Between Sisters Part 23

She fluttered the fingers of her left hand. "Divorce wars survivor. That guy over there-the one chewing like a squirrel-that's Harold."

"Maybe you could talk to Claire. It's not smart for her to go into this thing unprotected."

"This thing is marriage, and it's all about faith. Your sister is one of the believers in this world. Don't take that away from her."

"In law school faith is surgically removed."

"My guess is that yours was lost long before that. Don't look so shocked. I'm not a psychic or anything. We tell each other everything. You guys had a rough time of it growing up."

Meghann s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. She wasn't used to people knowing so much about her. Not friends, and certainly not strangers. Her childhood was something she'd never shared with a girlfriend, not even Elizabeth. She remembered how people had looked at her when she was child, as if she were white trash; she hadn't wanted that judgment to follow her into adulthood.

Karen seemed to be waiting for a response. The moment lengthened between them. Meg's heartbeat accelerated. She didn't want this conversation to continue. These Bluesers were too d.a.m.n blunt.

"Okay, everyone, it's time for the games!" Gina yelled suddenly, jumping to her feet.

Meghann let out her breath in a relieved sigh.

"Gina loves games," Karen said. "I just hope no one has to humiliate themselves. It was nice to see you again. I better run. Harold just started hyperventilating." And she was gone, back to her husband in a blink.

"Outside," Gina said, clapping her hands again and ushering everyone outside, where a row of powdered-sugar doughnuts hung at intervals along a sagging clothesline. "Everyone pick a doughnut and stand in front of it.

The guests surged forward, lining up.

Meghann hung back in the doorway.

"Come on, Meg," Gina called out. "There's a place for you, too."

Everyone turned to look at her.

She hurried across the porch and out into the yard. The sweet smell of honeysuckle and roses filled the night air. Somewhere nearby there must be a pond, because frogs were croaking en ma.s.se. It gave the evening an odd, surreal edge-or maybe that came from the swinging doughnuts.

"When I start the stopwatch, everyone starts licking the sugar off the doughnuts. This will tell us who is the best kisser."

A man laughed. Meghann thought it was Charlotte's husband. "If you want to know who has the best tongue, we should be licking-"

"Don't you dare dare finish that sentence," Charlotte said, laughing. finish that sentence," Charlotte said, laughing.

"Go. And no fair using hands."

The group went at it. Within seconds, everyone was laughing.

Meghann tried, she really did, but at her first pa.s.s, the doughnut hit her in the nose and white sugar fluttered down the front of her black Armani.

"Done!" Bobby yelled, throwing his hands in the air as if he'd just scored the game-winning run.

Claire put her arms around him. "And there you have it, the real real reason I'm marrying him." reason I'm marrying him."

Meghann stepped back from the undulating doughnut. Once again, she was the only one not laughing, and her silence settled on her chest like Hester Prynne's scarlet A A.

Gina handed Bobby a CD. "You win. And I must say, none of us will ever look at you quite the same again." She rushed back into the house, then came out with a big white porcelain bowl. "The next game is called Truth in M&M's. Everybody take as many as you want, then find a seat." She went around the group, handing out candy.

Meghann could tell that she wasn't the only suspicious person. No one took a handful. Meg chose two, then sat down on the top porch step. Everyone else pulled up a patch of gra.s.s and sat down.

"For each M&M, you have to tell one thing about the bride or groom and make a prediction for the future."

A groan moved through the men.

Harold rolled his eyes; Karen elbowed him.

"I'll start," Charlotte said. "I have three. Claire has a beautiful smile, and I predict Bobby will keep it on her face. Also, she is a great cook, so I predict he'll be fat by forty. And finally, she hates to do laundry, so I predict Bobby will learn to like the stained, rumpled look."

Claire laughed the loudest of all of them.

"My turn," Karen said. "I'm on a diet-as usual-so I only picked one. Claire has developed a . . . fondness for electrical devices. I predict she won't need one anymore."

"Karen!" Claire cried out, her face turning red even as she laughed.

They continued around the circle, and with each comment, Meghann felt herself edging toward uneasiness. Even the husbands here seemed to know more about Claire's everyday life than Meghann did, and she was terrified that when her turn came to make a prediction, she'd blurt out, I predict he breaks her heart I predict he breaks her heart. She finished her second margarita in gulps.

"Meg? Meg?" It was Gina. "Your turn."

Meghann looked down in her palm. Sweat had turned the candies into red smudges. "I have two." She tried to smile. "Claire is . . . the best mother I know, so I predict she'll have another child."

Claire smiled at her, then leaned lovingly against Bobby, who whispered something in her ear.

"Another one, Meg."

She nodded. "Claire loves well, but not necessarily easily, so I predict," she barely paused, "that this is the real thing." When she looked up, Claire was frowning.

Meghann didn't know what she'd said wrong. It had seemed cheery and optimistic to her, romantic even. But Claire looked ready to cry.

"I'm last," Gina said in the sudden silence. "I have only one. Claire is completely tone-deaf. So I predict that Bobby will never let her be his backup singer."

That got them all laughing and talking again. They got to their feet and closed ranks around Claire and Bobby.

Absurdly, Meghann felt the start of tears. She got clumsily to her feet, realizing when she stood up that those margaritas had been stronger than she'd thought. She turned away from the party. Getting drunk would be the last straw. When no one was looking, she ducked into the house and ran for her car.

She meant to go home, wait up for Claire, and apologize for whatever wrongs she'd uttered.

