The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  Dan, breathless and sweaty, collapsed onto M.J.’s chest. Her spine was grinding against the living room floor. She rolled him off her. A rush of air filled her lungs. “What’s our safe word?”

  “We don’t have a safe word,” he mumbled while kissing her neck. “Why?”

  “You came back early. How do I know this is really you?”

  Dan lifted his face to meet hers, and M.J. found those gold bursts in his sleepy hazel eyes.

  “The real question is, why did I leave?”

  M.J. giggled. It was the kind of answer one would expect from a character in a romance novel, expertly engineered to make lonely housewives swoon. And yet, she swooned, surrendered her cheek to his chest, and urged him to go on.

  “Boston was a grind. The hectic pace, lack of sleep, shitty food, cramped living quarters, all those patients we had to stabilize during the relocation . . . It was more grueling than Jakarta, and still—” He folded his hands behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling. A small boy with big dreams. “I loved it.” His heart thumped a tiny bit harder. “But, May-June Stark, I love you more, and I don’t want to mess things up between us any more than I already have, so I came back early, and I’m not going anywhere again unless you’re with me.”

  M.J. sat up. Put on his T-shirt. Inhaled his sincerity. Dan was a complete-package kind of a man: batteries included, no assembly required. Most women would spend a lifetime looking for a Dan and never find one. And yet M.J. had been willing to cast him aside because she was lonely. Not willing, mind you, she had actually done it. Signed the contract and FedEx’ed it to Gayle, priority. And for what? A job? A job that didn’t save people; it bogged her down with meetings, e-mails, and soul-sucking office politics.

  “You haven’t messed things up, Dan, I promise,” M.J. said. “Fine, it’s been an adjustment. But I don’t want you to give it all up for me.”

  “I’m not.” Dan turned to face her, touching the tip of his nose to hers. “I’m giving it up for us.” His sentiment settled over her like a beautiful but itchy sweater; it flattered but didn’t feel right. She didn’t deserve his loyalty. Not lately, anyway, with all her omissions and lies.

  M.J. traced her finger around the smooth knot of his outie belly button and wondered if Gayle’s silence had been more of a blessing than a curse, like a divine nudge. As though it was Mom and Dad’s way of keeping her in Pearl Beach so she could fight for the best relationship she’ll ever have.

  “Are you hungry?” Dan asked as he slid on his jeans.

  She watched him walk stiffly to the kitchen, admired the muscles in his back that fired when his arms swung. He opened the fridge, realized it was empty, and then released the door. “What are you feeling?”

  Guilty. Confused. Pathetic.

  “Italian or Thai?”

  “Oh.” M.J. giggled. “Doesn’t matter.”

  Dan opened the junk drawer, shifted papers, batted around pens and loose change in search of his restaurant delivery list. Then the shifting and batting stopped. “What’s this?” he asked, flipping through a document. He lingered on the final page.

  M.J. felt a sting of recognition as she glimpsed the pages in his shaky grip. As if the curtains of amnesia blew open, offering a quick peek of something familiar, but not yet identifiable. Those steely gray letters centered at the top of the cover letter. The numbered paragraphs that followed. Her signature, signed, dated, and not at all in Gayle’s office.

  The curtains parted again. This time shedding light on why Gayle hadn’t responded. The woman was sent a list of local restaurants, why would she?

  Dan’s gold bursts in his eyes turned dark. “When were you going to tell me about this?” he asked flatly.

  She tried for his hand.

  He pulled it away.

  “I wanted to talk to you about it, but you were in Boston,” she lied. Again.

  “The cover letter was dated May nineteenth, M.J. You’ve known about this for over two months and never mentioned it.”

  She opened her mouth, ready to hose him down with more excuses, then stopped. Nothing could wash the disappointment off his face.

  “I was going to give up everything for you, and you were just going to give up.”

  “If I wanted to give up I would have sent it, Dan, but I didn’t. It’s right here. And so am I.”

