"Really? Thank you so much?" Kate said, smiling hopefully at Chelsea. "Oh, I have to go home, too. Do you guys know a taxi I can call?"
"Are you kidding?" Sharon said. "You're not taking a taxi. I'm driving you."
"What?"
"You're on my way. Well, a little out of the way, but the same general direction."
"Oh? Thank you? That's so nice. You're really just like my friend, Mary. From home?"
"Cool. Tell me all about her on the way," Sharon said, holding open the bathroom door for her.
"Hey, you guys?" Lucie said, "I have to use the bathroom, so I'll see you all soon, I hope?"
"Okay, bye! See you!" Sharon and Kate chorused back, waving a little and disappearing around the corner.
Chelsea stopped half-way out the door, the last to leave. "Are you sure? I can wait."
Lucie sighed. "Actually, I just need to sit for awhile. My hip's acting up. You go. I'm parked right outside, don't worry."
"I shouldn't have made you dance?" Chelsea said, looking upset again.
To forestall her anxiety, Lucie lied, "No, it was bad before. From standing in the kitchen all day. T'en fais pas." She threw in the last as Chelsea was always distracted whenever Lucie broke into French.
"Ah... okay?" Chelsea paused for a moment and then nodded. "All right, be safe. Oh, and we'll have to plan another night out soon! This was fun!"
"It was! Really fun!"
Chelsea waved and was gone, the graffiti-marked door hushing shut behind her. Lucie went into a stall, put down several toilet seat covers to create a thick layer of protection, and sank down with a groaning sigh. She just needed to rest for a few minutes; then she'd crawl to her car and go home.
After some minutes passed, Lucie was about to force herself to her feet when the door to the bathroom opened again. Lucie waited for the usual clatter of the person entering one of the other stalls, but it was quiet. Then a very familiar voice said, "Lucie, Lucie, Lucie. Your friends are gone. Why aren't you? You really don't know when it's time to go, do you?"
It was Molly's voice. She was standing just on the other side of the stall door, waiting for her, had followed them into the club, possibly had been watching them the whole night. Lucie felt something rising in her throat and swallowed it down. Fear, that's what it was: the urge to curl up, hide. Stick her head in the sand and wait for Molly to go away. But Molly wasn't going anywhere and refused to be conveniently forgotten. Lucie stood up, wincing, and pulled the door open.
Molly obviously hadn't expected Lucie to confront her, because she stumbled back with surprise before regaining her composure. "Look at you," she sneered. "Coming out to fight, huh? It's about time."
"What do you want?"
"You. Gone," Molly said and then let out a little mirthless chuckle. "You know, I really thought you had left, run with your tail between your gimpy legs until they wouldn't carry you anymore. You practically ran out of the office; I figured you just kept running."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I hear. You've even got a new catering business. You must have thought that was a good dodge from being blackballed in corporate."
"No, it's what I always wanted to do."
"It's what I always wanted to do," Molly mimicked in a high voice. "You're pathetic. I still know everyone, and once they know a neo-Nazi is running a local catering business, your work should dry right up. Why don't you just go now, spare yourself?"
"Why?" Lucie said, suddenly enraged that this horrible woman, this creature, was threatening her. "What am I to you? A stupid assistant that was bad at her job? You cleared yourself about that email; no one one blames you. Even though they should. If only they knew."
"You wouldn't sign the document and I have to have it. Before they-" Molly said and snapped her mouth shut. After a beat, she continued, "If you sign it, I'll leave you alone. I could meet you tomorrow? Name the place."
Lucie shook her head, "You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you? And that document of yours, it wasn't what you claimed. It said more."
"Of course it did," Molly said with her familiar impatient eye-roll.
"Then, no. I'm not signing it."
Molly stood, waiting and staring her down, clearly believing that Lucie was bluffing. Her eyes were just as savage and unwavering as Lucie remembered. Icy minutes passed, Lucie resisting the rising urge to shiver, break down, give in. Fighting hard, she clenched her teeth until they ached.
Finally, Molly let out a snort and said, "You asked for it." She turned and left. When the bathroom door shut this time, instead of hushing, it hissed, promising venom.
