The Accidental Book Club (5 page)

Why, yes. It was that night too.

Her eyes burned and she blinked hard, savoring the pain beneath her eyelids as they moistened her eyes.

“So let me just get a few of Laura’s things, so I can take them over to the clinic,” her father said, heading toward the bedroom. His voiced trailed down the hall as he moved. “Make yourself at home.”

“Okay,” her grandmother said, meekly, and Bailey watched as she moved to the middle of the living room and turned in slow circles. She could hear the grind and thud of her mother’s dresser drawers opening and closing, the thunk of the suitcase being dragged out of their closet, the whine of a zipper being drawn back. Usually, the whine of that zipper heralded the beginning of a mirthless vacation to a trendy destination, everyone squinting balefully into the sun until Laura found the mini bar, Curt found the right cable channels, and Bailey found herself curled around a paperback, lonely.

The grandmother stood, arms crossed, for a few more minutes, then leaned over and began stacking papers on the coffee table. As if that would do any good. She picked up a handful of empty soda cans and carried them into the kitchen. After a moment, there came the loud rattle of them dropping into the recycle bin. She came back, brushing her hands, and bent to pick up something in front of the couch. And then something else. And a third thing. She straightened, setting them all on the couch, then shrugged out of her cardigan and balled it up in one hand, used it to edge some dust off the table, and then the fireplace mantel.

Finally, with a shrug, the grandmother sat down on the couch, crossing and then uncrossing her arms uncomfortably, taking it all in, the disaster that the house had become.

And that was when her gaze drifted upward.

They locked eyes.

Bailey jolted, hugged her screaming knees tighter, lifted her head up straight, pushed her back harder against the wall. But there was no hiding up here, not where she was sitting. And that had been what she’d wanted, hadn’t it? To be so easily found, if only someone had been interested enough to look?

Neither of them spoke. For what seemed like ages, they just stared, each daring the other to be the first to say or do something, anything. Her breathing seemed loud in her ears. Her heart beat like drums in her chest. But she felt still, so very, very still.

Finally, noises tumbled down the hallway as her father came back, carrying a stuffed suitcase in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.

“I think I got it all,” he said. “Whatever’s not in here, she’ll just have to do without until she’s sober. Not like she’s going to any formals or anything.”

The grandmother stood. She grabbed her wadded-up, filthy cardigan, and faced him.

Bailey waited for it.

Waited for her grandmother to out her.

Squinched her eyes shut for the firestorm that would erupt from her father. Her fingers wrapped themselves around her book, a talisman against the storm.

“I picked up a bit,” was all the grandmother said, though. “It needs some real cleaning, but I didn’t think I’d have time to run the vacuum or anything like that. I can stay on a day . . .”

Her father shook his head. “What? Oh, that. No, no. I’ll take care of it. Soon as everyone gets settled.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. You ready?”

Again, Bailey braced herself, and again there was nothing. The grandmother nodded her consent, and the two of them headed back out the front door, her father going out first in his typical chivalrous manner.

But aside from another quick glance up just before pulling the door closed behind her, the grandmother again did nothing.

Which was confusing.

And maddening.

She finally gets someone to notice her, and they don’t bother to say a word.

Why? Why was she so difficult to notice? Why couldn’t she be seen? Why did she have to resort to ridiculous tantrums? Why did she care so much?

Bailey turned and scooted backward on her butt, edging out from behind the rocker, straightening her legs out toward the loft rail. Her knees crackled as she straightened them, and she winced.

And then she scooted forward until her legs were bent, and with a rush of breath, kicked her feet forward with all her might. All too easily, a spindle cracked in half, the bottom of it coming loose from its nails and plunging to the coffee table below.

She grinned, scooted down to the other side of the rocking chair, and did it again. And again. And again. Until all the spindles were trashed.

She could hear him, her father, in her head, ranting and raving, practically foaming at the mouth.
Why in God’s name, Bailey, would you do this?

“Because,” she said aloud, breathing heavily as she gazed down at the splintered mess below. She dropped her worn paperback, which fluttered to a landing on top of it. “Because you never looked up.”

“K
nock, knock!” Jean heard from the entryway just as she pulled a bubbling rosemary chicken potpie out of the oven.

