“I told Inga it must be a special occasion,” Kate said. “She’s wearing her necklace.”
Libbie turned to admire the pale blue stone with its four holes. She remembered that Inga had worn it the first time they’d met. She’d found the stone along the lakeshore not long after moving to Lake Cloverleaf and decided it was a good omen. A hag stone she’d called it, though Libbie disliked the word ‘hag.’
“I consider every Friday night a special occasion.” Inga handed Libbie a flute of prosecco. They always started the evening with a single glass of the bubbly drink before moving on to other concoctions. Libbie couldn’t remember when the tradition started, but she enjoyed it immensely.
“Then why don’t you wear it every Friday night?” Libbie brought the flute to her lips. She loved the sensation of the bubbles against her skin as she took her first sip.
“Because sometimes it clashes with my outfit,” Inga said with a wink.
“How did your talk go with Joe?” Rebecca asked. Rebecca Angelos had been the last one to join their club, after the departure of another woman called Jodie. When Libbie had asked what happened to Jodie, Inga had simply said, “She isn’t one of us.”
Although Libbie sometimes wondered what she’d meant, she didn’t ask.
Libbie had told them last Friday about her plans to speak to her boss. Her cheeks grew warm and she took another sip of liquid courage. She could’ve used a bottle of prosecco at work earlier, although the customers might have gotten more interesting dishes than they’d bargained for.
“It didn’t,” Libbie said. “I was late and then…You know how Joe is.”
“He’s an ass,” Inga said. “That’s how he is. All ass, all the time. When he goes to the proctologist, the doctor has to clarify which end is up.”
The other women snickered. They were accustomed to Inga’s colorful assessments.
“I’ll try again next week,” Libbie said, knowing that she wouldn’t.
Inga thrust a plate of cheese and crackers in front of Libbie. “Why don’t you look for another job? You hate it there.”
Libbie selected a thick square of cheddar. “I don’t hate it there. Basecamp is fine.”
“Basecamp is an exercise in abject misery,” Inga shot back. “Don’t waste your life, Libbie. You’re too good for that place.”
“She’s too good for a lot of things she tolerates,” Kate mumbled.
Libbie’s stomach knotted. She knew the women weren’t fond of Chris. They’d told her more than once she could do better. It was the consensus of her friends that, after three years together, she and Chris should be married or split up. These were the kinds of thoughts the women shared on Friday nights after a few cocktails. It was never mean-spirited, and Libbie knew they had her best interests at heart.
“What are we drinking?” Libbie asked, in an effort to redirect the conversation. She felt too fragile to have her life under a microscope tonight.
“I picked up a new brand of tequila,” Inga said. Her blue eyes sparkled behind her thick glasses.
“Tequila and what?” Libbie prompted. She wasn’t a huge fan of tequila thanks to a college experience gone awry.
“Mojitaritas, baby,” Julie said and clapped her hands for good measure. If anyone needed a mojitarita, Libbie knew it was Julie Duncan. The fifty-year-old lived in a sprawling house on the lake with her bedridden mother, a domineering woman who controlled her daughter’s life. Julie had also lost her husband Greg to cancer two years ago. Libbie wished she knew the right way to comfort her friend. She’d read articles until her eyes glazed over, but still nothing seemed appropriate. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and upset her friend further, so she said nothing.
Libbie’s mother had attended Greg’s funeral and remarked, rather loudly, how strange it was that Julie didn’t cry. As though tears at a funeral were the only acceptable way to express love and sorrow. Libbie had been horrified by her mother’s comment. She was often horrified by her mother’s opinions and assumptions about people. Delia Stark was the type of woman who seemed to be acutely aware of everyone’s flaws, except her own. For someone who never passed a mirror without stopping to admire herself, Libbie found it ironic that her mother was incapable of self-reflection.
“What have I missed so far?” Libbie asked.
Kate smirked. “Rebecca was giving us an update.”
The petite brunette groaned. “Day eleventy-thousand and five of my period. The streak continues, literally.”
