The Dirty Girls Book Club (38 page)

“I don’t give a crap,” Duffy said. “Not when you’re on the ice. And you can’t give a crap. None of that stuff exists. You hear me, men? It doesn’t exist.” He gazed at them, forcing each player to meet his eyes.

Then he went on. “You ask Stu, does he want you guys worrying about how he’s doing? Hell, no. He wants you winning the Cup and giving him his chance to skate with it.”

Now backs were straightening, heads nodding, and despite the players’ exhaustion, a fresh sense of purpose and optimism filled the locker room.

Georgia didn’t really want to go to book club on Monday, but then, she didn’t really want to do anything except mope around feeling sorry for herself.

She’d done that after Anthony’s death, until she decided she didn’t want to be that kind of person. Nor did she now, especially when her loss was such a tiny thing in comparison. Her husband had been her soul mate. Woody’d been, at most, the fragile hope of a second chance at love.

She’d been silly to hope, and it was her own damned fault she felt so rotten.

Lily had picked the location for this afternoon’s one-hour club meeting: the lounge at the Fairmont Hotel Vancouver.

When Georgia arrived, she gazed around the room. Its classic elegance—dark wood, upholstered chairs, and a man playing a grand piano—was marred slightly by the two huge TV screens on either side of the mid-room bar. One showed a boxing match and the other a football game. No hockey, thank heavens.

She spotted Lily, alone at a table where two club chairs upholstered in dull gold faced a small burgundy and gold sofa. The doctor sat in one of the club chairs, her usual martini in front of her, half-finished.

Georgia took the other club chair and forced her lips to smile. “Hi.” She gestured to the martini glass. “You’ve been here awhile?”

The other woman had a Scandinavian look, with her very light hair and striking pale blue eyes. Right now those eyes looked a little dazed, as if she’d been deep in thought; then she focused on her martini glass. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Everything okay?” she ventured.

A crease furrowed Lily’s forehead. “I’m trying to figure out some work issues.”

The waitress came to take Georgia’s drink order. Normally, she’d have gone with wine, but now she said, “I’ll have a martini too.”

Then she turned to Lily and said hesitantly, because, after all, they weren’t exactly friends yet, “Want to talk about it?”

“Thanks, but really, it’s nothing. How about you?” Lily studied her with a doctor’s critical eyes. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Not well.”

“What are you going to do about that?”

The straightforward question brought a rueful smile to Georgia’s lips. “Good question. I’d rather avoid drugs.”

“Exercise,” Lily said. “Exercise until you’re exhausted. That might help.”

Was that what she’d been doing herself? She looked lean and toned in a sleeveless white shirt, but more tired than full of energy.

As Georgia tasted the delicious and potent martini the waitress served her, she almost wished she and Lily could let down their hair and share their worries. That was the problem with a secret affair: when it went south, there was no shoulder to cry on. Instead, she
said, “I’ve never been into strenuous exercise, but I am planning to take self-defense lessons.”

“That’s a great idea. I’ve taken them. I’ll give you the name of the place.”

Georgia had just finished noting it down when Kim hurried over, followed by a breathless Marielle. The pair studied the drinks menu and made their selections, Kim choosing an amber ale and Marielle ordering something called a Blanc de Fraises. Lily, whose martini glass was almost empty, ordered another.

Kim, still sporting caramel streaks and nails, turned to Georgia. “Bummer about the Beavers. Their luck’s sure up and down.”

“It is. But I’d rather talk about the book, okay?”

“I’d rather talk about those hot photos of Woody.” Marielle winked. She was in jeans again, and her black tee sported a few dog hairs.

“Yes, they were hot,” Georgia said resignedly, “and the campaign’s going well, but it’d sure be better if the Beavers won the Stanley Cup. There, we’ve talked about it.”

“Thank you,” Lily said. “Finally, someone else understands the concept of a book club. Now, did everyone finish the book? What did you think?”

Kim leaned forward. “I really wanted Emma and the Comte to fall in love and end up together.”

“I admit,” Lily said, “I rather hoped the same. He educated her, and I hoped she’d educate him.”

“Reform the rake?” Marielle asked, flicking her wavy dark hair back from her face.

Lily and Kim both nodded.

Marielle turned to Georgia. “How about you? Did you want the two of them to walk down the aisle?”

