Friday Mornings at Nine (23 page)

Jon squinted at him, trying to make sense of their neighbor’s alcohol-infused logic. Jon had been drinking, too, but not as much as either Aaron or Tamara, so maybe that was what prevented him from making the associate leap. Or, maybe, he just didn’t
get it
because he said with a sneer, “Who are
you
trying to fool?”

“No one!” Aaron laughed uproariously. “No one at all.”

Jon stood there and shook his head. “Whatever,” he told them just before Judge Rhinelander burst into the room, breathless from the climb up the stairs and flushed from too many surreptitious nips of brandy from his hidden trench coat flask.

“The beheading’s gonna start, Jon!” the judge exclaimed. “Wanna help?”

Jon suddenly looked excited, like a schoolboy asked to play at the arcade or something. “Of course.” Sparing Aaron and Tamara barely a parting glance, he stumbled out of the room even faster than he’d entered it, and took the palpable tension he’d created with him.

Tamara giggled—because what else could she do? This whole thing was ridiculous. What had she been thinking before? Giving marriage to the
real man
a try, not just the
vision
she’d created? What bullshit. Neither the real man nor her vision of him wanted to spend any time with her.

She looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to either side. The library loft was ideally situated to expose extensive second-floor views of both the front and back yards. So, even from the floor, if she glanced left, she could see the walkway leading up to the front door, lit with Halloween horrors. If she glanced right, she could spy the fire pit out back, some weird platform or something next to it (complete with a chopping block and a glistening ax, like from one of those atrocious English period dramas they always showed on PBS) and an ever-growing crowd of people gathering around the hosts.

“D’ya wanna see it?” Aaron asked her, pointing toward the right window. “You don’t have to stay in here with me or anything. You can go watch Jon, uh, help murder someone.”

She giggled again. “I don’t think so. But”—she rested her hands on her queasy abdomen—“I think maybe I should eat something.”

Aaron nodded, scanned the room and, with some effort, pushed himself to standing. His gaze fixed on a number of foil-wrapped items taped to the wall. He grabbed a couple of them, peeled away the colorful wrapper on a chocolate ghoul and offered it to her. “Start with this,” he said, popping it into her mouth. Then he unwrapped one for himself and sank to the floor again.

“Thanks,” she whispered, strangely happy to be right there, on the carpet, eating chocolate with him. She had a bad habit of not taking time to appreciate her blessings—maybe everyone was that way—but it was easier to see this flaw in herself when she was drunk, and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake that night. “Thanks,” she said again, “for being such good company. You’ve made the evening a lot more fun for me.”

“For me, too,” he said, but she wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he was just being polite.

“And, um, sorry about Jon,” she said, finding it was always easier to smooth over her husband’s gaffes when he was no longer in the room. “He probably seemed kind of rude. He’s not really acquainted with people in creative professions, so—”

“S’okay.” Aaron waved off her attempt at an explanation. “I’ve heard all the insinuations before, Tamara. From raised eyebrows to more overt criticisms. One of Isabelle’s work pals said I had a stay-at-home-mom life and another informed me that he
knew
I was really just eating pizza and watching ESPN all day. So, I’ve dealt with sneers from men besides your husband. Anyway, I meant what I said. I’m not trying to fool anyone. You can’t impress people by being some glossed-over version of yourself. The truth comes out. The inner slob is always exposed.”

“Or the vain workaholic,” Tamara muttered, thinking of her husband.

Aaron exhaled and gazed steadily at her. He didn’t comment.

Finally, he broke eye contact and nodded toward the right window. “Can you see what bizarre thing they’re doing outside now?”

From what Tamara could tell, Kip and Leah were the reigning King and Queen (though still in their Cinderella story Goth-wear), and they were presiding over the ritualistic killing of the Big Bad Wolf, an honorary sacrificial reenactment, featuring Kip’s brother the Wolf/Chief as the symbolic victim.
Bizarre
didn’t begin to describe it.

“It’s like the worst of the original fairy tales pimped out with Halloween macabre,” she said. “I’m
not
going out there.”