Libbie made a sympathetic noise. Over the past year, forty-six-year-old Rebecca had discovered what the other women already knew—the joys of perimenopause. She’d go months without a period, and then boom! Thirty days straight of spotting. It wasn’t a full-on cycle, but it was enough to require a pantyliner and make Rebecca crabby.
“It’s not enough for a tampon, which makes the whole swimming thing difficult. Hooray for summer.” Rebecca gave her finger a mock twirl in the air. “I feel like all the animals in the shelter know. They stare at me with their big eyes and I can see their pity.”
“They’re called puppy dog eyes for a reason,” Kate said.
Inga gulped down half her mojitarita. “I wish I could tell you it gets better.”
Rebecca laughed. “Thanks for the encouraging words.”
“No, I mean I don’t remember it. It seems like another lifetime ago, as though it happened to someone else.”
“There’s a silver lining,” Kate said. “One day your pantyliners will be a distant memory.”
Libbie cringed. “Have we not come up with a new word yet?”
Kate smiled as she took another sip of her drink. “Not everyone has an aversion to the word ‘panties’ the way you do.”
Libbie closed her eyes as she drained her flute. She didn’t know why she hated the word so much, only that she did. It was right up there with ‘moist’ and ‘crevice.’
“What about crotch barrier?” Inga suggested. “Is that better?”
“She doesn’t like the word ‘crotch’ either,” Kate said.
Julie’s nails clicked on the outside of her glass. “You could just call it a liner.”
“But then you could be talking about your kitchen drawers instead of your actual drawers. Mentioning floral scented won’t help, either.” Kate handed Libbie a mojitarita. One of the reasons Libbie enjoyed Friday nights so much, other than the good company, was that no one expected her to make the drinks. In fact, Libbie rarely stepped behind the bar. Someone else was always willing to mix the cocktails. If not Inga, then a hunky bartender that Inga had hired for the evening. Libbie recognized most of the young men from the local bars and restaurants. She suspected that Inga paid well. Besides, Libbie imagined that serving cocktails to five adult women had to be preferable to the boisterous holiday crowd at the lakefront bars.
Libbie inspected the cocktail. “I like the color.”
“Go easy,” Kate said. “We don’t need a repeat of your twenty-first birthday.”
Kate had been present for the infamous tequila incident. Her best friend had driven all the way from Philadelphia to Penn State to celebrate with Libbie. It was a good thing, too, because Libbie had to be carried out of the bar that night by two male friends, after vomiting all over the dance floor. Not Libbie’s proudest moment.
Libbie took a hesitant sip of the cocktail. “Lime and mint.”
Inga winked. “Can’t get anything past you.”
A cat threaded her way between Libbie’s legs. “There you are, Eliza,” Libbie said. “I was wondering if I’d see any of you tonight.”
Inga had four cats named after the Schuyler sisters—Catherine, affectionately known as “Cat-Cat,” Eliza, Angelica, and Peggy. Inga had once spent an entire cocktail club sharing fascinating stories about the Schuyler sisters. Until then, Libbie had only been familiar with Founding Father Alexander Hamilton, not his wife and her sisters.
“The other three were out here earlier,” Kate said with a visible shudder. She
wasn’t exactly an animal person. She didn’t like anything that involved extra mess. Libbie had been surprised when Kate ended up giving birth, not just once but three times. In typical Kate fashion, she’d made it look easy and had even bypassed the epidural for the third one.
“They’ve been climbing all over the fallen tree in the backyard,” Rebecca said. “It’s too dark to see now, but one of the trees got split in half by lightning the other night.”
“It fell clear of the house, thank goodness,” Julie added.
Libbie regarded Inga. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, but it’s a shame about the tree.”
The older woman appeared pained. “The circle of life, my dear. Trees are as vulnerable as we are.”
“That tree did better than most,” Rebecca said. “It was huge. I bet it was close to a hundred years old.”
