Second Time Around (3 page)

“Liar. Don’t make me send you another ashtray shaped like a blackened lung.”

“Ugh. That thing was grotesque.” Jamie shuddered at the memory and stubbed out the smoke. “Listen, I can’t talk now because I’ve gotta start my shift, but you tell the powers that be that I don’t want any of Arden’s money. I already owe her more than I can ever repay. You, Brooke, and Cait can split it three ways.”

“But her will says—”

“I don’t care.” Jamie’s tone was sharper than she’d intended. “I’m not taking any of that money.”

“But—”

“No.
Non
.
Nyet
. End of discussion.”

Anna paused, then asked, “Did something happen? Between you and Arden?”

Fuck it
. Jamie extracted a fresh cigarette and lit up again. “No. Of course not. What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. But why are you so adamant about this?”

“I love that girl like a sister and she’s only thirty-two and I will not profit from her death. There is no upside to this. Not for me.”

“We all loved Arden,” Anna said softly. “But refusing this inheritance isn’t going to bring her back. This was her wish, Jame. She wanted to give us a gift.”

“Well, I don’t want any part of it.” Jamie dragged on her cigarette and watched the ash crumble down onto her tight black halter top.

Anna resumed her usual authoritative attitude. “Don’t make any final decisions right now. You’ll have time to think it over later when you’re not so shell-shocked.”

Jamie finished her cigarette and tossed the rest of the pack into the trash with a physical pang of longing. “That’s a good word for it. The whole thing is still so surreal. My brain can’t process anything beyond the most superficial details. Like, you know what I was thinking while I was driving to work tonight:
What am I going to wear?
Honest to God. I can’t believe I’m going to go home tonight and open my closet and try to find something appropriate for Arden Henley’s funeral.”

“Knowing Arden, she’d probably want you to show up in that micro-mini leopard print number and four-inch red heels. With a six-pack of wine coolers.” Anna’s laugh ended in a sigh.

“Yeah, I’m sure her parents would really appreciate that. Not to mention the minister. I think I’ll stick to basic black and a purse full of tissues. Are we still on for the airport pickup tomorrow?”

“Text me when you land. I’ll pick you up at the curb.”

“Is Jonas coming with you?”

Anna hesitated. “Um, I don’t think so.”

“Oh?” Jamie waited a few seconds for Anna to elaborate, then prompted, “Everything okay with you guys?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I know you’re holding out on me.”

“And I know you’re smoking again.”

“Well, aren’t we all just jam-packed with knowledge?”

“Love you, Jame. Have a safe flight.”

W
hen Jamie emerged from the break room, the bar manager was waiting with the latest copy of the employee schedule in his hand and an irritated expression on his Botoxed, exfoliated face.

“Why are your shifts X-ed out for the next three days?” he demanded. “We’ve been over this. I let you take Fourth of July weekend off because I’m a nice guy, but you have to work Labor Day. Those are the busiest weekends of the summer, and we need all hands on deck.”

Jamie glanced down and let her hair shield her face. “I get it, but it’s not like I’m traipsing down to Cabo for vacation. It’s a
funeral
.”

“Family member?”

She started to nod and had to correct herself. “Well, not technically. One of my oldest and dearest friends from college.”

“If it’s not a family member, then I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the time off.”

Her head snapped back up. “Okay, fine, it’s my grandma.”

The bar manager crossed his arms. “You just told me it wasn’t.”

“Pretend I didn’t.”

“Jamie.” He closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
“You’re my best bartender, and the customers love you, but I can’t deal with your drama all the time. If you don’t show up to work this weekend, you’re making a choice.”

Her fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette. “I’m sorry, but I have to go to New York tomorrow. It’s not optional.”

“Then you’ll have to find a new job when you get back.”

“Probably for the best.” She lifted her chin and tossed out a little T. S. Eliot. “I’ve been measuring out my life with coffee spoons for too long.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t fire me, because I quit.” She threw back her shoulders and marched toward the break room to collect her belongings. “Dare to eat a peach!”

