The Dirty Book Club(64)
“So am I getting that signed contract or not?”
“I’ll give you something even better,” M.J. told her.
A sharp exhale.
“Trust me. I’m going back to New York in September to check on my apartment, can we grab lunch?”
“How about you give me the pitch now and we’ll still grab lunch in September.”
“I have to prepare,” M.J. said, working that upper hand.
“Not even a hint?” Gayle pressed. “Come on, I’m chomping at the bit here. Give me something.”
“It’s champing at the bit, not chomping.”
“What?”
“Champ means to bite down, which is what anxious horses do to their bits, whereas chomp means to chew, which implies eating, something they don’t do to their bits.”
Gayle laughed. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Does that mean you’ll wait for me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I’ll see you in September.” Gayle made a clicking sound with her teeth. “Hear that? It’s me, champing.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-One
Pearl Beach, California
Thursday, August 18
Full Moon
IT WAS A text message that, had M.J. still been working at City, chased by deadlines, choked by unanswered e-mails, she would have celebrated. Canceled plans that did not originate from her iPhone had once been her guilty pleasure. But that night, while the silver moon reflected off the ocean’s bloated belly and Dan lay on the couch clipping fingernails to the sound of CNN, M.J. refused to take “rain check” for an answer.
So what if Britt’s kids were home from camp and made a mess of her house? That was no reason to reschedule book club. There were traditions and rituals and three weeks’ worth of catching up to do. So M.J. made a bid for the unimaginable and offered to host.
“How cozy are you right now?” she asked Dan during a Geico ad.
He looked up at her, nail clippers held above his big toe. “Why?”
“Some girls from the Downtown Beach Club want to get together. They asked me to host, but I could always tell them no . . .”
“Do it. I’ll go play Xbox at David’s,” Dan said, as she’d hoped he would. He had been thrilled by M.J.’s recent return to writing, her newfound acceptance of Pearl Beach, the loving nature of their relationship now that he was home to stay. But he wouldn’t rest until she had friends. And anything Dan could do to facilitate that, he did, including driving her to the liquor store before they parted ways.
Though she hadn’t gone so far as to brand the night with a Henry and June theme (sorry, Jules!) candles flickered, appetizers beckoned, the Global Chill station played on Pandora, and her Prim-covered book, complete with highlighted passages, sat stiffly on the kitchen counter. A nervous hostess anxious for her guests to arrive. And once they did there would be hugs and laughter and braided conversations where one line of thought crossed with another and another and another. Because it had been too long since they’d spoken and there was that much to say.
* * *
“ARE THOSE FROGS or crickets?” M.J. asked, painfully aware of the distant deep-throated chirps that seemed to be chanting, awk-ward, awk-ward, as their stilted small talk dragged on.
“Frogs,” Jules answered at the same time Britt said, “Crickets.”
M.J. checked her phone. “Still no word from Addie, huh?”
They shook their heads.
“We should eat.”
Kneeling above the coffee table, M.J. began lifting foil off serving dishes and handing out plates.
“I see you made your famous garlic bread,” Britt teased. Then with a nostalgic laugh, “God, I thought you were such a snob when I met you. All that talk about New York and how no one wears activewear . . .”
“No activewear in New York?” Jules asked.
“There’s activewear but people only wear it to the gym, not—” she stopped, noticing Britt’s black Lululemon pants and sweatshirt. Her cheeks warmed. “I mean, that’s what I thought, but I was wrong.”
“No, you were probably right.” Britt pinched a cherry tomato from the salad and popped it into her mouth. “I’ve never actually been to New York.”
“I thought you grew up in Brooklyn.”
“Huntington Beach.” Then with a laugh, “I lied.”
“Same!” M.J. said. “I told you I was turning thirty-two, but I’m really thirty-four.”
“I fibbed, too,” Jules said, happy to participate. “My last name isn’t Valentine, but I say it is for professional reasons. I mean no disrespect to Brandon, but Babcock is plain old bad for business, don’cha think?”
“It’s plain old bad for everything,” Britt said.
Jules responded with an all-in-good-fun giggle and pressed for more. “So what else have y’all lied about?”
Britt’s jaw clenched. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” With that, Jules hooked her purse over her shoulder and excused herself for the bathroom.
When the door clicked shut Britt swiveled on the couch to face M.J. and whispered, “Do you think she knows about you-know-who?”