Firefly Summer (14 page)

C
HAPTER
30

B
irdie looked out the kitchen window to see whether David was on his way up from the barn yet, and when she didn't see him, she refilled her glass.

“Have you seen my car keys?” he said, coming up behind her.

She spun around, startled. “I thought you were outside.”

“I was outside,” he said, looking under a pile of papers, “but now I'm inside looking for my keys. I want to be on my way before the Quinn sisters converge on this house.”

Birdie pushed her glass back behind the coffeemaker and continued chopping marinated artichokes for the dip she was making. “What time do you think you'll be home?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Oh, probably late. It takes time to lure these men into thinking I don't know what I'm doing and then steal the pot out from under them.”

“Mmm,” Birdie murmured, knowing all too well her husband's poker skills. “I'm sure they're going to fall for your scheme.”

David chuckled.

“Are the fledglings set for the evening?”

“They should be,” he answered distractedly as he headed back up the stairs to look in his other pants' pockets.

Birdie sighed and sipped her wine—half of her problem was her guilty conscience. “All I need is more guilt,” she muttered cynically, sliding the glass back behind the coffeemaker.

“What'd you say?” David said, coming back in with his keys in his hand.

“Talking to myself.”

“Is that because you're the only one who understands?” he teased, kissing the back of her neck.

“Yep. It's not easy being me.”

“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What are you making, by the way?” he asked, eyeing all the ingredients on the counter.

“Dip,” she said, stiffening at his unexpected display of affection.

“What's the matter?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing . . . just a little busy right now.”

He let go. “Okay. I'll see you later then,” he said, sounding wounded.

“Okay,” Birdie said, pretending she hadn't noticed that her words stung.
Man up,
she thought cynically.
Don't start something you can't finish.
She and David had never talked about the lack of intimacy in their bedroom, and whenever he put his arms around her lately, it just made her bristle because he didn't seem to want to do anything about it. It had just become a sad, unmentionable fact, over which she had no control. “Good luck pulling the wool over their eyes,” she said. “Oh! And let me know if you need a ride.”

“Touché,” he said with a sad smile. “But I'm sure by the time I'd need a ride, you shouldn't be driving, either,” he added, nodding toward the coffeemaker. He leaned over and gave Bailey a kiss on the top of her head. “See you later, old pie.” She thumped her tail and kissed his cheek in return, and as he went out the door, he called over his shoulder, “Say hi to your sisters for me.”

“I will,” she called back and then sighed, relieved to be alone. She pulled her glass out from behind the coffeemaker and took another sip. She loved baking and cooking, especially when she had a glass of wine nearby.

She scraped the artichokes into the bowl along with mayo and grated Parmesan, added a can of mild chopped chilies and then spread the mixture evenly in a pie plate and slipped it into the oven. She put the bowl in the sink, filled it with hot, sudsy water, dropped all the utensils in, and refilled her glass, finishing the bottle—which, she reminded herself, hadn't been full. She rinsed out the bottle and put it in the recycling bin, under the milk jugs and OJ bottles. Then she retrieved two more bottles from the cellar and put them on the counter. She turned on the radio, and set to work washing the dishes.

“Need to go out?” she asked, drying her hands on a dish towel and holding the door open. Bailey struggled to her feet and followed Birdie outside, and while she took care of business, Birdie cut several lush purple blooms off one of the lilac bushes next to the house. She put them in an old glass pitcher that had belonged to her mom, and as she set the pitcher on the table outside, she heard Bailey sounding the alarm. She looked up and saw Sailor's white MINI pulling into the driveway with Remy in the passenger seat.

“Hi, sweetie pie,” Sailor said, leaning down to kiss the top of Bailey's head. “Hi, sweetie pie,” she said again as she gave Birdie a hug and handed her a bottle of wine.

Birdie eyed the plate her sister was balancing in her other hand and frowned. “No dip?!”

“No dip,” Sailor confirmed with a smile. “I thought you guys might be getting tired of it so I made a baked Brie with apricot instead.”

“Mmm, that sounds yummy, too,” Birdie said.

“I just need to stick it in the oven a minute.”

Birdie nodded and then noticed the welts on her sister's face. “What the heck did you do?”

Sailor shook her head. “I know—nice, huh?” she said, lightly touching the poison ivy on her cheeks. “And this is looking
better
—you should've seen it before. Thankfully, I had an old prescription for prednisone.”

“Don't you remember the saying Dad taught us when we were little?” Birdie said. “Leaves of . . .”

“I remember, but I didn't
see
any leaves of three.”

“Well, they saw you, my dear,” Birdie said.

She turned to give Remy a hug. “Blueberry pie?!” she asked, admiring the pie in Remy's hand.

Remy nodded as she handed her sister the pie so she could reach into the backseat for
her
grape-infused offering, too—they all knew better than to show up at Birdie's house empty-handed!

“It's nice you two can share a ride now,” Birdie said, gathering up the offerings in her arms.

“It
is
nice,” Remy said. “Especially since I got to ride in a
cool
car.”

“Don't you think Remy should get a MINI too?” Sailor said, coming around to join them.

“You should,” Birdie agreed. “You deserve to
drive
a cool car.”

Remy sighed. “I don't know. I think I'd have trouble getting used to a new car—all those big gauges are a little confusing. In my car, I don't even have to think. It's like I'm
one
with Ol' Bess.”

“Oh, you'd get used to it,” Sailor assured her.

Remy smiled, thinking maybe she
did
deserve a new car. It would be nice to trade in her old Outback and get something a little sportier. “I think I'd get one like Birdie's, though,” she said, looking over at the Clubman. She frowned. “What happened to your bumper?”