  He was looking at her like he wanted to believe her, and M.J. was looking back like she needed him to.

  “I’m going for a surf.”

  “Now?”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

  “I know. And I think better in the water.”

  “I bet sitting on your board staring out at the horizon is a great way to solve your problems.”

  His upper lip curled. “Wow, M.J.’s being facetious, how refreshing.” He wiggled out of his jeans, purposely left them on the kitchen floor as he walked off naked to get his trunks.

  “For one, what you said was just as facetious, and for two, I was being sincere!”

  “Sincere?”

  “Yes, sincere,” M.J. said, following him into the bedroom. “I was on the deck thinking about it the other day. When you’re surfing you have to be present. If you’re not you’re going to get crushed. It’s humbling and probably puts everything into perspective.” She went on to share her thoughts on waves and how they’re a perfect metaphor for the ups and downs of life. She showed him the pages in her journal as proof.

  “You’re insane.”

  M.J. bowed her head, turned to face the wall.

  “Do you actually listen to the things you say? The way you connect ideas and express yourself? It’s inspiring, M.J., and you’re insane if you waste another day editing that magazine when you should be writing for it.”

  “Oh,” M.J. said, relieved. She turned back to face him. “I thought you meant—”

  “Stop thinking, M.J., and just go for it already. Gayle obviously wants you back so you have the upper hand.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, you’ve been given a chance to start over. If you want to work for that magazine fine, but do it on your own terms.”

  The little girl inside her began to tug. Dan had a point. She could work for City but as a writer who lived in Pearl Beach with her handsome boyfriend, a doctor who was opening his own practice and staying put. And she would start just as soon as she called Gayle, apologized for sending her a list of restaurants, and humbly asked for it back. Because for the first time in a long time, M.J. was starving.

  * * *

  IT WAS TWO days before Gayle returned her calls.

  “It was an accident,” M.J. assured her as she settled into the porch swing, journal in hand. “I meant to send the contract. The restaurant list must have been right beside it and—”

  “So what’s next? Your microwave manual? The local Penny Saver?” Gayle teased.

  M.J. smiled with her entire body. After several apologetic e-mails and multiple voice messages, she was finally absolved.

  “So am I getting that signed contract or not?”

  “I’ll give you something even better,” M.J. told her.

  A sharp exhale.

  “Trust me. I’m going back to New York in September to check on my apartment, can we grab lunch?”

  “How about you give me the pitch now and we’ll still grab lunch in September.”

  “I have to prepare,” M.J. said, working that upper hand.

  “Not even a hint?” Gayle pressed. “Come on, I’m chomping at the bit here. Give me something.”

  “It’s champing at the bit, not chomping.”

  “What?”

  “Champ means to bite down, which is what anxious horses do to their bits, whereas chomp means to chew, which implies eating, something they don’t do to their bits.”

  Gayle laughed. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  “Does that mean you’ll wait for me?”

  “Do I have a choi
ce?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, I’ll see you in September.” Gayle made a clicking sound with her teeth. “Hear that? It’s me, champing.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  Pearl Beach, California

  Thursday, August 18

  Full Moon

  IT WAS A text message that, had M.J. still been working at City, chased by deadlines, choked by unanswered e-mails, she would have celebrated. Canceled plans that did not originate from her iPhone had once been her guilty pleasure. But that night, while the silver moon reflected off the ocean’s bloated belly and Dan lay on the couch clipping fingernails to the sound of CNN, M.J. refused to take “rain check” for an answer.

  So what if Britt’s kids were home from camp and made a mess of her house? That was no reason to reschedule book club. There were traditions and rituals and three weeks’ worth of catching up to do. So M.J. made a bid for the unimaginable and offered to host.

  “How cozy are you right now?” she asked Dan during a Geico ad.

  He looked up at her, nail clippers held above his big toe. “Why?”

  “Some girls from the Downtown Beach Club want to get together. They asked me to host, but I could always tell them no . . .”

