Olive Oil and White Bread (20 page)

“First thing tomorrow, I'm going to head over to Home Depot and grab a ton of paint swatches. Are you sure you need to go in to work? We could look at colors.” Jillian poked out her bottom lip, earning the intended playful reprimand from Angie.

“Hey, don't use the boo-boo face on me. I only have to go in for a couple hours. If I get a few things off my plate, Monday will be that much easier for me, and we can look at colors then. Okay?”

“Fine.” Jillian continued to work the pout until Angie laughed. Plates aside and beer cans drained, they sat in silence, Boo's soft snuffling the only sound in the room. Jillian leaned her head on Angie's shoulder and said quietly, “I wish my mom was here. She'd really like this place.”

Angie wrapped an arm around her. “You think so?”

With a nod, Jillian said, “She always liked this neighborhood, and she'd love the layout of the house. She was great with interior design. I wish she could've helped. Don't you?”

“Of course. Especially since she never came to our last house.”

Jillian sighed. “I know. Who knows if she would've even come here? Still. I wish she could.”

Angie pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “She's with you, honey. Don't get me wrong, she hates that you live here with me, but she knows it's a great house.”

Jillian laughed, which—she knew—was Angie's intention.

“It was really cool of your dad and brother to stop by. I think your dad liked the place.”

That remark kept the smile on Jillian's face. “I think he did, too. And I think Brian was really glad you called him.”

“So was I.”

Jillian snuggled down into the comforter. “Time for sleep. Tomorrow is all about color.”

Eighteen

Blue was not Jillian's favorite color, but there'd been something about the serene, almost slate-like shade she had ended up choosing for her studio. Now, as she sat at her desk facing the window, looking out at the lush green of the trees in the backyard and surrounded by the peaceful blue, she felt weirdly artistic. Full of creativity. She'd woken up that morning with the burning desire to sketch with charcoal.

She didn't try to analyze it when the creative bug hit. That lesson was learned a long time ago. Don't question it, just go. Just do.

Sarah McLachlan crooned softly from the stereo in the corner. Boo was curled up on her fluffy dog bed, her big paws with the white nails cradling her chin. Jillian spun in her chair, sketchbook on her knee, and went to work, because really, there was no better subject than her beloved pup. She smiled as she worked, changing charcoal thickness, smudging with her fingertip to shade where necessary. Boo's flanks were hard to get just right. Her nose was easy. Her paws were tough, her ears a bit simpler.

It was early August and hot. Not a fan of air conditioning and how it dried her sinuses, Jillian found herself thankful this house had it. She never cranked it, and she couldn't understand people who did. Angie told her that Keith at work was always turning the a/c down to 65 degrees.
That's not even warm enough in the winter
, Angie would say.
Why is that acceptable in the summer? The office is freezing!
Jillian agreed and set the house a/c at a comfortable 75.

Boo shifted in her sleep before Jillian was completely done with the picture, but it was okay. She could wing it the rest of the way. She didn't want to stop. Something about the sound, the smell, the feel of charcoal
against the paper, the blackening of her fingertips, made Jillian feel more relaxed than anything else. It didn't matter to her that she wasn't a terrific artist. She was okay, and that was good enough. She felt at peace when she was drawing or painting. That was all that mattered.

When the ringtone on her new cell phone sounded, it took Jillian a moment to realize what is was, then where it was. Angie had just purchased it for her, telling her it was a really good thing to have in an emergency, but Jillian still wasn't used to it. She never remembered to carry it with her, causing Angie to point out more than once that having it with her was sort of key to having it help during an emergency. Jillian was working on it.

Following the electronic-sounding ringtone brought her to her dresser in the bedroom, and she picked up just in time to keep the call from going into her voicemail—which was a good thing because she had no idea how to retrieve her messages.

“Hello?”

“Misplace your cell again?” Shay's voice was tight, but held the hint of a smile.

“I don't know why she thinks I have to have one of these. I don't travel for work. I don't go very many places without her. If I'm not at the school, I'm here. Why didn't you just call the house?”

“I was testing you. You barely passed.”

Jillian snorted.

“Mark my words, everybody's going to have one of these things.”

“I know. I'm a relic.” Jillian chuckled. “How are you?” She glanced at the clock, saw that it was still before noon, an unusual time for Shay to be calling. “You have today off?”

The clearing of her throat told Jillian something was off with her friend. “No, I'm at work. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

“What's the matter?”

This time, it sounded like Shay sniffled before she cleared her throat again. Jillian recognized it as an attempt to keep emotion at bay. “I was right about Laura,” Shay said softly.

“Oh, Shay. Oh, no.”

“Yeah. She's been seeing somebody else. She wants out.” Shay sniffed.

“Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.”

“Can you meet me for lunch?”

“Of course. Tell me when and where.”

That night at dinner, Angie kept shaking her head and muttering, “I don't believe it.” She sipped her wine, took a bite of her chicken, shook her head. “I don't believe it.”

“I know,” Jillian said with a nod.

“Did she give any reason?”