Vodka Martini
Leaning against Bembe's bathroom counter and watching Chelsea put the final touches of a pretty rose-petal pink lipstick on Kate, Sharon reveled again in how much fun she was having. This was fun, hanging out in bars and not trying very hard to learn how to dance. Although she would always prefer quiet and order - the only sounds in her house that of the clock ticking, the hushing wind outside, Fred's purr - she had to admit that occasionally spicing up her life with a night out with the girls didn't hurt.
It had been so long since she'd gone out regularly, she'd forgotten the benefits. For instance: Chelsea and the opportunity for full-disclosure gossip that would be dangerous in the office. It was freeing saying exactly what she thought without concern of being overheard and seeing the look of delight and commiseration on Chelsea's face.
Also, she was starting to think of these four women as friends, particularly Lucie, whose wicked and silly sense of humor mirrored her own. Lucie could take one of Sharon's zingers and serve a sharp and agile return right back and then turn around and clown with the best of them. It was the two of them that started the others laughing on the dance floor: they were a regular comedy team and their communion of humor was what cemented Lucie as a likely fixture in Sharon's life, a best friend of the grown-up variety.
Bianca held her own in a different way. Sharon had to admit she had been on the attack this evening, the strange sensation of danger around the woman making her hackles rise, and then Bianca's comments about Dean had started. But Bianca had taken Sharon's pointed comments and suspicious questions with utter calm, turning the other cheek even. Then she'd given Kate the good news about the job she'd found for her, a truly selfless act that had no benefit for anyone but Kate. So Sharon was wrong yet again. She didn't know why she felt that way around Bianca, her instincts were usually spot-on, but she would have to attribute it going forward to Bianca's electric and enigmatic persona.
Sharon had always liked Chelsea, and Kate...Kate was just plain darling. A good-hearted woman who never had a bad word to say about anyone. Sharon could imagine Kate as a mother, the kind of mother who was generous and fair and treated her children as individuals rather than possessions or moldable clay. And now Kate looked the part again, once they'd removed that hideous makeup. Though her hair was still a disaster, difficult to fix when it was so short and bleached. Well, that would have to wait for another night. Sharon sighed happily and listened to Chelsea extoll the virtues of cover-up rather than foundation. Who knew it was so interesting, all this girly-girl stuff?
She didn't have to look at her watch to know how late it was, she could feel the hour, heavy and settling, but had been resisting the fact of it because that meant the night was nearly over, that the next day at TMB with Bob Crandall was approaching far too quickly. No, let this night go on forever. Let her laugh and spin on the dance floor and watch makeovers in bathrooms.
Then Lucie pushed the eject-button. "I don't know about you guys, but it's late and I have to go."
"Me, too. Good. You look really good, Kate," Chelsea said, clearly amazed and more than a little proud of herself.
Kate, beaming, said, "Really? Thank you so much? Oh, I have to go home, too. Do you guys know a taxi I can call?"
Sharon reacted, realizing she had never gotten around to offering Kate a ride, though she'd meant to right after Bianca's emergency departu
re. "Are you kidding? You're not taking a taxi. I'm driving you." Just the thought of Kate in some anonymous and irresponsibly-driven taxi bothered her.
"What?" Kate said, blinking with surprise.
"You're on my way. Well, a little out of the way, but the same general direction."
"Oh? Thank you? That's so nice. You're really just like my friend, Mary. From home?"
Sharon had heard that before. Evidently she reminded lots of people of someone else they knew. It was both comforting and disappointing, her belief in her own unique individuality shaken. "Cool. Tell me all about her on the way," Sharon said, finally glancing at her watch. Midnight! It was long past time to go.
She went to the bathroom door and held it open for the others. Kate followed, eyes bright as a little girl's, while Chelsea was stuffing her makeup back in her purse and zipping it shut. Lucie, on the other hand, hadn't moved from where she was leaning. Chelsea gave herself a last quick once-over in the mirror and walked towards where Sharon stood.
"Hey, you guys?" Lucie said, "I have to use the bathroom, so I'll see you all soon, I hope?"