Libbie knew the exact tree she meant, a majestic oak tree with a thick base and a dozen twisted branches that seemed to reach for the other trees around it.
“Oh, and Kate also shared some exciting news,” Julie said.
Kate practically blinded her with a smile. “I hit a million subscribers on my YouTube channel.”
Libbie inhaled sharply. “That’s incredible. Go you!”
“The secret’s out,” Julie said. “Now everyone knows what we already knew, that you’re an inspiration.”
“Not everyone,” Kate pointed out, completely serious. “A million other people. That’s only a fraction of the number needed for world domination.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Rebecca said. “Three kids, a husband, your own successful business, and you still manage to have a killer body.”
Kate brought her glass to her pale pink lips. “When you love something, it never feels like work.”
Inga snorted. “I’ve been married three times. Trust me, at some point, it always felt like work.”
Julie seemed to tower over the older woman as she touched Inga’s shoulder. “You’ve somehow squeezed twenty lives into one. I hope I manage to live even half as much as you have.”
Inga’s wrinkled lips curled into a smile. “Don’t worry, my dear. You will.”
A second cat ran up the steps to the deck, its dark coat nearly invisible against the backdrop of the night. Libbie could see the cat had something in her mouth, but only recognized it as a rotten apple when she dropped it at Inga’s feet.
“Lucky you, a present,” Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose.
“Be grateful it’s not a mouse or the head of a bird,” Julie said.
Inga took a step back from the apple. “I’d rather it was one of those.”
Libbie took a napkin and scooped up the offending item, tossing it into the wastebasket. “Gone now.”
Inga continued to stare at the spot on the deck where the apple had been. “But not forgotten,” she said quietly.
Julie raised her glass. “This cocktail is pure inspiration. I’m glad you didn’t make us one of those special drinks tonight. As much as I love random plants in my cocktail,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “this one hit the spot.”
“I thought as much.” Inga set her empty glass on the bar and waved them closer. “Circle time. Gather around, friends.”
Inwardly Libbie groaned. She hated the compliment circle. She was uncomfortable with any form of attention, good or bad.
“I see that face, Elizabeth Stark.” Inga wagged a finger at her. “It’s important for women to lift each other up.”
“I know, I know. It’s not that I’m against complimenting everyone else.” Libbie dragged herself over to the other women.
“I don’t love it, either,” Rebecca said.
“It’s Kate’s favorite time of the evening,” Julie said, smiling.
“No, the cocktails are my favorite time of the evening.” Kate paused. “But compliments are a close second.”
“I feel like I’m back in preschool whenever we do this,” Rebecca grumbled.
“That’s a good thing,” Inga said. “I highly recommend getting in touch with your younger self if you aren’t already. Children have much to teach us, especially our own inner child.”
Rebecca snorted. “Don’t go Mr. Miyagi on us.”
“That’s not Miyagi, that’s Yoda,” Julie countered.
“No, the speech pattern is all wrong for Yoda,” Kate said.
Inga flashed a look of impatience. “Can we get started before you’ve named every film from popular culture?”
Kate flipped her blond hair over her shoulder. “By all means. We’ll start with Libbie.”
Libbie’s hands flew to cover her face. “Do we have to?”
“Yes, because you hate it, which means you need more compliments.” Kate took a sip of her cocktail and assessed Libbie. “You are the best friend a woman could ask for.”
“You are a fantastic chef, and I would eat anything you make,” Julie said.
Rebecca smiled at her. “You’re trustworthy and responsible.”
Inga regarded her with pale green eyes. “You’re braver than you think and stronger than you know.”
“Isn’t that a quote from Winnie the Pooh?” Libbie asked. She was sure she recognized it from one of the books she used to read to her kids.
Inga shot her a warning glance. “You know the rules. There’s no follow-up to compliments. You can only respond with ‘thank you.’”
Kate leaned over and whispered, “It’s a variation. Not an exact quote.”
Kate would know. With three kids, she’d spent more time with Winnie the Pooh than Libbie had.
