from the studio, looking alarmed.
Owen saw Quentin and sighed with relief. “I thought you were Sarah.”
“What if it had been Sarah?” Quentin asked, walking into the next room, where the TV was tuned to an orchestra performance. “When we’re not watching TV, we need to keep it on NASCAR.”
“That’s not what I was worried about.” Owen called across the room in a sharp tone Quentin rarely heard from him, “Erin!”
Erin started up from the couch. She’d been lying curled with her back to Martin.
“What if Sarah comes in?” Owen asked Erin. “Sarah’s not going to be convinced you and I are together if you’re sleeping with Martin.”
This hadn’t occurred to Quentin. Erin and Martin took naps together occasionally. He’d never thought much about it. They all were lonely.
Playing Dirty Page 13