  “Do it. I’ll go play Xbox at David’s,” Dan said, as she’d hoped he would. He had been thrilled by M.J.’s recent return to writing, her newfound acceptance of Pearl Beach, the loving nature of their relationship now that he was home to stay. But he wouldn’t rest until she had friends. And anything Dan could do to facilitate that, he did, including driving her to the liquor store before they parted ways.

  Though she hadn’t gone so far as to brand the night with a Henry and June theme (sorry, Jules!) candles flickered, appetizers beckoned, the Global Chill station played on Pandora, and her Prim-covered book, complete with highlighted passages, sat stiffly on the kitchen counter. A nervous hostess anxious for her guests to arrive. And once they did there would be hugs and laughter and braided conversations where one line of thought crossed with another and another and another. Because it had been too long since they’d spoken and there was that much to say.

  * * *

  “ARE THOSE FROGS or crickets?” M.J. asked, painfully aware of the distant deep-throated chirps that seemed to be chanting, awk-ward, awk-ward, as their stilted small talk dragged on.

  “Frogs,” Jules answered at the same time Britt said, “Crickets.”

  M.J. checked her phone. “Still no word from Addie, huh?”

  They shook their heads.

  “We should eat.”

  Kneeling above the coffee table, M.J. began lifting foil off serving dishes and handing out plates.

  “I see you made your famous garlic bread,” Britt teased. Then with a nostalgic laugh, “God, I thought you were such a snob when I met you. All that talk about New York and how no one wears activewear . . .”

  “No activewear in New York?” Jules asked.

  “There’s activewear but people only wear it to the gym, not—” she stopped, noticing Britt’s black Lululemon pants and sweatshirt. Her cheeks warmed. “I mean, that’s what I thought, but I was wrong.”

  “No, you were probably right.” Britt pinched a cherry tomato from the salad and popped it into her mouth. “I’ve never actually been to New York.”

  “I thought you grew up in Brooklyn.”

  “Huntington Beach.” Then with a laugh, “I lied.”

  “Same!” M.J. said. “I told you I was turning thirty-two, but I’m really thirty-four.”

  “I fibbed, too,” Jules said, happy to participate. “My last name isn’t Valentine, but I say it is for professional reasons. I mean no disrespect to Brandon, but Babcock is plain old bad for business, don’cha think?”

  “It’s plain old bad for everything,” Britt said.

  Jules responded with an all-in-good-fun giggle and pressed for more. “So what else have y’all lied about?”

  Britt’s jaw clenched. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” With that, Jules hooked her purse over her shoulder and excused herself for the bathroom.

  When the door clicked shut Britt swiveled on the couch to face M.J. and whispered, “Do you think she knows about you-know-who?”

  You mean the Brazilian Babcock? M.J. wanted to say, as she imagined a rare exotic bird with a penis-shaped beak. But Britt’s eyes were darting: this was serious.

  “How would she know?” M.J. asked. “You don’t think Brandon told her, do you?”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Jules asked, lashes thickened by a fresh coat of mascara.

  “Easton,” M.J. said. “You never told us why you were hanging out with him the day you fainted.”

  Jules swiped her hand dismissively. “I’m a softie for a good men’s chorus, so he invited me to watch them perform.” A flush crept across her cheeks as she settled into the club chair. “What? Why are y’all looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” M.J. asked.

  “Like I’ve got eyes for someone other than my husband, because I don’t. Easton’s a friend. That’s all. I’d never stray from my marriage. I’m not the type.”

  “And what type is that?” Britt asked.

  “So, any updates on Addie?” M.J. said, eager to change the subject. “Did she decide to keep it?”

  “I can’t exactly imagine her being a mother,” Britt said. “Can you?”

  “Addie’s pregnant?” Jules asked.

  “I was asking about the bookstore, not the baby.”

  “Oh, sorry, yeah, the bookstore is on the market. Liddy found out about the quote, unquote accident. She was up for the repairs, but doesn’t have the money to get the building up to code. So, she’s selling. Addie’s off the hook.”