“In the kitchen,” she called, shutting the oven door with her knee. She carried the potpie to the counter, which she’d already arranged for the book club meeting. There were potholders scattered about, serving spoons laid out, even a set of salad tongs, just in case. She knew it was supposed to be a quickie do-over meeting, to replace the one she’d cut short when Curt had called. But she also knew the ladies well enough to know that “do-over” did not mean to skimp on the cuisine. She set the pie on a potholder.

“What do I smell?” Loretta said, scuffing through the kitchen in her house shoes, her arms full of a cheese tray. “My nose is doing backflips.”

“Cheese?” Jean said, incredulous. “You know Mitzi’s going to say it’s cheating to just cut up a block of cheese.”

“Well, Mitzi can just keep her man hands off it, then.”

Jean chuckled, waved at Loretta with a towel. “Stop it. She does not have man hands.”

“And cheese is not cheating. See? We’re both right.” Loretta leaned over the potpie and took a deep breath. “I do believe you are becoming quite the chef, Miss Jeanie. This smells amazing. I can’t wait to get my man hands on it.”

“Thank you, I’m proud of it,” Jean said. “If it tastes as good as it smells, anyway. Did you bring the books?”

“Chuck is pulling ’em over in Wendy’s old red wagon as we speak. I told him to leave them on the porch, and everyone can pick one up as they come in. I’m excited to read it. I hear it’s causing quite a stir.”

Jean picked at the crust, nibbled it. “Doesn’t Thackeray always? I thought that’s why we read him.”

Loretta stole a cheese cube from the tray and popped it in her mouth. “Maybe that’s why you read him. I read him because I think he’s sexy. Where’s the wine?”

“At the table, breathing.” Jean sauntered toward the dining room, Loretta following close behind and palming another cheese cube on the way. Jean didn’t know any more about wine than she did about cooking, but she thought
letting the wine breathe
was something wine-knowledgeable people did. Sort of the oenophilic equivalent of stirring roasted red peppers into macaroni and cheese. “Sexy? Really? He’s kind of . . . loose skinned, don’t you think?”

“Oh, honey, at our age who isn’t? Loose skin is the new black—haven’t you heard?” Loretta saw the bottle, made a noise. “Pour it, Jeanie. It’s not the wine that should be breathing. It’s me. I should be inhaling a glass right now. Maybe if I drink enough, Chuck will get some ideas.”

Poor Loretta. Her marriage to Chuck had once been vibrant and exciting. They were one of those couples everyone envied—a couple with such chemistry, it radiated off them. But after Chuck retired, things changed. He bought a new recliner, and that chair became his mistress. Loretta could barely get him out of it to come to the Sunday dinner table, much less the bedroom. Jean knew Loretta was all talk when it came to men like Thackeray—she loved Chuck dearly and would never lay a hand on anyone but him. But that was the problem—Chuck wasn’t laying his hands on anything but the remote, and it drove Loretta crazy. Loretta’s way of dealing with it was sexy novels, inappropriate crushes, wine, and lots and lots of jokes.

Jean poured Loretta’s wine, and they sat next to each other. “You’re full of it today,” she said, tipping her glass to clink against Loretta’s.

“Aw, what the hell, I’m full of it every day. You’re just noticing it today.”

“Oh, trust me, I notice it every day,” Jean said.

The doorbell rang, followed by the sound of footsteps on the entryway tile. As always, Mitzi and Dorothy arrived together, Dorothy complaining about her sons and Mitzi offering tough-love advice that would make most people wince.

“Hello,” Jean called out, moving into the kitchen to help them unload their food.

“You’re back,” Dorothy exclaimed, wrapping Jean in a quick hug. “How is she?”

Jean shrugged. “I haven’t heard a thing. I can only guess no news is good news.”

“How odd,” Mitzi said, leaning against the counter and eating a piece of cheese. Loretta had been right—not a word about cheating. “Laura of all people. I never would have guessed. She always seemed to have it all together.”

Jean nodded. “I never would have guessed it, either.” Jean hadn’t told them about Curt’s leaving Laura, or about Bailey’s misbehaving. She’d wanted to let Laura have some semblance of dignity. Or had she been too embarrassed herself? Was she that shallow, that she wouldn’t tell her friends about her own troubles, while they told about theirs? No, surely not. It was just about privacy.