Then she saw the tavern.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MEGHANN EASED HER FOOT OFF THE ACCELERATOR. THE Porsche slowed to a crawl. Porsche slowed to a crawl.

Through the smoke-grayed gla.s.s of the tavern's window, she could make out the shadowy bodies inside, pressed in close together along the bar.

It was easy to get lost in a crowd like that, where no one asked your name or why you were there. She knew that if she went inside and had a drink-or two or three-she would feel better.

Maybe she would meet someone . . . and he would take her to his place for a few hours and help her forget. Help her sleep.

Experience had taught her that on a night like this, when her inadequacies felt as sharp as bits of gla.s.s embedded in her skin, she would lie in her lonely bed and stare up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. In the morning, she would awaken to a face that was wrinkled and stare into eyes that were tired and sad.

Meghann hit the gas. The car roared to life. She sped down two blocks, found a parking s.p.a.ce, and pulled in. When she shut down the engine and got out of the car, she noticed how quiet the night was. The Big Dipper pointed toward the river.

Most of the stores were closed. Only a few kept their signs illuminated. Every twenty feet or so a green wrought-iron streetlamp tossed light downward, creating a lacy, scalloped pattern along the darkened boardwalk.

Meghann settled her shoulder strap in place, clamped her elbow tightly against her purse, and started for the tavern. She didn't falter when she reached the open door, just turned and walked in.

It was like a hundred other taverns she'd been in. Smoke collected along the acoustical tile ceiling, trailing like ghostly sleeves below the inset lighting. The bar ran the length of the room on the right side, a huge mahogany piece that had to be a hundred years old. The mirror behind it was at least six feet long, veined in strands of gold and aged to a tarnished silver. In it, the patrons looked taller and thinner, a fun-house mirror for people too drunk to notice.

She saw the people cl.u.s.tered along the bar, seated on wooden stools. The pitchers outnumbered the people, and there was a lit cigarette in every hand.

Those were the hardcore drinkers, the folks who found their bar stools at 10:00 A A.M. and climbed aboard.

Scatted throughout the left side of the room were round tables; most of them were full. In the smoky background, she saw the faded outline of a pool table, heard the clackety-thump of a game in progress. An old Springsteen song played on the jukebox. "Glory Days."

Perfect. It had probably been chosen by the guy sitting at the bar who wore a red-and-white letterman's jacket. He'd long ago lost all his hair.

She moved into the haze. Her heart beat faster: Smoke and antic.i.p.ation made her eyes water. She walked to the closest empty s.p.a.ce on the bar, where a tired-looking man was busily wiping up a spill. At her arrival, he sighed and looked up. If he was surprised by her-after all, women like her didn't show up alone in seedy taverns every day-he hid it well.

"Whaddaya want?" He threw down the rag and grabbed his cigarette from an ashtray.

She smiled. "Dirty martini."

"This is a tavern tavern, lady. We don't have an H license."

"It was a joke. I'll take a gla.s.s of white wine. Vouvray, if you have it."

"We have Inglenook and Gallo."

"Inglenook."

He turned and headed down the other way. In a moment, he returned with a gla.s.s of wine.

She slapped her Platinum credit card on the bar. "Open a tab."

The jukebox clicked, then buzzed. An old Aerosmith song came on. She had a sudden flashback to her youth-standing front and center in the Kingdome, screaming out her love for Steven Tyler.

She took her card back from the bartender, slipped it in her bag, and headed toward the nearest table, where three men sat, talking loudly.

Normally, she'd find an empty table, sit down, and wait to see who came on to her, but she felt jittery tonight, nervous. She was tired of being alone.

"Hey, boys," she said, gliding into an empty s.p.a.ce between two of the men.

Their conversation stopped. The sudden silence made her teeth ache. That was when she noticed that they each wore a wedding ring.

She kept her smile in place. It wasn't easy.

"Hi," one of the men said, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Hi."

"Hi." The others followed suit. None of them made eye contact.

"I have to run, guys," the first one said, pus.h.i.+ng back from the table.

"Me, too."

"Me, too."

And just like that, they were gone.

Meghann waved at their backs, said brightly, "See you again, soon. Drive safely." Just in case anyone had witnessed her humiliation.

She counted silently to five, then turned around. There was another table, not too far away. This one had only one man seated at it. He was writing on a yellow legal pad, obviously taking notes from an open textbook. He was staring so intently at the work that he hadn't seen her debacle at the table.

She walked over to him. "May I join you?"

When he looked up, she saw that he was young. Maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. His eyes were unguarded, filled with the kind of open-ended hope that came with youth. She felt drawn to that optimism, warmed by it. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. What did you say?"

Ma'am.

"Call me Meg."

He frowned. "You look familiar. Are you a friend of my mother's? Sada Carlyle."

She felt like the old lady from t.i.tanic t.i.tanic. "No. I don't know her. And I . . . thought I knew you, but I was mistaken. Sorry."

She tightened her grip on the winegla.s.s. Desperation came for her, tapped her on the shoulder.

Get a grip.

She headed toward another table. As she came within range, a woman slipped into the empty chair and leaned in to kiss the man.

Meghann spun to her left and ran into a s.h.a.ggy, derelict-looking guy who was obviously on his way back from the bar. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have signaled before I made a turn like that."

"No harm done."

He went back to his table and sat down. She saw that he was slightly unsteady on his feet.

She stood there, alone in the midst of the crowded bar. There were three men back at the pool table. Two of them looked dangerous, dressed as they were in black leather and chains. The third man had so many tattoos on his bald head that it looked like earth as seen from s.p.a.ce.