Sharon looked at her new friend, seeing the pain in Lucie's face for the first time. That's what it was: Lucie's bad hip. She hesitated for a minute, wondering if she should wait for Lucie, but Kate was already calling back her goodbyes and Sharon had dragged out the night for too long as it was. She joined Kate, both of them saying in unison, "Okay, bye! See you!"
They squeezed through the still-thick crowd and then were expelled out into the cold darkness, the warmth from the sunny day completely gone. Chelsea joined them a moment later and all of them exchanged hugs and promises to make plans for another night soon. Then it was just Kate and Sharon, walking to her parked car and climbing in, Kate exclaiming about her makeover and how nice Chelsea was until she started to sound like a broken record. Sharon decided to break up the monotony as they pulled out of the parking garage.
"It was a fun night, no doubt. I think it's actually been years since I had that much fun. I've forgotten what it's like to go out."
"What about Dean, though?"
"My neighbor? What about him? What are you talking about? I am so tired; it's finally hitting me."
"Don't you two go out? I thought you went out?"
"No, we don't go out. If there's any chance of that..." Sharon said and was surprised when a trembling tearful note appeared in her voice when she thought of how she had acted earlier that evening. Why did she care? Dean was Jack all over again, the last person she should care about.
Sharon cleared her throat and changed tack. "And, wait, how do you and Bianca know his name? Chelsea told you, didn't she? Ah, that girl and her mouth. And her dreams of luuurrve. Honestly, I wish I could talk some sense into her. I've told her the truth, but she won't listen to me. No, don't listen to someone with experience, just stick to the ever-trustworthy fairy stories and dating advice books."
"What do you mean? Fairy stories?"
"L'amore. The greatest fairytale of all: happily ever after. Let me tell you, it's not true. And the sooner we women accept hard cold reality, the better off we'll be."
"Oh, no? You're wrong?"
"No, not you, too? But...you're married? You know it's all a pile of horseshit. It's the single girls like Chelsea who don't know."
"You're wrong," Kate said, turning in her seat to look at Sharon. "There are happily ever afters? That's what Grant and I are: happy. Forever and ever. He's my Prince Charming."
Sharon looked over, startled not just at Kate's words but her tone. Kate was always questioning, uncertain, playing it safe. Not now. Her voice was clear and serious, her opinion solid. Hearing that sound of rock-like faith come out of a married woman's mouth made Sharon wonder, for the briefest moment, if she was wrong. But she only said, "Wow. Okay. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm glad you're so happy, Kate. You deserve it."
"See? That's another way you're like Mary. You say things like that?" Kate said, smiling again, her intense look gone.
Sharon laughed and said, "Tell me more about this Mary of yours." She was grateful for the easy segue and distraction from the uneasy feelings their conversation had aroused; the subject of romantic love had always an uncomfortable one for Sharon and now was doubly so as they clearly disagreed. Kate told her all about Mary and then Vermont as they drove down I-95 surrounded by countless semis that thundered by, heading north, perhaps to Vermont, and, as usual, were the bulk of the traffic on the highway at this late hour.
Once they got off the exit in Darien, Kate switched to directing her and, five minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a charming white-painted blue-shuttered Dutch Colonial house with a barrel-vaulted porch roof and a wide lush lawn. The porch light was on though the rest of the house was dark. Sharon, feeling justified again, noted that Prince Charming didn't wait up.
"This is it?" Kate said.
"Your house is beautiful. I can imagine your children playing on the lawn. You're going to have a whole tribe, don't worry."
"Oh, I hope so? And you should see the back yard? It's a little bigger. Though it's hard to get used to the little yards they have around here? Ours in Vermont was really huge and then we had the whole farm, too, miles of it?" Kate said, and then sobered. "Really, Sharon. I hope you don't think that about marriage? That there aren't happy endings? You can have a happy ending, too." She reached over and gently put her hand on Sharon's shoulder.
Sharon felt a pang. Whether it was due to Kate's sweetness or something else, she didn't know, but she only said, "Thank you, Kate. Okay. I better go. It's way past my bedtime. Good night."
