The High Tide Club

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “But Sunny didn’t?”

  “No,” he said succinctly. He tilted his head. “How about you? Has being a single mom turned you off to having more kids?”

  “Not necessarily,” Brooke said. “I was an only child of an only child. It can be lonely, you know?”

  “I was never an only child. I have two brothers. But I do know about loneliness. People treat you differently when you’re not half of a couple. They might bring casseroles and potted plants when you’re first widowed, but after that, it’s a whole lot of single-serve microwave dinners and Netflix binge-watching.”

  “You should try being single in a town like St. Ann’s,” Brooke said.

  “Maybe you should move back to Savannah and find a nice guy to settle down with,” Gabe said, nuzzling her neck. “Somebody who’d bring you coffee in bed in the morning and rub your feet at night.”

  “Mmm,” she said, sighing and sinking into him. “That does sound tempting. Where do I sign up?”

  “Right here,” Gabe said.

  She looked up at him. He’d had two or three martinis before dinner, and they’d both had a little wine with dinner, but what she’d thought had been casual flirting had suddenly taken an unexpected turn.

  He was still holding her hand when they returned to their table. Coffee and after-dinner drinks were being served, and jokes were being told. Gabe scooted his chair next to hers, so close her bare shoulder brushed his dinner jacket. Brooke glanced surreptitiously at his gold wristwatch. It was nearly eleven. She excused herself and headed for the ladies’ lounge.

  Checking her phone, she saw that she had no missed calls and no text messages. She combed her hair, reapplied lipstick, then sat in one of the lounge chairs and stared at her phone, waiting for the babysitter’s call. At five after eleven, she called Farrah’s cell. No answer.

  “Damn it, Farrah,” she muttered.

  She went back to the table and waved away Gabe’s offer of more champagne. “I was about to send out a search party for you,” he said, his voice low. “Everything okay?”

  She shook her head. “Farrah promised to check in with me at eleven. I waited a few minutes and then I called, but there’s no answer.”

  “She’s eighteen, right? Just graduated from high school?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she’s usually very responsible? I mean, she works in your office too, right?”

  “Yes, but this is different. When she showed up tonight, she had her boyfriend with her. Or ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure which. I let her know I wasn’t happy about the situation, but what could I do? That’s why I was late leaving the house.”

  “She probably forgot and fell asleep,” Gabe said.

  The band was breaking into another slow song, “When a Man Loves a Woman.” It was one her parents had danced to back during the rosy-hued years when they’d dragged her along to parties at the Cloister. She could remember being deeply embarrassed at the way they’d clung to each other on the dance floor.

  “Come on,” Gabe said, taking her hand. “The band will be packing it in pretty soon. Let’s dance, and then you can try calling the babysitter later.”

  He held her even closer than before as they danced. “I was dead serious about that offer I made you earlier,” Gabe said, taking her hand and kissing the back, and then the palm. “I can tell you’re struggling with the solo practice, single parenting, finances, all of it. I’ve thought a lot about this, Brooke. Come back to Savannah. You can practice law with me again, or not. Let me take care of you and Henry.”

  She was so taken aback by the proposal, she stumbled briefly, but he helped her regain her footing. “I … don’t know what to say,” she said, feeling herself blush.

  Gabe smiled. “I’m rushing you, right? Damn it! My timing is usually better than this. Look, we can talk about this later. Just chalk it up to the music and the wine.” He nuzzled her neck again. “And that perfume of yours, which is driving me out of my mind.”

  * * *

  The party was breaking up. Goodbyes were said, hugs and contact information exchanged. The moon was three-quarters full as they stood outside, with a salt-scented breeze gently ruffling the palm fronds near the entrance, waiting for the valet to bring their cars around.

  “Gorgeous night tonight,” Gabe said, his arm around her shoulders. “What do you say we take a walk on the beach when we get back to my place?”

  “That sounds nice,” Brooke said, trying not to sound distracted. It was after midnight, and she still hadn’t heard from Farrah.