“Ha.” Maybe at one point she’d secretly hoped for that, but she
knew it wasn’t realistic. “The Comte didn’t have the slightest desire to change.” Just like Woody. A future of puck bunnies and condoms stashed at the ready no doubt sounded like heaven to him. “And if he didn’t change, then Emma would be crazy to fall in love with him because he couldn’t possibly give her what she wanted. And deserved.”

Lily cocked her head. “You sound a little, uh, bitter. Did the story strike a personal note for you?”

Embarrassed, Georgia muttered, “Maybe.”

The waitress delivered Kim’s and Marielle’s drinks and Lily’s second martini. Marielle promptly picked up the flute glass filled with a frothy pink concoction, sipped, and purred satisfaction. Lily lifted her glass too.

Kim didn’t touch hers. She gazed steadily at Georgia, the serious expression in her near-black eyes a contrast to the playful caramel streaks in her spiky hair. “It brings up these issues, right? About sex and love, and what women want—and deserve, like you said—out of relationships.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “It makes you think about the relationship you’re in.”

Was that why she’d agreed to have drinks with the guy she’d met at the game last week?

Georgia nodded agreement, and noticed Lily was doing the same.

“That’s why it’s better to do things my way,” Marielle said. “Lots of guys, lots of fun, and no angst.” Normally, she was breezy, joking, chiding them, bursting out with her own ideas, but now she seemed subdued. Almost as if she didn’t really believe what she was saying.

Lily studied Marielle. “That’s fine for a while. But people are meant to bond with others.”

“I bond with lots.” She sounded a little defensive. “And I’m happy on my own too.”

“So am I,” Georgia put in. “And it’s better being on your own than with the wrong person.”

She expected the others to jump in, either to agree or disagree, but all three of them picked up their drinks and took a sip. Georgia realized the pianist was playing the classic “When a Man Loves a Woman.” How depressing.

Finally, Kim said, “Anyhow, once I got my head around the fact that the Comte wasn’t going to turn into the man I wanted him to be, then, yeah, I liked the ending. The story’s about Emma, isn’t it? Not about him.”

Happy to be back on the book, Georgia said, “Yes. It’s called
The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead
, and she sure did get a sexual education, but she got more than that. She grew up. She figured out who she is as a woman, and how she wants to live her life.”

“Knowing what you want is one thing,” Lily said, “but the universe won’t necessarily deliver it.”

“Which is why,” Marielle said, “you have to be happy with yourself, by yourself. And I think Emma’s going to be. She’ll take lovers, and have a wonderful time.”

“No,” Georgia said. “She’ll find that one perfect man.”

Lily studied her. “You’re a romantic.”

Was she? Maybe that was why she’d let herself care for Woody. Perhaps her heart had been looking for another soul mate, even though her rational brain knew Woody didn’t want to fill that role. “She’ll have everything,” Kim said.

“She’ll learn to be happy by herself, and she’ll take lovers and enjoy them, and when the time’s right, that one special man will come along and they’ll fall in love with each other.”

“And I thought George was a romantic,” Lily said wryly, taking another sip of her martini. “By the way, is our book discussion going
off course again? Usually we’re more interested in the writing style, and so on.”

“This is more interesting,” Marielle said. “Look at how we all got caught up in the story. Who cares about the technical stuff? We care about Lady Emma, because each one of us identifies with her.” She turned to Georgia. “Like, not to pry or raise a sore point or anything, but you had some guy you cared about, who you wanted to change, but he didn’t. Right?”

Georgia nodded.

“And isn’t that a futile quest.” Lily said it as a statement, not a question.

“I don’t think so,” Georgia said slowly. “Some men are capable of change.”

“You can never make anyone change unless they want to,” Marielle put in. “Emma was ready, and she wanted to change. The Comte wasn’t.”

And didn’t that exactly summarize Georgia’s own relationship with Woody?

“I feel sorry for him,” Kim said.

“He’s perfectly happy,” Marielle protested, flicking her hair back again.

“He’s stuck,” Kim said firmly. “Maybe he enjoys his life, but it’ll always be the same thing, over and over. That’s got to get boring after a while.”

Would it, for Woody? And was Kim accusing Marielle of being stuck, or did she perhaps feel stuck herself?