O
n the flight from LAX to JFK, Jamie sweet-talked her way into first class and gratefully accepted the flight attendant’s offer of red wine, even though it was only ten a.m. She hadn’t been able to sleep at all the night before, and hadn’t bothered with a shower or makeup, so she looked like crap, the upside of which was that she’d be left alone to read in peace.

Or so she thought.

Five minutes after takeoff, the businessman seated next to her leaned in so closely that she could smell the starch in his crisp white shirt. “Good book?”

“Mmm.” She didn’t raise her gaze from the text.

He squinted to read the title on the back cover. “
Wings of the Dove
? Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“A beautiful heiress who dies young and leaves a ton of money to her ratbag friends who don’t deserve it.”

“Pretty heavy stuff for a plane ride.” He took in the
bright blond hair and the boobs and asked, “Are you an actress?”

“Nope. Unemployed bartender.”

“Well, do you have any interest in acting? Because I’m starting a production company and I could really—”

“Look, no offense, but I’m having a bad week and I just need a little downtime.”

“Sure. I’ll leave you alone. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” She turned the page and sipped her wine.

He managed to contain himself for a few more minutes, then leaned in again. “You headed to New York for business or pleasure?”

Jamie put down the book and looked him straight in the eye. “Funeral.”

She spent the next five hours reading in undisturbed silence.

A
rden’s memorial service was even more wrenching than Jamie had anticipated. After the last “amen” echoed off the arched stone ceiling of the Upper East Side cathedral, she straggled back out into the sunlight with Brooke, Anna, and Caitlin by her side.

Anna wiped her nose and drew a shuddery breath. “Well, that was …”

“Devastating,” Cait said.

“Draining,” Jamie said.

“Beautiful,” Brooke insisted bravely. “A beautiful tribute to a beautiful spirit.” Then her lower lip started to quiver. “God, that was horrible. Her mother’s face …”

“Enough,” Anna took one more swipe at her eyes, then
crumpled up the tissue and addressed the other three sternly. “No more crying. We’re supposed to be celebrating her life, not dwelling on her death.”

“I have never felt less celebratory,” Jamie said.

Brooke motioned them in, glanced at the mourners still streaming down the cathedral steps, and murmured, “Did you see who was sitting in the very last row?”

They all crowded closer together. “Who?”

“Jeff Thuesen. He ducked in after the service started, hoping no one would notice him. But I noticed, all right.”

Jamie’s stomach lurched.

“Jeff Thuesen?” Anna’s eyebrows snapped together. “Are you sure?”

Brooke held up her right palm. “I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

“I didn’t see him,” Jamie said softly.

“Oh, it was definitely him,” Brooke said. “He slipped out while the minister was winding down. Afraid to face our wrath, no doubt.”

Anna crossed her arms. “As well he should be.”

“Jeff Thuesen.” Cait scowled. “What a piece of work.”

Jamie stared down at the concrete and concentrated on the cacophony of idling diesel engines and car horns in the street behind them.

“Seriously,” Anna said. “He breaks Arden’s heart, ignores her for ten years, and then has the chutzpah to show his face at her
funeral
?”

“I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.” Brooke clicked her tongue. “It’s a little late to be playing the contrite ex-boyfriend now. He ruined her life.”

“Let’s not get carried away here.” Cait tilted her head.
“I wouldn’t say he
ruined
her
life
. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not defending him, but Arden had a lot going for her: a great job, a great family, great friends.”

“Okay, then, he ruined her love life.” Brooke’s eyes flashed. “Who did she date after they broke up?”

Cait sighed. “Well …”

“Exactly. No one. She spent the rest of her life alone. Completely and utterly alone.”

Jamie covered her face with her hands and started to shake.

“Jamie? You all right?”

“It’s okay.” Cait pulled her in for a hug. “I feel the same way. I just want to go back to the hotel, close the curtains, and spend the rest of the day in bed.”