Jillian spooned some potatoes onto her plate and blew out a loud breath. “Just that Shay works too much, they've drifted apart, that she's felt that way for a long time.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, how 'bout you talk about it instead of fucking somebody else?”

“Pretty sure that's how Shay feels too.”

“I don't believe it.”

Jillian chewed for a moment, then said, “Laura never called you about it? Never said anything?”

“Not a thing. Frankly, I'm a little miffed about that, too. I mean, I know I said we've drifted some, but we're still friends, for Christ's sake. Maybe I could have helped set her straight before she did something stupid.” She was quiet for a beat, then added, “She's seemed distant lately. I did notice that, but really didn't think anything of it. Now I wish I'd called her on it.”

“I don't know that it would have made any difference. Shay said she's totally made up her mind. Doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to see a counselor. Nothing. She wants out so she can be with this other person.”

“And do we know this other person?”

Jillian shrugged. “I have no idea. Somebody from her office building, I think.”

“God, poor Shay.”

“I told her she was welcome to stay here if she needed to, at least until Laura gets her stuff out of the house. That's okay, right?”

“Absolutely.” Angie pushed her plate away. “I can't eat any more. I feel sick about this.”

That was something about Angie that Jillian loved: her ability to empathize. Coming off like a stoic businesswoman was a lot of work for her because that wasn't really who she was. Jillian blamed Joe's Italian genes for Angie's emotion, and Alice's English genes for Angie's attempts to conceal that emotion. It was quite the battle that went on inside her girlfriend, but at times like this, when the emotion was clear-cut and palpable, Jillian felt like she was really seeing Angie's heart.

“I want to call Laura, but I don't,” Angie said. “I want to ask her what the hell is going on, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be nice about it.”

“She may end up calling you, you know.”

“Yeah.” She was quiet for a moment. “Not sure what I'd say.”

Jillian stood and started clearing the table. Angie joined her. As they were putting the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, Angie said, “We're there, in that spot where we'll have to choose sides between our friends.”

Jillian furrowed her brow. “Why do we have to choose sides? I mean, I don't like what Laura did, but does that mean we can't be friends anymore?”

“It's what happens, babe. You've seen it. What about when we have a party or go out with a group? We can't invite both of them.”

“Why not?”

Angie stopped what she was doing and looked at Jillian. “Honey. Shay has been your friend since you were a kid. Would you really want to put her in the position of having to be in the same room with the ex that broke her heart?”

“But Laura is your friend. Don't you feel the same way?”

“I haven't known her as long as you've known Shay. And . . .” Her voice drifted off, and she simply shook her head.

“You don't like the way she handled things.”

Angie looked at her, her eyes flashing. “I hate the way she handled things.”

Jillian inclined her head. “Me too.”

Nineteen

The New Year's Eve party at Tinny's was in full swing, and at full volume. The stereo was blasting—appropriately—Prince's
1999
. There were plenty of guests talking, laughing, and in varying states of intoxication, some having been there for much of the day. A trio of women sat at the dining room table, talking over a bottle of merlot while two women Jillian recognized from her early softball days were competing to see which of them could stand on her head longer while holding a beer, as half a dozen others watched and cheered them on.

On the television, a muted Dick Clark was pointing out the ridiculous number of people in Times Square waiting for the ball to drop at midnight. Jillian shook her head in awe as she watched.
You couldn't pay me enough to be there
, she thought, watching the throngs of people packed up against one another like so many thousands of sardines. Just the thought of being
that
close to
that
many strangers made her want to wriggle out of her skin.

“What happens if you have to pee?” Angie's voice was soft as she wrapped her arms around Jillian from behind, kissed her temple.

“I was just wondering that same thing,” Jillian said with a laugh. “I think you either hold it or you wear a diaper.”

“I'd love to be there for New Year's Eve.” Angie reached around and pointed to a window on the TV screen, high above the crowd. “But only if I'm in one of these apartments. Warm, dry and near a toilet.”

“Amen to that.”

They were interrupted by the ringtone of the office. Jillian rolled her eyes and stepped out of Angie's arms.

“Seriously, Angie? It's New Year's Eve.”

With a grimace, Angie fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone. “I know. It's got to be an overseas supplier. I'm sorry. I'll get rid of them.” She handed her empty cup to Jillian, moved to a corner and plugged one ear with a finger as she pressed the phone to the other.

Tinny staggered across the room to Jillian. “Hey!” Tinny's voice was booming, not surprising since she'd been drinking since early afternoon. “I'm so glad you guys are here.” She leaned heavily against Jillian, and Jillian laughed even as she worked to help her keep her balance. “Jill. We need you this year. Come back to the team.”

This was not the time to get into it—Jillian was pretty sure Tinny wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow, let alone at the beginning of softball season in the spring—but it was something Jillian had been thinking about. With a glance at Angie, still on the phone, she said to Tinny, “I may take you up on that. You never know.”

“Really?”

Jillian nodded. “I miss it. And I've got the time.” She purposely did
not
look at Angie as she said that.