  The Porsche sped around the corner from the parking deck and stopped abruptly inches from where they stood. The booming thump of head-banging rock music assaulted them when the valet driver hopped out of the car.

  Gabe snatched the parking stub from the driver’s hand. “Where the hell do you think you are, you dumb fuck? This isn’t the Indie 500. That’s a $175,000 car you just mishandled.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the driver said. “I’m not used to all that horsepower.”

  Gabe whipped his cell phone from the inner pocket of his dinner jacket and quickly snapped a photo of the driver, who wore a brass nameplate pinned to his uniform shirt.

  “Lopez, right?” Gabe said. “I’ll email this to your supervisor in the morning.”

  Before the kid could reply, another valet pulled up, at a more sedate speed, in Brooke’s Volvo.

  Gabe held the door while she slid behind the driver’s seat, his rage seemingly forgotten. “You remember the way to my house, right? Turn left at the first roundabout, then a quick right and two more lefts.”

  She waited until she was out of sight of the clubhouse before calling Farrah again. She called two more times, each time waiting until the girl’s voice recording played.

  Hey, this is Farrah. Leave me a message, and I’ll hit you back later.

  Brooke pounded the steering wheel in frustration. This wasn’t like Farrah. Something had to be wrong. Instead of taking a left at the first roundabout, she made a right. When she’d reached the causeway that would take her back south to St. Ann’s, she winced and tapped Gabe’s number on her cell phone. He’d be pissed, she knew, but if he was sincere in his concern for her as a mother, he’d have to understand. Henry came first.

  He answered on the first ring. “Are you lost? I knew I should have had you follow me home.”

  “Actually, I’m not coming to your place. I’m so sorry, Gabe, but Farrah hasn’t answered any of my calls, and I’m already sick with worry. I’m heading back to St. Ann’s. I’m hoping you’ll give me a rain check.”

  There was a deafening silence from the other end of the call. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all. This isn’t like Farrah. I’m terrified something could have happened. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Not really.” His voice was cold. “You said yourself the girl is very responsible. It seems to me that this is you looking for an excuse to pull another disappearing act.”

  His words felt like a slap in the face.

  “I see. Well, thanks for a lovely evening.” She disconnected the phone, her cheeks burning with anger and indignation.

  57

  Brooke kept the Volvo’s speedometer at seventy-nine miles per hour on the drive back to St. Ann’s. Any faster than that, the car’s whole chassis would have vibrated, plus she would have been ticket bait for the cops, who ran a notorious speed trap on that section of highway. She was grateful she’d limited her alcohol intake to two drinks over the course of the long evening. And she didn’t really slow down until she reached the turnoff for St. Ann’s.

  Jaxson’s black Ford F-150 truck was still parked at the curb in front of her house. She could see the lights in the kitchen window, but the front of the house was dark. She’d been rehearsing the lecture she’d give Farrah when she got home—assuming she still had a home when she got there—but seeing the boy’s vehicle further fueled her anger.

  She opened the front door, which she not
ed was unlocked, and stepped inside. The television was on, and two bodies were slumped sideways on the sofa. Brooke gasped. And then she saw the coffee table. The pizza box was still there, along with an empty liter bottle of Coke and a mostly empty liquor bottle.

  Brooke stomped over to the sofa and picked up the bottle. Captain Morgan rum. An inch of brown liquid sloshed in the bottom, and from the looks of it, the rest had been consumed by Farrah and Jaxson. His head lolled against the back of the sofa cushions, mouth open, snoring. Farrah’s head rested on his chest, and a thin trickle of drool dampened his T-shirt. She slammed the bottle back down onto the table, but neither of them stirred. They were both alive, but dead drunk.

  Henry was asleep in his bed, tucked between his green stuffed Ninja Turtle and a large Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal. She bent down and kissed his cheek, then went to her own room, where she quickly stripped out of her party dress and diamond-and-pearl earrings and into a pair of lightweight summer pajamas.

  She took a cotton bedspread from the closet and draped it loosely over the sleeping couple. It was nearly two o’clock. In the morning, she promised herself, she would raise hell with those two. But for now, she needed to sleep more than she needed to vent.