"Okay?" Kate said, reluctantly pulling her hand away. "See you!" Then she climbed out of the car and ran up the driveway and into the house like an excited child, as if the darkness of the house meant nothing, as if she knew her Prince waited inside for her, awake, arms open.
Sharon turned her car around and was heading back toward I-95 when she had a thought. O'Malley's Pub, Alan's favorite bar, was in Darien, just a few streets away. Why not swing by, see if he was there? It was late, but Alan didn't have to go to work in the morning and might have decided to go out, get out of the house, have his favorite greasy cheeseburger and stay until closing as he often did on weekends, jawing and joking with the bartenders.
She looked at the clock on the dashboard. She had a half-hour before bars closed and if he was there, perfectly fine, maybe a little buzzed, she'd be reassured, relieved her fears were just that. She'd get a chance to talk to him for at least a few minutes about Bob, laugh about what an ass Bob was. She'd find out why Alan's answering machine didn't pick up, maybe finally make plans to meet for dinner at Frannie's. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that it was a brilliant idea.
When she pulled into O'Malley's, the little stand-alone pub looked more derelict than she remembered, almost sunken into the parking lot, the lights within a muted rusty orange. The lot had only a few remaining cars in it, but one of them was Alan's silver Toyota Avalon with the identifying bumper sticker from a local jazz radio station, which was parked right in front of the door. Seeing it, Sharon grinned. "Yessss!" she cheered while she parked.
She jogged up to the bar's entrance, her low pointed heels on the old uneven tarmac making her ankles wobble dangerously, pulled open the door and stepped inside. It was exactly like every other time she'd been there with Alan: the bar's permanent friendly bouquet of beer and fried onions hitting her, Van Morrison playing on the jukebox, and Jimmy, one of the old-timer bartenders who had been with O'Malley's since it opened, looking up from behind the bar to see who was entering at this late hour.
"Hey, Sharon," Jimmy said, half-smiling and tilting his head at her. It was an odd response. Usually, Jimmy was all enthusiasm and back slapping, shouts and laughter. Two men were sitting at the end of the bar deep in conversation, but there was no sign of Alan.
"Hey, Jimmy. I was looking for Alan. Saw his car out in the lot?"
"Ah," Jimmy said, shrugging
a little, lips turning down. "Yeah. He's here."
"Where?"
"He's in the men's room," Jimmy said, not looking happy about it.
Sharon looked at him. Jimmy was not acting at all like himself. She started to feel a tickling nervousness and had the sudden urge to turn on her heel and leave. She'd see Alan some other time. It was late and her bed and Fred were waiting. It wasn't any of her business.
Instead, she forced herself to walk over to where Jimmy stood packing up his fruit for the night, little Tupperware containers filled with the cut-up limes, lemons, and oranges that hadn't been used as garnish in cocktails that evening. A big jar filled with maraschino cherries floating in their bright red liquid stood nearby, making Sharon think of blood.
"What's going on?" she said, keeping her voice low and calm.
Jimmy shook his head and glanced over toward the doors to the bathrooms. "It's bad. He's been here almost every night. Sometimes he'll let us drive him home or call him a cab. But other nights," he said, looking away from Sharon. "He won't let us. Drives like that. We're gonna have to call the cops on him." Jimmy connected eyes with her again, his face screwed up with emotion. "And I hate to do it to him. Alan and me, we known each other for years. Margie and him used to come in here for dinner every Friday night, 'greasy cheeseburger night' he used to call it. Well, he's not eating burgers anymore. He's just drinking. He looks bad, Sharon. Really bad."
"Oh, God," Sharon said before she could stop herself. It was happening again. And this time he didn't have a job to straighten out for. He didn't have anything but an empty house full of memories of his wife, an empty life that probably seemed over to him.
Jimmy cast a sad look in the direction of the bathrooms. "He's been in there fifteen minutes. Probably passed out again. I'm gonna have to fish him out. At least, if he's really gone, he doesn't fight us. I usually just take him home and put him in the guest room. But then we got the mornings, and the apologies, and the promises. My wife's getting real tired of it."
Sharon straightened up where she'd been leaning heavily against the bar. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him tonight. I know where he hides the key to his house. At least he'll wake up in his own bed."
Cocktail Hour Page 21