  “Addie’s pregnant?” Jules asked again. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  M.J. stared back at her blankly, wondering if it was the same reason they failed to mention the bookstore to her; because they had a flash-fry friendship—brief and at a very high temperature—and now it was starting to cool.

  Jules fingered the key around her neck.

  Britt topped off her wine.

  M.J. twirled the gold bands on her thumb.

  “Yep.” Britt sighed. “Those are definitely crickets.”

  * * *

  ADDIE FINALLY ARRIVED. She was forty minutes late and unsurprisingly unapologetic about it. But if anyone took issue with it, they didn’t say. The distraction was that welcomed.

  “Beer or wine?” M.J. asked her with an innocent lilt.

  “Scotch.”

  Glances were exchanged. The baby had obviously left the building.

  “Congratulations on your newfound freedom,” M.J. said, handing her a beer.

  “Meaning?” Addie popped open the button on her jeans, then sat on the short end of the L couch, beside Britt.

  “The bookstore. It’s not your problem anymore.”

  “Jeez.” She rolled her eyes, which shined absinthe green against all that black kohl. “News travels fast around here.”

  “Not fast enough,” M.J. said. “I hear you’ve known for a while. I had no idea.”

  Addie reached for a plate, then the julienne salad.

  “I’m really going to miss that place,” M.J. said.

  “Why? You’re going back to New York in September, aren’t you?”

  Jules’s forehead furrowed with fresh hurt. “You’re leaving?”

  “Actually, I’m not.” M.J. leaned forward, excited to share her news. “Remember I told you about that contract I signed?”

  Britt and Addie nodded.

  Jules said, “No.”

  “Okay, well, actually, it’s a funny story. It started when Dan came home early from Boston and said he wasn’t going to travel anymore because he missed me—”

  “Do you mind if we skip right to the letter?” Addie checked her phone. “I have to be out of here in, like, thirty minutes,” she said, her Deal with it smirk aimed s
traight for M.J.

  “Works for me,” Jules said coolly.

  With a resigned shrug, Britt pulled Liddy’s letter from the dust jacket fold of her book and began to read.

  THE DATE: October 1988

  THE DIRTY: Henry and June by Anaïs Nin

  THE DETAILS: By Liddy Henderson

  I had five miscarriages in eight years.

  Patrick wanted to name the babies, acknowledge their individuality, pray that Jesus would welcome them into the Kingdom of Heaven (Mathew 19:14). So I did.

  But Christopher, Thomas, Edward, Tina, and Kim never made it to heaven. They went from my womb straight to my heart and stayed, packing on pounds and adding inches the way living children do.

  By 1975, the weight was too much to bear. My soul was so heavy I could hardly raise a smile. I was thirty-three years old and desperate to know why the Lord was punishing me. I was a devout Christian, a United Way Community Volunteer, and the goddamn pastor’s wife! Where was my fucking baby?

  I figured it out in 1976 when we met at Gloria’s to discuss Peyton Place. Abortion, suicide, rape, incest, murder, illegitimate children . . . the novel was an encyclopedia of sins. It had even been denounced by the Church. And I, Liddy Marie Henderson, was sneaking around behind my husband’s back reading it, and so many others. No wonder I was being punished.

  And so I quit.

  Right there in the sunroom.

  Before Gloria served her lemon meringue pie.

  And I love that pie.

  You girls were devastated. If I quit, you’d all have to quit. I felt the weight of my decision, believe me, but for the first time in years, I had hope. Sixteen weeks later I was pregnant.

  Thirty weeks after that we buried Ritchie.

  As always, the three of you were by my side. Forcing me to bathe, eat, and laugh.

  Jesus wasn’t my savior after all.

  The Dirty Book Club was.

  I stopped wearing my crucifix.

  I started wearing our key, and my religious ambivalence, the way Marjorie wears gold sequin.

  Around that time, Mrs. Craig, the owner of our holy bookstore, was diagnosed with cancer, and Patrick asked me to step in while they looked for a replacement. So I did.