  * * *

  Bleeeeechhhhh. Bleeechhhhh. Brooke sat up in bed, momentarily confused. Where was she? It was still dark outside—6:15 A.M. according to the digital clock on her nightstand. The horrific noise was coming from the hall bathroom. She got out of bed to investigate.

  Farrah was hunched over the commode, her head nearly invisible.

  “Hey.” Brooke sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

  The girl raised her head and gazed at Brooke from bloodshot eyes. She looked like hell.

  “Hey,” she said weakly.

  “You look like hell,” Brooke said. “I’d say Captain Morgan is no friend of yours.”

  Farrah retched for another five minutes. Brooke found an elastic band and fastened the girl’s hair. She ran cold water over a washcloth and placed it on the back of her neck.

  Brooke tiptoed out to the living room in time to see the black pickup zoom away from the curb. Picking up the pizza crusts, Solo cups, and rum bottle, she noted with grim satisfaction that Jaxson had been in such a rush to depart that he’d left behind a pair of nearly new, expensive-looking basketball shoes. She picked them up and deposited everything in the trash.

  Back in the bathroom, she found Farrah sprawled, facedown, on the tile floor. “Your super-classy boyfriend had to leave,” she said.

  “Uuuuggghhhh. He is so not my boyfriend.” Farrah managed to pull herself up to a sitting position. “And I want to die.”

  “Okay,” Brooke said pleasantly. She turned on the shower. “But we need to clean up your corpse before we bury you. A hot shower is your first step to salvation.”

  By the time Farrah stumbled into the kitchen, Henry had finished his frozen waffle and was happily knocking back a sippy cup of milk. She sank down onto a chair and gratefully accepted the mug of coffee Brooke offered.

  “Fawwah!” Henry yelled. He held out his cup. “You want some milk?”

  The girl’s face turned a new shade of green. “You drink it, Henry.”

  “How’re you feeling?” Brooke asked. “Any better?”

  “Not really. I mean, I stopped barfing, so I guess that’s something.” The girl looked balefully at her employer. “I’m really, really, really sorry I let you down, Brooke.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I expected better of you.”

  Farrah hung her head. “I know. I was so stupid. I should never have let Jaxson come over here with me last night. You were right. He’s nothing but bad news.”

  “Whose idea was the rum?”

  “His. But I went along with it, you know? He didn’t pour it down my throat or anything.”

  Brooke took a sip of her own coffee. “Was Henry awake when you started drinking?”

  “No! He was asleep. I swear. But I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to fire me.”

  “I don’t want to fire you. My son adores you. I adore you, or I did until I drove back here like a maniac last night after you didn’t call, only to find you and Jaxson passed out on my sofa.”

  “I really fucked up your big night, didn’t I?” Farrah pressed her fingers to her temples. “I bet Gabe is really mad.”

  Brooke mentally replayed Gabe’s cutting remark about her pulling “another disappearing act.” It hurt as much now as it had when he’d said it last night.

  “He wasn’t thrilled. He had big plans for the rest of the evening, and then I pulled the plug. I think it’s safe to say our fine little romance is kaput.”

  “Oh God. I’m such a screwup.”

  “Just as well it happened now. Gabe never had kids, so he doesn’t understand where my priorities are. And if he can’t understand that, there’s really no future for the two of us.”

  Brooke went to the pantry and got a packet of crackers. She placed them on the table in front of Farrah. “Eat those.”

  “Food? No. Gross.”

  “They’ll help settle your stomach. I’ll get you some ginger ale too. Then, if you keep that down, you can take some aspirin for that headache I’m sure you have.”

  Farrah took fifteen minutes to nibble half of one cracker, washed down with four sips of ginger ale. Brooke handed her two aspirin, which she swallowed. She held her head in both hands, a pathetic, miserable sight.

  “Are you going to tell my mom?” Farrah asked.

  “What would she do if I did tell her?”