As they unpacked, the house began to warm up with heavenly smells—a rich tomato basil bisque, steaming in a Crock-Pot, something sweet and cinnamony in a foil-covered dish by the sink. May, and then Janet, arrived, each clutching a casserole dish in one hand and a book in the other.

“Santa left us goodies on the doorstep, I see,” May said, setting down her cheesecakes and waving around the new book. She turned it over and read a blurb from the back. “
Provocative and timely . . . you will never look at your mother the same again
. Oooh, sounds . . .”

“Provocative,” Loretta supplied, holding her wineglass in the air.

“And timely,” Mitzi added, and she and Loretta giggled.

Dorothy leaned over May’s shoulder to read more. “
Thackeray pulls the rug out from under the outdated American family model of Mother Knows Best
. Ugh, who wrote that?” she said.

“My mother would die if she knew I was reading a Thackeray book,” Mitzi said. “He’s such a liberal, always saving this or that downtrodden somebody or other and going on about war. He’s gay too, isn’t he?”

“Well, I don’t see why that should matter,” Dorothy said.

“It doesn’t,” Mitzi said, a little too defensively to sound completely honest. “I’m just saying if my mother knows best, we wouldn’t be reading this guy’s book at all.”

“We voted,” Jean reminded her, knowing Mitzi’s democratic convictions would outweigh her concerns about Thackeray. “You voted affirmative, from what I understand.”

“Of course I did,” Mitzi said, popping a raw carrot into her mouth and moving toward the dining room with a mischievous grin. “I never did anything my mother told me to. Why would I start now?”

“Starting with marrying Blake,” Dorothy added, picking up a carrot of her own and following her friend, her Keds looking very white against Jean’s hardwood floor.

“Oh, yes, Mother did have a thing against Blake,” Mitzi said, pouring herself a glass of wine. She took a sip as Jean opened a second bottle and passed it down the table. “She thought he was—how did she put it?—horny as a dog with a brand-new humpin’ pillow. And worse, a Catholic.”

The ladies burst out laughing. “Speaking of,” Loretta said, pulling Dorothy’s book toward her and opening it to the About the Author page, then turning the book out for everyone to see. A photo of Thackeray, sitting in an antique maroon chair, a cigar dangling between the fingers of one hand, his hair brushed straight back in a way that looked wet and overly coiffed, took up half the flap. “Am I the only one who thinks he’s sexy?”

“Ew,” May said, sauntering in with a glass of ice water. “Yes, you are the only one.”

Mitzi picked up the wine bottle and waggled it at May. “What’s with the water?”

May looked down at her glass, a hint of disappointment on her face. “Too many calories for a Tuesday. I’m on a diet.”

“Lady, you are always on a diet,” Loretta said. “And you know what? Gravity takes it all in the end anyway. If I were thirty again, I would strike the word
diet
from my vocabulary. I’d let it all loose like a house made of Jell-O.”

“Whatever,” May said. “You’re fabulous. And I’ve seen pictures of you and Chuck. You were a rail.”

“I think you’re beautiful just the way you are, May,” Jean said from the kitchen.

May glanced in that direction, blanched, embarrassed, and then gathered herself. She pointed at the photo of Thackeray. “He looks like a sharpei. You can’t even see his eyeballs.”

“Pshaw,” Loretta said. “What do you know? You dated that guy with the out-of-control mole situation.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Mitzi said, turning to May. She patted a space at the table, inviting May to sit. “How’d your date go last night?”

May blushed, as she always did when the ladies asked about her love life. Never married and with no kids, she was something of a curiosity for the group. Loretta once claimed that her culinary talents were wasted on having no man to share them with, but Mitzi accused Loretta of being sexist, and a loud debate on the merits of feminism had ensued. Jean had sat back and listened, sipping her wine and thinking that Wayne would have loved to have been a part of it, especially when it ended with everyone eating May’s cheesecake bites and drinking the pear wine Mitzi had brought and agreeing that one thing was right—nobody could cook like their curly-haired singleton. Later that same day, after everyone else had left, May had stuck around to help with dishes.

“I have a confession,” she had said, twisting a sudsy washcloth around the rim of a wineglass. “All those guys I’ve been talking about?”

Jean, who was busy covering leftovers, glanced at her. Even at the end of the day, May’s hair was beautiful, effortlessly curly. “Yeah?”