The four friends huddled in silence for a minute, keenly aware of the absence of the fifth.

Then Anna straightened up and said, “No one’s going to bed. We’re all spending the rest of the day together, because that’s what Arden would have wanted. No roommate left behind.”

Cait rolled her eyes. “What a tyrant. You can’t force camaraderie at a time like this.”

“True. But I can force you all to eat dinner. We need to keep up our strength. Come on, we’ll find someplace dark and quiet.”

“You’re so practical,” Brooke marveled.

“Well, one of us has to be, and since you’re too sweet to be bossy, and Jamie has impulse control problems, and writers like Cait are impractical by definition, I’m it by default.” Anna strode toward the corner and shepherded them along.

“I’m not a writer,” Cait protested.

“And I’m not that sweet,” Brooke said. “Just well-mannered. There’s a difference between being polite and being a pushover.”

They turned to Jamie expectantly.

“What? We all know I have impulse control problems.” She shrugged. “I don’t think anyone can dispute that.”

A tinkly ringtone emanated from Brooke’s black patent leather clutch. “That’s my cell phone.” She opened her bag and checked caller ID. “Excuse me for one second. This is important.”

While Brooke stepped away, the conversation turned to the million-dollar bombshell Arden had detonated via her will.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Anna said. “When her lawyer called, I was just … poleaxed.”

“‘Poleaxed’?” Cait grinned. “Do you get a triple word score for that?”

“I already told you, I’m not taking that money,” Jamie said. “You can have my share.”

“Mine, too,” Cait agreed.

“No, I can’t!” Anna cried. “Don’t you see? She wasn’t just giving us money, she was trying to give us an opportunity. Cait, you could take a sabbatical and finally pound out that novel. Think of it as the Arden Henley Literary Fellowship.”

“I can’t.” Cait fidgeted with the pearl pendant at the hollow of her throat. “I have a job. I have responsibilities.”

“I don’t have either, as of yesterday.” Jamie recounted the details of her termination.

Cait looked incredulous. “And you still refuse to accept an inheritance?”

“Do you have any idea how many overpriced bars there are in Los Angeles?” Jamie said. “I’ll be serving up shots to
the black-AmEx crowd again by the end of the week. Or, you know, my apartment lease is up at the end of the month. I may just pack it in and move on. I’m sick of the Hollywood scene. I’ve been thinking about Santa Barbara or maybe Vegas.”

“Well.” Brooke had finished her phone call and was waiting patiently at the periphery of the discussion. “You could always come live with me.”

Jamie waved this away. “Thanks for the offer, hon, but I’ve seen your apartment. I’d have to sleep in the closet, and I wouldn’t want to displace all your shoes.”

“Don’t worry about space. I’ve got lots of problems, but space isn’t one of them anymore.” Brooke’s smile flickered, and Jamie couldn’t tell if she was excited or dismayed. “In two weeks, I’m going to have a spare room. Six spare rooms, actually.”

“You’re moving?”

Brooke nodded, her blue eyes huge. “That was my real estate agent on the phone. I just agreed to buy Henley House.”

B
rooke Asplind had spent most of her life searching for home. Raised in a big white house by a creek in rural Alabama as the youngest of five sisters, she had been the bashful bookworm in a family of athletes and extroverts. As her mother frequently remarked, “Our little Brookie’s no Southern belle. She’s too busy daydreaming to date.”

Brooke had shocked everyone—herself most of all—when she turned down admission to Tulane and Ole Miss to attend Thurwell College, a tiny liberal arts school in upstate New York. Thurwell’s reputation for academic excellence held no sway with her family and friends. “Why on earth
would you want to go so far away?” they asked. “You’ll drop out and come home crying before Thanksgiving.” At Thurwell, her accent relegated her to the role of a dainty hothouse flower who didn’t stand a chance amid the crush of cutthroat competitors from the finest prep schools in the Northeast.