Aaron shrugged. “Fine with me. Guess we’d better eat more chocolate then.” He nabbed another candy from the wall, ripped off the foil and fed it to her.

Back by the refreshments table, Candy and her husband left the room to find a good spot for the show in the backyard, and Graham, not willing to head out of doors without another black beer for sustenance, slid away from Bridget’s side.

“I’m just gonna get a refill,” Graham said, holding up his cup, “and say hi to Nick over there.”

Bridget said, “All right,” and watched as he strode over to another of his construction pals and slapped his back.

She stood by the edge of the table, still within hearing distance of her husband, but choosing to zone out a little now that it was so close to midnight. She’d been appropriately social and pleasant all night, but she realized too late that she hadn’t explored any room beyond this one and, in fact, hadn’t been out of Graham’s eyesight for the whole evening. Not that she would have done anything more devious than poke around the Wieners’ house (and, okay, maybe take a quick peek in their pantry—not in their medicine cabinet, though!), but it kind of bothered her that she had been so predictable. That she had let herself get harassed by the ballet instructors, hadn’t gossiped about anything worth the effort and basically acted like a surrogate hostess whenever someone had a question about the party food.

Not for the first time (or even the first fifty times) that night, she wished Dr. Luke would have been there. Maybe she would have been able to chat with him in another room, like the kitchen. Maybe they would have inspected the Wieners’ cookbook collection or checked out their hanging copper saucepans. Maybe he would have spoken
to
her, not
at
her, and she would have been able to lose her self-consciousness in the joy of that.

She tugged at her red cloak until it rested warmly against her shoulders and adjusted her hood. Then she glanced one last time at the table. She and Graham were going to have to go outside in a minute if they wanted to catch the final, gory act of the evening.

She looked at her husband, who was still talking with his friend, reached for a wall chocolate out of habit, then pulled her arm back. No! She wasn’t going to blindly grab more junk food. She just
wasn’t.
But a cold voice next to her made her jump.

“What? Did the skeleton on the wall scare you? Tell you not to eat anything unless it was
Italian?
” said that frightful voice, and Bridget realized it belonged to none other than Dr. Nina, who’d dressed herself up as Glenda the Good Witch. Yeah. At least she got the witch part right.

Bridget said, “Um,” but mostly stared at her. It was odd to even hear the woman speak. The female dentist had spent the past two weeks ignoring her so completely in the office that Bridget had begun to believe she was invisible to Dr. Nina, like an audience member was to a lead performer when the houselights were out and the show was in progress. Glendale Grove’s very own production of
Wicked
.

“I talked to my sister Nancy this week,” Dr. Nina said loudly. “She said she’d met you downtown. Ran into you and Dr. Luke having lunch together. Said the two of you looked
awfully cozy
for not being related.” Her ice-chip eyes pierced Bridget with their frigidity, her narrow lips thinning to painted horizontal lines two inches above her pointy white chin.

This knowledge of Nina’s was a revelation to Bridget. Until that moment, she hadn’t gotten any vibes from the Witch that clandestine behavior at the dental group was suspected by anyone. Perhaps Bridget and Dr. Luke had been oblivious to the signals they were sending. Perhaps they had been a subject of office gossip without being aware of it. But, still, they were hardly lewd. So what if they chatted a lot? They were friends. Friends talked to each other.

She opened her mouth to tell Dr. Nina this, but the other woman beat her to the punch.

“Oh, I know you both think you’re being subtle, but it’s a slippery slope, Little Red Riding Hood. Better watch who’s riffling through your basket of goodies.” Dr. Nina pivoted away from the table, clearly intending to march away, while Bridget was tempted to fling the contents of a Poisoned Appletini at her in hopes that she’d melt. But, to both their surprise, another voice joined the conversation.

“Hey there,” Graham said to Dr. Nina, a black beer and a wienie on a toothpick in his left hand, his right hand extended out to her. “Don’t think I know you. I’m Graham, Bridget’s husband.”

