Sweat prickled across my brow and under my arms. I said, “You must be joking.”
“No. So I called The Jerk’s office Monday morning, got the secretary, gave the name of one of his patients, and said I had a problem with my checkbook. What day had I come in? Said I thought it was last Friday morning. She said no way because the doctor was at the hospital for an induction at eight.” She paused. “So I called a nurse I know at Lutheran and got a confirmation.”
I took a bite of the sliced baguette. It was warm, moist, and could not have come out of the oven more than twenty minutes before. Minced fresh basil speckled the unsalted butter. Food always made pain recede. I said, “Why did you think John Richard would even care what Philip did?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, don’t. You can’t possibly be that naive.”
“How could he be jealous? We’ve been divorced for four years!”
Marla spread the soft herbed butter to the edge of another chunk of baguette. She said, “You’re joking. You start going out with Miller. The Jerk starts driving by your house, making anonymous phone calls, giving you a hard time. Jealousy, I’m telling you.”
“Ready to order, ladies?” said the same waitress who had helped me get up. “Or do you still need a little time? That was a horrible thing out there. Unbelievable.” While she was talking, the manager came up to see if I was okay. In a tone I tried not to think of as accusing, he said the rest of the staff was out cleaning up the mess. Then he swished off and we quickly ordered the tart, greens with vinaigrette, and coffee.
I turned Marla’s words over in my mind as the coffee arrived. It tasted like sludge. When the waitress had gone, I said defensively, “I went out with Tom Schulz for four months.”
Marla waved off this comment with both hands. “Please. The Jerk is not going to be threatened by a cop who looks as if he belongs in the woods with a camouflage suit, a high-powered rifle, and a six-pack. A gorgeous professional fellow, a wealthy shrink fellow at that, is another thing altogether.” She signaled the waitress.
I said, “I never thought dating would cost me the installation of an expensive security system.”
The waitress rushed up.
“Darling,” Marla said to her. “My friend has just been mugged and she needs better coffee than this. Was it made from ancient beans? Do us all a favor and make a fresh pot. Please,” she added with a smile that fooled nobody.
The waitress sniffed. “We serve one hundred percent Colombian coffee.”
Marla opened her eyes wide. “Really. Then it must be from the District of Columbia, honey, and I’m not drinking any more of it. Neither is my friend. So either make us some fresh or bring us tea. Your choice.”
“I’m sorry,” the waitress said, although she didn’t sound it. “Things have been crazy. During your. . . accident the people at that table over there,” she motioned, “stiffed us for a twenty-two-dollar tab. Comes out of my salary.” Before we could say anything, she whisked away.
I said, “Poor woman. Don’t be hard on her.”
“I swear,” said Marla, “I wish that damn food critic would come to this place.”
“That reminds me—”
“Don’t. You don’t want to see it. Have your lunch first.”
“Marvelous. Let me get sick on a full stomach.”
Marla tsked. She said, “Before we got sidetracked by coffee, we were going to have a little mini-meeting. Talk about relationships.”
“Apart from a strained friendship with Schulz, I don’t have any at the moment.”
“But you did.”
Our salads arrived. I thought of Philip, the balloons and chocolate, the lovely inviting smile. I remembered sitting on the deck of my old house each morning. Somebody loves me. I thought of Philip’s rumored affair with Weezie Harrington.
I said, “I cared about him. I thought he cared about me.
“But you’re not sure.” I did not answer. She went on, “You wanted something.” She began on her salad. “Did the two of you do things with Arch? Hike, go to a movie?”
I felt a flood of embarrassment. I was unmasked. I said, “I’ve just been physically attacked, for God’s sake.” I paused. “No, nothing with Arch. Philip used to say things like, It’s nice to have you to myself. Besides, we’d only been seeing each other for a month, and he seemed so interested in knowing all about me. I just was hoping so much for . . .”
She leaned across the table, held my hand snugly in hers.
“Hoped for more than was there? Forget about it, Goldy. Maybe even hold out for the cop.”
I pulled my hand away. “Can we change the subject?”
“Tell me how you’re getting along with my sister.”
I looked at Marla, my best friend. Her probing did not bother me. I knew she cared. Living with an abusive husband all those years had revealed my own skills at denial. Especially when it came to men.
“Are you doing okay with Adele?” she asked again.
I said, “Fine.”
“The general?”
I said, “Ditto. He’s odd, but nice.”
Marla was shaking her head. “I don’t understand their attraction. Of course, I really don’t know either of them very well.”
I said, “Your own sister?”
The red onion tart arrived. The smell of basil was deep and wonderful, and I remembered that, with its high concentration of plant oils, basil was a reputed aphrodisiac. Marla murmured an apology to the waitress, something along the lines of bad coffee making her crazy. The waitress accepted this with a nod and set a pot of tea on the table.
“Take this back pain, for example,” Marla said as she dug into the steaming tart. There was bitterness in her voice. She said, “Fifty-year-olds don’t walk with a cane.”
“The heck they don’t.”
Marla gestured with her fork. “Repressed emotion, if you ask me.”
“What’s this, the psychological.explanation of illness? Give me a break.”
The waitress came up to check if we were okay, and Marla ordered two glasses of chablis. Whatever it was she wanted to talk about, she needed wine to do it: the psychological explanation of alcohol.
Marla waited until the glasses arrived.
“Adele and I were close when we were little,” she said after a few sips. “I mean, we fought, you know, and she was so much older. But we cared enough about each other that when she left for college there were lots of tears, hugs, and daily letters. That kind of thing.”
“And when you weren’t little anymore?”
She lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “You go your separate ways. Her first husband was a doctor.” She laughed harshly. “Runs in the family.”
“Divorce?”
Marla drank again, shook her head. “He died. Massive heart seizure at a cocktail party. One minute Dr. Marcus Keely was talking to his lovely wife Adele, the next minute he was dead in her arms.”
“Good God. How old was she?”
Marla pursed her lips in reflection. “Nineteen years ago. She was thirty-one.”
“How old was he?”
“Late thirties. History of heart disease in the family. High blood pressure, type A, all that.”
To my surprise, Marla had tears in her eyes.
I said, “I thought you didn’t know him.”
She shook her head, drank more wine. “I didn’t.”
“Well?”
She put her glass down and leaned toward me. “Goldy, if you had a sister you’d grown up with, and cried with every time the two of you had to part, and told about the first time you kissed a boy and all that, wouldn’t you think that one of you would seek out the other one when her husband died?”
“And she didn’t?”
Marla sniffed and delicately wiped her eyes with her napkin. “She came out west to visit when our parents retired here. The doctor left her a lot of money. Her way of dealing with grief was to spend it. She bought a place in Sun Valley and part ownership in a condo in Aspen. That’s probably worth a mint. She should sell it. You can’t ski Aspen if you walk with a cane.”