We’re about to adjourn when Phoebe raises her hand. “Were there any book club names in the suggestion box?”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot.” Annell rummages through the folders on her lap, then takes out a stack of once-folded pieces of paper and puts on her reading glasses. “Let’s see.” She glances down. “We have Best Cellars, that’s C-E-L-L-A-R—as in where wine is kept.” One eyebrow goes up. “Second is Reading Between the Wines.” She glances at the group. “Followed by Waiting for Merlot and Wines and Spines.”
Angela McBride titters. There’s a snort of laughter from Chaz.
“There does seem to be a certain emphasis on alcoholic refreshment,” Annell observes. “Because we also have Books & Booze and Bookaholics.” She peers at us over her reading glasses, a smile hovering on her lips. “The last sort of sums up the rest.” Her smile grows as she reads, “Drinking Club with a Reading Problem.”
There’s a low belly laugh from Carlotta. A hoot from Jazmine. Soon the whole circle erupts in laughter.
“Well, at least we know where your customers’ priorities lie,” my mother-in-law says with yet another glint of humor.
“We are a thirsty crowd!” Meena crows.
“We are a prime example of a Drinking Club with a Reading Problem!” Jazmine grins.
Annell waits for the laughter to die down. “It seems keeping the suggestions anonymous has inspired a certain . . . creativity. Let’s give it another month and see what else comes in. All in favor?”
There’s a resounding “aye!”
“Hmmm, sounds like it’s time to step up the competition,” Jazmine says, eyeing Angela.
“You better believe it,” Angela shoots back.
“Nothing like a little mental challenge to keep one’s wits sharp,” Carlotta observes.
“Some of us need less sharpening than others,” Meena retorts.
“Very true,” Judith agrees.
“I’m in,” Chaz says.
Phoebe and Wesley grin.
Dorothy and I exchange a look as we all tidy up and gather our things. There’s that glint again.
Let the games begin.
Seventeen
Judith
Rosaria, our cleaning woman of seventeen years, is disappointed in me.
“I think you don’t need me anymore.”
“Of course I need you.” For the last four and a half weeks, Rosaria has been the only other human being in the house for more than fifteen minutes at a time, which is how long it apparently takes to pay a condolence call or check in on a widow. Widow!
“No.” She looks around the family room, her eyes both sad and accusing. “You don’t.”
I follow her gaze. Every knickknack is in place. The area rug still appears freshly vacuumed. The wood floors gleam. The kitchen is no better. Or worse, depending on your view. The wineglasses are washed and in the cupboard. The stainless-steel appliances sparkle. I can see my reflection in the chrome cabinet pulls. Even the barstools are pulled up to the island in a perfectly straight row, just the way she left them two weeks ago. Although I wouldn’t have believed it when Ethan and Ansley were still living at home, it’s not that easy to trash a home that’s been professionally cleaned. At least not when all you do is wander from room to room in the oppressive and never-ending quiet that even a television laugh track can’t fill.
“Come sit down. Have a cup of coffee,” I say hopefully, moving toward the coffee maker.
“You don’t want to pay me to sit and drink coffee.”
Although it sounds ridiculous when she says it, I am willing to do this. Just to have some noise, another human being breathing the same air.
“Would you like something to eat? I still have . . .”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No more casserole. Not even the breakfast kind. I’m getting fat.”
Ironically, after a lifetime of unsuccessful attempts to lose weight, my clothes are starting to feel baggy. Sometimes I actually forget to eat. Yet I can’t bring myself to throw out the condolence casseroles—not even the quinoa risotto and brussels sprout tater tot ones—because they were delivered with such kind words and good intentions.
Plus, it might somehow signal that I’m no longer mourning Nate, that while I hate rattling around in this empty house by myself, I’m not sure that I miss him as much as I should.
Would I be more devastated if I’d been happier or at least less angry when he died? I honestly don’t know the answer to that or to any of the other questions I keep asking myself. I also don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Which is not all that surprising given that I’m not living enough of a life to leave a shoe print in the carpet or fingerprints on the refrigerator.
Rosaria and I are still staring at each other when Ansley’s daily text arrives.
How ya doing
OK, I reply, not adding the “ish” that rings in my head. You?
Good
That’s great. How’s Hannah?
Good
Great!
You need anything
No, but thanks for asking. I add a heart emoji. I do not add that the only thing I really need is a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
TTY tomorrow
Ansley texts every morning before she leaves for the office. Ethan texts each afternoon on his way to the gym after work—a tag-team system they’ve recently worked out between them to make me feel loved. Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond grateful that they both check in daily, even if it’s out of duty, but while they think of texting as talking, I’d much rather hear their voices. And frankly, why did we send them to college if they’re not ever going to use punctuation?
I look up to see Rosaria watching me. If I don’t give her something to do, she’ll leave, and I’m not sure I can survive another day of silence.
“Why don’t you start down here?” I say. “You know, just give it a once-over. The real work is upstairs. I mean, it’s practically a pigsty.”
Or at least it will be as soon as I get up there and wreak enough havoc to make her happy.
Jazmine
I arrive at Bistro Niko for brunch on Saturday—my second date with Derrick Warren, the first without Thea and Jamal grinning like they’ve pulled off a palace coup or the heist of the century. Already seated, he stands and smiles as he watches me walk toward him, then waits until I’m seated before sinking back into his chair. I look up into his eyes, which reflect his interest, and allow him to steer the conversation, which is light and comfortable as we peruse our menus. He asks how my week went and then actually listens to my answers. When I ask about his, he tells me about a faux pas he made in court, then laughs at himself. His self-deprecating humor is refreshing after the oversize egos and insecure neediness that I deal with on a daily basis.