During a weekend party at a friend’s country estate, he’d overheard her trying to seduce Ian. When Ian refused, as she was his brother’s girl, she’d explained she was only dating Al to get to know Ian. He’d promptly kicked her out and apologized to Al, but the damage was done. Al had spent the next week drinking until Ian called their dad.
Al had expected his dad to lecture him about never turning to drink to solve problems. Instead, he’d commiserated that sometimes you need to get really pissed so your body feels as bad as your heart does. Once every fiber in your being feels like bloody hell, you can start mending the broken bits one day at a time. It helped him find the first bits to mend: his family.
“Sweetums, we won’t get any answers today. I’m guessing the cuts came from stepping on the broken bottle all over the other room. If you can, why don’t you sweep it up,” Al’s father said. “And I’ll call John. I think we could use his help.”
Katherine rushed off to find a broom.
Al had tried to explain, but it came out only as mumbles. It appeared he drank enough that his mouth no longer functioned. Someone took his bottle away—he couldn’t tell who. Black crept in from the sides until all he could see was his father’s face, mouthing words he couldn’t understand. Then sweet oblivion.
• • • • •
Consciousness came back the reverse of how it went: first a circle of light framing his father’s face, then growing to reveal his worried mum and a serious-looking John. Wait, one difference: instead of his not feeling anything, everything screamed. His mouth tasted like cheap whiskey used to disinfect a toilet, then stored in a dirty ashtray. His stomach agreed. Before he could fall out of bed in the direction of the bathroom, he felt a bucket land in front of him and his father said, “About time. Better out than in.” His mother left the room.
Al heaved until he saw stars, then fell back into the pillows feeling much better. He took stock of all his body parts: stomach woozy but better, head contained a thousand sharp-toothed chipmunks intent on gnawing their way out, feet stung, everything hurt. His father and John shared concerned looks, and Al figured he should explain. He cleared his throat.
“Lesson learned—don’t try to replace blood with whiskey.”
His lips tried to twist into a smile but failed.
“This is not funny, Alastair. Your mother and I—”
“And me,” John added.
“Quite right, and John, were very worried. We came in last night to you barely conscious, sprawled in the kitchen with bloody feet.”
Oh yeah, Al remembered, the glass. That explained the stinging feet. He lifted the covers to see stocking-covered puffy feet.
“We bandaged them and put socks over to keep everything in place. They’ll be fine in a day or two,” said James.
“Thanks,” replied Al.
“That’s it? Thanks?” John said. “I think you owe us more than that.”
Al looked behind his father at John.
“She found out. I went to propose, and she’d found out. I cocked up.”
Al could feel the tears starting to burn behind his eyes again. The whiskey should have dried those up.
“Language, Alastair. And what did she find out?”
Al’s mother came up the stairs carrying a tray full of tea and scones, the same tray Lou had used when he had faked sick. The sight almost sent him reaching for another bottle. Mum made him a cup with just a little tea and handed it to him.
“Now tell us what she—I’m assuming you mean your lady friend—found out,” said Katherine.
Al sipped the hot tea. It helped. It bolstered him enough to admit what he had done. The arrogance, the unprofessionalism, the lies, and the breakup. The last part was new to John, too. They let him finish without interruption.
“You’re lucky she didn’t stick that knife in you. You quite deserved it,” Katherine said when he finished. “That poor girl. Everything she’s been through because of you.”
“I’m not responsible for all of it. She dated that arse all on her own.” Al paused, having put a few things together. “And he may be more involved than I thought.” Al told them about the note card he had received suggesting he review Luella’s several months ago, and the matching card he saw with the Polish dictionary yesterday. He realized now that the DP were initials, Devlin Pontellier’s initials.
Katherine handed out tea to the rest of the group. John sniffed it, then dipped a finger in to taste. Satisfied, he took a drink.
“So you’re just going to let her go?” John asked.
Al looked as if he’d been hit by a train.
“What am I to do? I wouldn’t forgive me. How can I ask her to?”
“She doesn’t know the entire story; from what you said, she thinks you knew the entire time, that this was one big joke on her.”
“You’re right. She should know the entire truth. I can’t let her think I used her,” Al said. Hope blossomed a little in his eyes. “You think she might listen?”
“Don’t be all talk and no trousers. And you can’t tell her anything moping about in bed,” James said, pointing at some fresh clothes on the end of his bed.
“Make her listen. She has an answering machine. Leave a message on that,” John said.
Al nodded, thinking about what he wanted his darling Lou to know most. When his mum and dad went down to the kitchen, John snickered.
“Your name is Alastair.”
“Bugger off.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Then he trotted down the stairs, leaving Al alone with his delicate stomach, tender feet, and a scrap of hope.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE •
She didn’t remember getting home after the dinner. Sue had settled her on the couch with a blanket, some tea, and a promise to call her in the morning. Sometime after Al had disappeared, her emotions shut down. Too much data and too many crashes, and now she was the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She had sat on the couch all night, staring at the calla lily painting propped on her mantel.
When the sun rose, she put on her coat and walked to the nearby Sendik’s, stopping at the ATM on the way. The balance on the screen said $63.39. She took out sixty dollars.
The grocery store was full of harried people finishing their Christmas food shopping. Lou ignored them all. Weaving through carts and shoppers, not deviating from her precise shopping list, she collected her items and paid for them, leaving her with $2.45. She bought a two-dollar scratch-off lottery ticket and dropped the forty-five cents into the Salvation Army bucket by the exit.
Back in her apartment, she unpacked the items (the scratch-off was a loser). She planned to make a roast beef, a pile of mashed potatoes, corn—then mound it into a bowl and drown it in gravy. Some people ate ice cream or pie when depressed; she went for the warm comfort food she learned to make in her grandma’s kitchen.
While the beef roasted, Lou slipped into her pajamas, complete with a ratty bathrobe and bear-claw slippers. When it finished, she took a big bowl, mixed the beef, corn, potatoes, and gravy all together like her dad used to do, and sat cross-legged in the center of her bed. A little eating in bed seemed warranted.
With each bite, her emotions rebooted. Her heart ached, her anger simmered; she had lost her restaurant, didn’t have any money . . . and Al. Al. Al was the fifty-ton straw that broke the camel’s back. Her tears fell to season her food.
Her phone rang and she let it go to voice mail. When the phone chirped, indicating there was a message, she played it. Even though she knew who had left it, hearing the voice yanked at her insides.