They finished going around the circle so that each woman received her share of compliments. Libbie had to admit, as much as she hated the experience when it was happening, she always felt better afterward.
Inga poured another round, and their conversation entered more serious territory, as it often did when the sky was a blanket of stars and a moon as round and bright as a silver coin shimmered overhead. Inga had just finished a story about the death of her second husband, the true love of her life. His death had wrecked her, and she’d been certain she wouldn’t last another year without him.
“How did you get through it?” Julie asked, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I asked myself one simple question,” Inga said.
Libbie watched her closely, trying to anticipate the answer.
“What would Ruth Bader-Ginsburg do?” Kate chimed in.
Inga snorted. “No, but I think that’s a reasonable second choice.” She sipped her drink. “I forced myself out of bed, finally showered, and then asked myself how could I make that experience the best thing that ever happened to me?”
Libbie winced. How could the death of her true love possibly be the best thing that ever happened to her?
Kate covered Inga’s hand with her own. “You make the best of every situation. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Hey, no fair. Compliment time is over,” Rebecca said.
Julie downed the drink in her hand. “As much as I hate to break up the party, I need to call an Uber. My mom asked me to be home before ten tonight.” She groaned. “I never imagined I’d be fifty years old and still making that statement.”
“Why?” Kate asked. “She knows Friday nights are sacred.”
Julie met her gaze. “Because she knows Friday nights are sacred.”
Libbie sighed into her half-empty glass. It was hard enough that Julie had lost her husband two years ago, but to be caring for an ailing mother too...Libbie knew it wasn’t easy. Doris was a challenging woman with unreasonable demands, at least that was Libbie’s impression.
“I hope she appreciates what a wonderful daughter you are,” Kate said. “When I think of all you’ve sacrificed to be home and take care of her.” She shook her blond head, still perfectly styled and not a hair out of place after a long day.
“She’s my mother,” Julie said. “It isn’t a sacrifice.”
“You have a life to live as well,”
Inga said. “Sitting vigil at your mother’s bedside is existing, not living.”
Julie shrugged. “Who else will do it? I can’t afford a full-time caregiver, not that anyone would want the job. The last part-time person I hired quit after three days.”
Libbie knew that story. Doris had cursed and spit and made a general nuisance of herself, until the person quit, and Julie agreed to do the job by herself. It was her mother’s way of continuing to control her, even though she was now confined to her bedroom. Greg had been the most understanding husband on the planet. He’d lived in that house with Julie and helped look after her mother until his own illness made that impossible. That was a horrible time for Julie, caring for both of them. Libbie didn’t know how Julie had managed to get through those dark days without having a complete breakdown. Libbie had helped out as much as she could with errands, grocery shopping, and, of course, cooking. No matter how much she did, though, it hadn’t felt like enough.
“I’ve offered my help before,” Inga said.
Julie smiled. “Thank you, but I don’t think a voodoo doll of my mother would solve the problem.”
“It might make you feel better though.” Inga walked over to the bar and set out five shot glasses. “Before you go, I’d like to make a toast.”
Libbie waved a hand in protest. “I don’t need a shot. The mojitarita is perfectly fine.”
“Nonsense,” Inga said. She poured the clear liquid into each glass. “One shot each, and I’ll let you off the hook.”
Reluctantly, Libbie removed the shot glass from the bar. She’d have to leave her car here tonight, but at least she could stumble home on foot. That was the beauty of a town like Lake Cloverleaf.
Inga raised her glass, and the other women followed suit. “In the immortal words of The Rolling Stones, you can’t always get what you want.”
“You get what you need,” Kate finished.
They tipped back their glasses in unison and drank. Libbie’s throat burned as the liquid passed over it. Although it wasn’t as smooth as she hoped, it wasn’t terrible. She was about to share those very thoughts with her friends when Inga’s hand shot out, and she clutched Libbie’s shoulder. Her empty glass fell to the deck. The older woman grimaced and doubled over in pain.
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