“Just a little fender bender,” Birdie said. “I think someone bumped into it at Stop and Shop.”

“That's a shame,” Sailor said, walking over to take a closer look. “Are you going to have it fixed?”

“Maybe. We didn't report it, so if we do get it fixed, we'll have to pay for it ourselves.”

“That's odd—it looks like something yellow hit you . . .”

“Let's go inside,” Birdie said, ignoring the comment and walking toward the house, but just as she did, Piper pulled in in her old copper-colored Element—the back of which was covered with conservation bumper stickers. Bailey started barking again and Remy and Sailor smiled. Chloe was leaning so far out the window she looked like she might fall, and when Piper opened her door, she hopped out and practically knocked Bailey over with her greeting.

Piper reached across the seat for a covered plate. “I hope you guys don't mind bruschetta again,” she said. “I've been so busy this week, I barely had time to shower . . . and I
didn't
get to stop at the package store,” she said sheepishly, giving Birdie a hug. “Sorry.” She sounded a little flustered and her face was bright red. She turned to give Remy and Sailor hugs, too, but when she saw Sailor's face she stopped. “Oh no! What'd you do?”

Sailor smiled. “I got naked and rolled in it!”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Piper said sympathetically, hugging her.

“It's okay. I'm on prednisone—which has helped a lot. It even makes my other ache feel better. What about you? Your face and neck are bright red—did you forget your sunscreen?”

“No, I don't know what the heck's going on. It's the strangest thing—I just keep getting really hot and turning bright red for no reason.”

Birdie laughed knowingly. “Well, it's about time!”

Piper shook her head. “I guess maybe it is. Nat had the nerve to call it
my
time. I almost killed him!”

Sailor nodded. “Men just can't say the words
menopause
or
menstruation
.”

“I know,” Piper said with a chuckle. “He even said I've been moody!”

“He'd better be careful,” Birdie said with a laugh, “if he wants to live through it! Let's go inside,” she said, remembering her glass of wine waiting on the counter.

Five minutes later, they were all sitting on the back deck. “Look at these lilacs!” Remy exclaimed as she set Piper's bruschetta on the table.

Sailor—who was opening the wine—looked up. “They're beautiful, but I'm not touching
anything
green . . . no matter how harmless it looks.”

They all laughed and Remy watched as she filled four glasses. “Are you supposed to drink alcohol if you're on prednisone?”

“I don't know,” Sailor said, “but I'm not going to worry about it.” She handed them each a glass.

Birdie took a sip and sat back like she was sinking into a comfortable old chair. “I wouldn't worry,” she surmised contentedly. “Whatever you consume, as long as you do it in moderation, you'll be fine.”

Sailor nodded in agreement, watching her oldest sister. Through the years, she'd sometimes wondered whether Birdie had a small drinking problem—
was there such a thing?
It wasn't because she'd seen Birdie drunk—she hadn't—at least not since college. And it wasn't the amount she drank—heck, Sailor drank just as much! It was the way she seemed to
need
to have a glass in her hand . . . and she was always obsessively possessive of the amount that was left in a bottle. But even more than that, she always seemed so utterly content when she had a glass in her hand—it was as if she could handle anything as long as she had a glass of wine. It seemed to be her way of coping—her
only
way of coping.

Birdie felt Sailor's eyes on her and looked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sailor said, her poison ivy–covered face blushing. “How's your ankle?”

“It aches a little, especially at night, but it's getting better.”

“Is David playing poker?” Piper asked, dipping a cracker into the artichoke dip.

“He's trying,” Birdie said with a chuckle. “He thinks he's going to win the pot.”

They all chuckled, knowing David had a terrible poker face—he could never hide his emotions.

“Mmm, this dip is really good,” Piper said, reaching for another cracker.

“It's easy, too. I'll give you the recipe.”

“That reminds me!” Sailor said, jumping up to check on the Brie.

“It's nice the men still get together after all these years,” Remy said, remembering how much Jim had enjoyed playing poker with David and John and the other men in their circle. “Was Dr. Sanders going tonight?”

“I imagine,” Birdie said.

Remy nodded and looked down at her untouched glass of wine sparkling in the late day sunlight, trying to decide whether she should tell her sisters about her most recent conversation with John.

“Have you decided if you're going to your reunion?” Sailor asked, setting the baked Brie wrapped in a golden pastry shell on the table.

“Oh, my,” Piper said admiringly. “I feel like such a schlep with my bruschetta and no wine.”

“Don't be silly,” Birdie teased. “It's
your time
... nothing should be expected of you!”

“Yes, you should be living in the red tent,” Remy said, referring to the book by Anita Diamant.

“I think that was just when you had your period,” Piper said.

“I bet they used it for menopause, too,” Birdie countered. “Women should
live
in a red tent . . . and drink wine all the time. We should be pampered continuously just for putting up with men . . . never mind all the extra stuff we have to endure.”

They all laughed, even Remy, although she didn't really agree. She had never minded putting up with Jim.

“I think you should definitely go,” Piper said. “When is it?”

“Two weeks from tonight,” Remy said.

“Is John still thinking of going?” Birdie asked.

“He is—he asked me the other day if I'd decided.”

Birdie frowned. “I thought you went to see him a couple of weeks ago,” she said curiously, surprised that they'd spoken again.

“I did,” Remy said, biting her lip and trying to decide how much to say—she didn't want to worry them for no reason. “I had to have some follow-up tests.”

They all looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

Remy shook her head. “It's not a big deal. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's nothing.”

“What's nothing?” Birdie pressed.

Remy sighed. “I just had—
have
—a trace of blood in my urine, and I had to have an abdominal ultrasound—which came back normal. But now I have to go for another test to make sure there aren't any polyps in my urinary tract.”