  “Probably ground me for the rest of the summer. Maybe take away my car. For sure she wouldn’t let me see Jaxson again.”

  “If she grounds you and takes away your car, that hurts me as much as it hurts you. If I hadn’t been so tired last night, I would have throttled you both with my bare hands.”

  “I deserve it. And so does he.”

  “True. But I need an assistant at the office, and Henry needs a babysitter who loves him so very much, so I’m going to give you a second chance, and I’m not going to tell your mom. This time.”

  Farrah let out a long sigh of relief. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you. I swear. And hey, no charge for last night.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Brooke said. “I wasn’t going to pay you anyway. Go on home and get some sleep now, okay? And if Jaxson calls, you can tell him I threw his shoes in the trash.”

  * * *

  Brooke puttered around the house most of the morning, doing multiple loads of laundry, cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom, dumping the clothes Farrah had left on the floor into a grocery bag, and helping Henry put together one of his puzzles. He’d begged to go to the park, but by mid-morning it was broiling out, the temperature already hovering around ninety with sauna-level humidity, so she’d compromised by letting him watch an hour of cartoons on her laptop. Did that make her a terrible mother? Maybe, but she didn’t care.

  At eleven, she put her son down for a nap and decided to color her hair. Like Marie’s, Brooke’s hair had begun going gray when she was in her midtwenties. In the past, Genevieve, the stylist at her trendy Savannah salon, had colored her hair, but these days, rather than spend $175 a pop every six weeks, she colored her own hair with the stuff that came in a box from the drugstore.

  It took thirty minutes to apply the grape gravy–colored goop to her wet hair. She was still barefoot in a ratty terry cloth bathrobe when the doorbell rang. Probably Farrah returning to reclaim her clothes, she thought as she went to open the door.

  Gabe Wynant stood on the doorstep with a huge bouquet of pink peonies in one hand and a large Harris Teeter paper sack in the other. “Hi,” he said, eyeing her uneasily. “Um, maybe I should have called first?”

  Brooke’s hands flew to her hair. “Oh, shit.” She must have looked like something from a bad seventies sitcom.

  “I just wanted to apologize for last night,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her. “I was a jerk and an unforgiveable ass.�
�

  “You really were,” Brooke agreed, sniffing the flowers.

  He held the paper sack in both hands now, looking like a penitent first grader. “I brought you a peace offering. Coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, croissants…”

  “Come on in, then,” Brooke said, opening the door wider. She gestured toward the small, shabby living room, grateful that she’d picked up all the toys and preschooler detritus that usually littered the room. “Sit there and pour yourself some coffee. I have to deal with this.” She pointed toward her head.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, she emerged from her bedroom dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her hair freshly blown dry and styled. She’d even applied a little lipstick.

  “Hi,” Gabe said, standing when she walked into the living room. He’d found a vase for the peonies and arranged a buffet on the coffee table; a bowl of raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries, a carafe of orange juice, a plate of croissants, plates, napkins, silverware, even a miniature jar of marmalade, and two steaming mugs of coffee.

  Brooke nodded and sat down on the sofa. “I’m sort of amazed you didn’t head for the hills just now, after you saw me in my natural habitat.”

  “It takes a lot more than that to scare me off,” Gabe said, smiling. “And I’m the one who’s amazed—that you didn’t tell me to take a hike when I showed up here uninvited.”

  She fixed herself a plate of fruit and buttered a croissant. “The least I can do is listen to your apology. Anyway, I didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”

  Gabe looked around the room. “I see the house is still standing. So, I guess everything was okay when you got home last night?”

  “Farrah and her boyfriend were drunk, passed out on the sofa,” Brooke said, biting into the croissant.

  “Christ! Where was your kid? Was he all right?”

  “Henry was sound asleep in his bed,” Brooke said, taking another bite of the croissant, ignoring the shards of pastry showering onto her shirt. “Crisis averted, narrowly.”

  “I hope you fired the girl,” he said.

  “Nope. Farrah’s a good kid. She made a really dumb decision. I’m giving her a second chance.”