The Dirty Book Club(29)
“Do you think they wrote about her in their letters?” Jules asked.
“Maybe she was a member,” Britt added. “You know, back in the early days.”
“Okay,” Jules said, “I have got to read those letters.”
M.J. was equally intrigued: the secrets, the books, the history, the possibility of friends. But these girls? They seemed better suited for Oprah’s Book Club than Gloria’s. And what if she ended up going back to New York? The eighth tenet said, if one quits, everyone quits. It wouldn’t be fair.
Outside, a car horn honked.
“There’s my date!” Addie announced.
“David?” M.J. asked, remembering Gloria’s son and how he had bathroom sex with Addie at Leo’s shiva.
“David went back to Colorado,” Addie said, closing her clutch with a definitive snap.
“Oh, I thought he was your boyfriend.”
“Nope, just a buddy.”
Another honk, this one longer than the first.
“I better go.”
“Hold on a minute,” Jules said. “Are you really dating a horn honker?”
Confused, Addie nodded.
“Oh, shugah, you can’t. That man needs to go to cotillion and learn some manners.”
“As long as he hits clit-illion first,” Addie said, fluffing her cleavage and then turning to leave.
“Wait!” Jules said. “What about the you know what?”
“You mean the fake club?” Addie called over her shoulder. “I told you, I can’t do it. I’m leaving in September.”
I might be heading back to New York, so I can’t do it, either, M.J. wanted to say, mostly to show Addie that she was special, that she too was allergic to Costco. But that little girl tugging on her dress wanted to give the club a chance.
“September is back-to-school and back-to-soccer. I won’t have time to read a stop sign, let alone an entire book,” Britt said. “Maybe we should pass.”
“But I’ve never been in a secret club before,” Jules whined. “Well, unless you count my teen pregnancy support group. But after a few months that secret was out.” She held her hands in front of her belly. “Way out.”
Addie kept walking.
“Oh, please, can we at least try? Y’all can quit when you have to.”
“Good point,” M.J. said. “Britt?”
“My kids are gone.”
“Addie?” Jules called. “Pretty please? We can’t do it without you.”
“It’s a trap!”
“I’ll give you a free pass for the Majestic spa . . .”
Addie kept walking.
“For the entire summer.”
“With a guest?”
“With a guest.”
Addie stopped. “I’m not going to read the books.”
“The tenets don’t say squat about actually reading,” Jules pointed out.
“And I’m not going to wear this necklace,” M.J. said, lifting it over her head.
“Hold it . . . ,” Britt said, looking up from her phone, her eyes wide with concern.
“Fine. I’ll hold it, but I’m not wearing it.”
“No, I meant hold the conversation. Where did you say Dan was?”
“Java.”
“That’s near Jakarta, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Britt flashed the news alert on her screen.
“Sneezes H. Crust,” Jules muttered.
Addie hurried back.
Easton was summoned—asked to bring water, Xanax, a brown paper bag—anything to help calm M.J. down while they searched for more information. She wanted to call Dr. Cohn, but her mouth was too dry. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t stop breathing. It was happening all over again and these three wackos were the closest things she had to friends.
CHAPTER
Ten
Pearl Beach, California
Monday, June 6
Waxing Crescent Moon
“YOU SHOULDN’T BE alone right now,” said Sara Hart. Or was it Marni Wells? It was the first time M.J. had spoken to Dan’s mothers and it was hard to tell them apart. Not because they sounded similar—Sara’s voice was calm and measured, Marni’s croaking with short-A sounds that linked her to Boston—but because they were both on the call, talking over each other. Had these been happier times—say a 7.8 magnitude earthquake hadn’t rocked Jakarta and Dan hadn’t been among the hundreds of people missing—M.J. would have marveled at her sudden discovery: that his surname—Hartwell—was his mothers’ last names combined. But these weren’t happier times.
“Hop in the Mini Cooper and drive up to San Francisco,” Marni said. “Stay with us. Benita, Randy’s wife, is here with the kids. It helps. Being together helps.”
“I don’t have a Mini Cooper,” M.J. answered, though her mode of transportation was hardly the point. But better they think she was an uptight stickler for details than a self-involved neurotic who would steer a conversation about their potentially dead son into one about her fear of driving.
“So, he went with the Range Rover?”
“It wasn’t a Range Rover, Marni, it was a Land Rover.”