Marielle slitted her wide, dark eyes, as if she was pondering a retort. Instead, she said, “Time’s almost up. Next week we pick a new book, so bring your suggestions. More sex, anyone?”

“No,” Georgia said. “I need a break from sex.”

By Monday night, the Beavers had had some rest, massage, and physio. Best of all, Stu had called to say the swelling was almost gone and he could move both legs.

The players who took the ice in the Verizon Center were a stronger, healthier, happier group of guys.

Woody still missed Georgia, but he’d resolved to treat her the way he did his injured body. Yes, there was pain, but when he skated onto the ice, it wouldn’t exist. It sure as hell wouldn’t get in the way of playing the best damned game he could.

He played well, and so did the rest of the team. But the refs had it in for them. The Beavers spent more time in the penalty box than they had in any game this season, and the Caps exploited those power plays.

Federov, the Beavers’ goaltender, almost worked magic, yet a couple of goals snuck in, and the Beavers managed only one of their own. They left the ice three games down.

If the Caps won one more—just one—they’d win the Stanley Cup.

Pissed off, the team gathered around Coach Duffy to hear what he had to say.

“You played well. Every single one of you. And Federov deserves a fucking medal. But, men, it’s not good enough. Back in Vancouver, you’re going to win. The Cup will be in the building, and no fucking way the Capitals are taking it home.”

The players booed and cursed the idea of their opponents taking
their
cup back to California.

“You have to win,” the coach said. “There’s no option.”

Every single head nodded vigorously.

Two days later, Wednesday, in Vancouver, they did win, four-two.

On Friday they were back in DC, with the Cup there in the Verizon Center. The energy in the building was kinetic with the Caps’ fans hungry for the win, and a sizable group of Beavers fans yelling their lungs out. It was damned fine seeing those chocolate-and-
caramel jerseys scattered among the sea of red-and-white Capitals ones.

Both teams were strong, and in the last two minutes of the third period, the score stood at two-two. Coach Duffy sent Woody’s line onto the ice with one command: “Win this one for Stu.”

They poured everything they had into an all-out assault on the Caps’ goal; then Bouchard slipped the puck to Woody, who slammed it right past the goaltender’s head.

The chorus of boos was music to Woody’s ears. Back home, he knew Stu was watching the game from his hospital room and yelling his head off like the fans up there in the stands.

The series was tied, three games each.

Game seven, on Sunday, would decide the Cup. They’d be in Vancouver. Home ice advantage.

And tomorrow night, Saturday, he’d see Georgia. It was the Boys & Girls Club fund-raiser. He’d hoped to go as a Stanley Cup winner, but hell, he wasn’t going as a loser.

And he’d see Georgia.

They’d spoken on the phone a few times and her voice had been cool and businesslike. He’d heard that voice murmur beside him in bed at night, moan as he tortured her with his tongue, cry out when he drove her to release. He hated how impersonal she sounded now, as if none of it had ever happened.

Georgia was driving him crazy and so, in a completely different way, were dozens, maybe hundreds, of other women. Those stupid gonch photos had made him a magnet for even more puck bunnies, and made him recognizable beyond the world of hockey too.

Didn’t women have anything better to do than stare at seminaked photos of guys and tweet their friends to take a look?

Wasn’t it men who were supposed to get off on looking, and women were supposed to be more high-minded? Sure as hell couldn’t prove it by him. If he had to autograph one more thong or scrawl his
name across one more woman’s cleavage, he’d look into becoming a monk.

Might as well. He didn’t have the slightest interest in sex these days.

He told himself it was due to playoff focus, where nothing else counted.

Georgia had watched the last two games on TV.

After a series of losses and Stu Connolly’s horrible injury, the Beavers had their fire back and were on a winning streak.

She was happy for them. Happy for the VitalSport campaign. Happy for Woody, even if she didn’t want to care how he felt.

You didn’t stop caring. That was a lesson she’d learned when she was young, with her mom. Even when Georgia had been mad at Bernadette, she hadn’t stopped caring.

It would stop soon with Woody, though. Right now she missed him like crazy, and her heart ached whenever she spoke to him, watched him on ice, or even thought of him. But they’d been lovers for such a short time, it should be easy to relegate him to “just business” once the Stanley Cup playoffs and the Boys & Girls Club fundraiser were over.