Dr. Nina’s eyes grew wide and a cloud of some emotion—possibly regret, but Bridget wouldn’t bet on it—passed over the woman’s face. She swallowed and shook Graham’s callused hand with her bony one. “I’m Dr. Nina Brockman-Lew—” She cut herself off and her stiff posture slackened for a moment. “Nina Brockman,” she corrected. “It’s very nice to…” She stopped and sighed. “Oh, hell. Are those things spiked?” She pointed to the green tequila-infused Kool-Aid cups.

Graham nodded. “Sure are.”

“Thanks.” Nina grabbed one and beat a hasty retreat. Which left Graham and Bridget facing each other with nothing but a basket, a bloody wienie and a black beer between them.

The expression of hurt on her husband’s face left her with no doubt that he’d overheard Dr. Nina’s allegations. Graham set down his toxic-looking beverage, tossed out the ketchup-dripping snack and turned slowly back to her. “So, you went downtown…with another guy? That gay dentist from your office?”

Before Bridget could consider the implication of her words, she blurted in exasperation, “Dr. Luke is
not
gay.”

Graham leveled a serious look at her. “Exactly. Sounds like you got lots of little secrets at that office of yours.” He paused. “What the hell else has been going on over there that I don’t know about?”

The Emperor, still wearing only a crown and those beige briefs, burst into the room with the pronouncement, “The ceremony’s starting, everyone!”

Bridget said, “We should talk, Graham. But please—could we do it at home?”

Her husband nodded, the flash of distress in his eyes causing her to feel a scarlet wave of shame as they rushed out of the room. He said, “Yep. Let’s get this dumb show over with so we can go.”

With a heart full of dread and a silent prayer to the God she felt she’d been disobeying lately (in hopes He would help her anyway), Bridget agreed and followed Graham to the backyard.

In the living room, Jennifer felt the vibration of the phone in her palm and knew David waited on the other end of the line. With Michael still in the bathroom, she figured she’d have at least a few minutes to talk. And she needed to tell David to stop the constant messaging. That was how she talked herself into answering.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she told him, cowering in an empty corner of the room, which suddenly seemed much more open considering the mass exodus outside.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” David said simply. “What’cha doing now, Goldilocks? Have any porridge at the party?”

“No. Just an oatmeal-raisin cookie. And kind of a weird green drink.”

“Sounds like frat party wackiness. I’m betting you got in some damn good people-watching tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said, glad someone could understand the incredible level of information overload that hit an introvert like her at one of these gatherings. And how she felt about the social element of it, too. She couldn’t lose herself in an event like this, not the way Tamara could. Nor could she interact in some sweet and meaningful way one-on-one like Bridget. No. She could only watch the spectacle like the outsider she was and try to withstand the three-hour-long pummeling. Had Michael truly been
company
for her that night, and not merely another source of tedium, maybe she could have carved out an itty-bitty niche of enjoyment despite the cacophony. But neither “fitting in” nor “fun” were in the cards for her this time.

“Do you have a minute? Can you tell me about it? I miss seeing the world through your window, Jenn.”

In spite of her frustration with the evening and her irritation with him for his text intrusions, she agreed. “Fine. But
only
for a minute.” She described the trio of lipstick ladies she had overheard earlier, complete with conversational snippets. She gave him a ten-second rundown of the Wieners and the other party guests in their fairy-tale costumes. And she explained the setup for the “beheading ceremony” set to begin any moment.

David laughed on the line, injecting a previously absent bolt of amusement into her night. “Thank you,” he said when, really, for this tiny sliver of delight he had passed along, she felt she should be thanking
him
. “That was hilarious. I know you need to go. I just don’t wanna stop talking to you.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to stop talking to you either, but this needs to be the end of our conversations for tonight. No more calls. No more texting. Okay?”

There was a long pause on the line. “Okay, Jenn. But just tell me one last thing. You’re coming to the reunion for sure, right? Absolutely positively for sure? Your husband knows about it and everything?”

It was her turn to pause. She’d kept that weekend clear, yes, but she still hadn’t mentioned the reunion to Michael. A noisy group of revelers skipped by, so she walked deeper into the corner, brought the phone closer to her left ear and plugged her right ear with her fingers. “I haven’t talked with him about it yet, but I’m coming. I promise. And I’m going to tell him all about it. Soon.”