May pressed her lips together, ducked her chin down a bit into the neck of her turtleneck. For someone so young and pretty, May always dressed so buttoned-up and conservative. Or, as Loretta put it,
A sexy librarian horn beast is lurking under there somewhere, but it’s trapped by all those buttons and snaps and embroidered appliqués
. “Made up. All of them. Fiction. Even the guy with the moles.”

Jean glanced at her again, then a third time. “What?”

“I just . . .” May dipped the glass in the water, held it up to the light. “I gave up. On men. And dating. I never liked it. I don’t want to get married. I don’t want kids. I like being by myself. But nobody ever understands that. They think that if you’re alone, you must be lonely, and I’m not lonely. I mean, look at today, right?” She rinsed the glass and set it, upside down, in the dish rack. “If I were married with kids, I’d probably be way too busy to join a book club. I wouldn’t even know you guys.”

“But you’re only with us once a month. That’s hardly the same,” Jean said.

“But it’s all I need,” May said.

She picked up another glass and dunked it in the sink. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . It’s such a scary world. I’m afraid to bring more people into it. Half the time these guys . . . They ick me out. They’re either gross or they’re overgrown babies. They’re divorced because they cheated or they have no job and . . . God, to think about bringing a daughter into this world to face all that . . . I just . . . can’t.”

“I can see that,” Jean said. More than May even knew, probably.

May let the glass float, and made a face at Jean over her shoulder. “I make up fake disastrous dates so I can stay home with my cat and eat takeout in my pajamas. That’s not normal, is it?”

Jean and May gazed at each other for a moment; then both burst out laughing. “No, I suppose it’s not,” Jean said. “But whatever works for you is what is normal, right?”

“Right,” May said, going back to the dishes. “And I don’t make them up for me. It’s just that . . . the ladies, they all want to know how it’s going. It’s like they need proof that I’m at least trying to find myself a husband. So I just give them what they want, you know? And I make them all crazy bad dates so I won’t look weird for not wanting to go on another one. I figure they’re little white lies, so what does it matter? This way I don’t get judged. There’s probably something wrong with me. Do you think?” She went back to washing her glass.

“Of course not,” Jean had replied. “Nobody’s required to do it a certain way. If you’re happy, you’re happy. It’s possible to be happy alone. Look at me.” She’d meant to finish the sentence with something hopeful like,
Look at me! I’m alone and I’m happy!
but she couldn’t make herself say the words. She was alone. But, unlike May, she cared. She still longed for him every day, like a silly fairy-tale princess. And not for
a man
. She longed for one specific man: Wayne.

“Mitzi would think there’s something wrong with me,” May had said.

“Mitzi thinks there’s something wrong with everyone,” Jean had answered, and they’d laughed.

She’d never told anyone about her conversation with May that day, not even Loretta, with whom Jean shared everything. Had Wayne been alive, she might have told him, but otherwise, she’d seen May’s doubts and fears as their secret, and she’d stopped jumping on the when-are-you-getting-married bandwagon whenever the others brought it up. Which they always did. And today was no different.

“Yeah, tell us about the date,” Dorothy urged. “Was it love at first sight?” Jean waited for the lie.

May shrugged, stroking the Thackeray cover. “He was bald. Well, not bald-bald, but balding, so he’s still in denial about it.”

“Uh-oh, comb-over city,” Mitzi said in a low voice.

“Exactly. And he wore a lot of brown.”

“What’s wrong with brown? I like brown,” Jean said. Of course, she was wearing a brown plaid flannel shirt with a brown turtleneck underneath it, which May took one look at and cracked up.

“What? Brown is fine,” Jean insisted.

“But brown and balding on a first date is not,” Mitzi finished. She lifted her wineglass and clinked it against May’s water glass. “I’m with you on that one, sister. Kick him to the curb before he brings out the white socks and black shoes.”

“Can we get back to the dog humping a pillow?” Loretta said, turning the book around again and tapping it on the table. “I do not see sharpei.”

“I think he’s kind of handsome,” Janet said, and everyone turned at once, suddenly reminded that she was in the room with them. This happened often. Janet would finally get the courage to squeak out something, and everyone would stop what they were doing and stare at her. It couldn’t have made her shyness any better. She sipped on her water and swallowed much harder than she needed to. Redness crept up her neck.