The Dirty Book Club(30)

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes, honey,” Sara said, her clench-toothed smile audible. “Of about sixty thousand dollars.” Then to M.J., “So, what did Danny settle on?”

“Settle on?”

“For your birthday.”

“Sara!” Marni hissed. “Don’t ruin the surprise.”

“I thought he did it already,” she whispered back. “He was going to hide the key in her—” Sara whispered something to her wife. It sounded like ache.

M.J. bicycled the sheets off her stubbly legs and padded to the front window. A white Mini Cooper convertible was parked in front of the cottage. It had been there since Dan left. She had assumed it belonged to a neighbor or was placed there by the city in lieu of an ugly grate. But hers? No way!

After wrenching the black key from the bottom of her purse, M.J. pressed the lock icon with her thumbnail and the headlights flashed—a lady in waiting, found.

“Ohmygod.”

Marni gasped. “Is it Dan? Did you hear from him?”

“You were right.” M.J. sighed. “He bought me a Mini Cooper.”

A ticker tape of bratty thoughts scrolled across her brain: Why would Dan get me a car? He knows driving gives me panic attacks. He knows I’d never get white. White makes me look washed-out. He knows all of this. . . .

The part of M.J. that appreciated Dan’s thoughtfulness, creativity, and good intentions were in there, too. But all gratitude would have to wait until he was safe.

She turned away from the window, rested her forehead on the cool kitchen counter. An ant scurried across the gray-veined marble. She considered crushing it with her finger, then decided not to bother. The cabinets were empty. It would die of starvation soon enough. Maybe they both would.

“Don’t waste time packing,” Marni said. “We have four daughters and a garage filled with clothes they’ve been meaning to collect for ten years. Just get on the road.”

M.J. promised she would be there by dinner and then began searching flights to San Francisco. She wanted to thank Dan for having such wonderful mothers. She wanted to strangle him for not being there when she met them.

There was a knock on the door.

M.J. wanted to ignore it, but what if it was Dan? Head wrapped in bandages, delivered to her by a kind Samaritan.

It was Britt, dressed in a frayed denim skirt, silver Birkenstocks, and a white T-shirt. Her My Other Bag Is a Birkin tote hung heavily off the crook in her elbow like a punishment, the tray of brownies resting in her palm, a reward. “What took you so long to answer?” she asked, as if waiting for hours. Maybe she was. “I have a broker preview at Gloria’s and thought I’d check in.”

“Still no word.” M.J. considered inviting Britt in for coffee or whatever people in small towns did when unexpected visitors stopped by. But she had a San Francisco flight to book and more crying to do. Entertaining was not an option.

Britt adjusted her grip on the brownie tray. “Last time, I spent two hundred bucks on croissant sandwiches. I had no leftovers and even fewer offers. So I’m going homemade this time. Fuck the freeloaders, you know?” She glimpsed M.J.’s rounded shoulders. “Speaking of food, when’s the last time you ate?”

M.J. thought of Dan. Hadn’t he asked her the same question the last time they Skyped? She was in a playful mood that afternoon and asked him if toothpaste counted. A response she might have given Britt. But it didn’t matter if toothpaste counted. M.J. hadn’t used any in days. She started to sob.

Britt put the tray on the kitchen counter, pulled a white T-shirt from her tote, and insisted that M.J. use it to blow her nose.

“On your shirt?”

“I always bring an extra. I tend to spill on myself. But I won’t need it because I’m leaving the brownies with you.”

“No—”

“My husband, Paul, made them. He loves to bake.” Britt lifted the edge of the Saran Wrap, slid out a corner piece, and held it in front of M.J.’s tear-soaked face.

“I can’t,” she said, her insides too clenched to eat.

But in between gasps, Britt stuffed it in M.J.’s mouth.

Saliva rushed to the bottom of M.J.’s teeth. She swallowed and reached for another.

“They’re all yours. If I need a fucking brownie to help me sell a beachfront bungalow in June, I’m in the wrong business.” She cut a look to the sealed DBC box by the microwave. “Open it. Our first book is Fear of Flying and there are erect nips on page one. It might be a good distraction.”



* * *



M.J. WAS LYING on her bed, legs stretched before her in a limp V, tray across her chest like a feedbag, sunglasses on. The midday sun seemed amplified, her need for curtains immense. But even if they had curtains, M.J. wasn’t sure she could have closed them. Her muscles felt leaden, her limbs a prosthetic sort of numb.

She considered her options: harass the Red Cross for updates (again!); book another emergency session with Dr. Cohn; open the DBC box; reread Gayle’s offer, which she exhumed from a pile of black cashmere while packing . . . Her flight to San Francisco wasn’t until 7:00 PM. Unfortunately, there was time to do it all. And yet, all M.J. could do was stare up at the ceiling fan through polarized, bronze-tinted lenses.

Then, suddenly, as if she was a balloon being filled by helium, she felt light . . . tingly . . . giddy.