The Dirty Book Club(70)
“I was until my incredible girlfriend told everyone at dinner that she wanted to be a field reporter.”
“I never said—” M.J. paused to admire the way hope could light someone’s face. “I was trying to be nice, Dan. I didn’t mean it.”
The light faded. “Well, you sounded pretty darn convincing.”
“Maybe you were hearing what you wanted to hear.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you want to go. You want to go so badly you’re willing to believe that I’d go with you.”
“But you said—”
“It doesn’t matter what I said, you know me. I don’t have the constitution to work in a refugee camp. I wish I did, Dan, but I don’t.”
“You don’t even know what it’s like.” He was looking at Catalina, too.
“How about we drink that nice bottle of wine and you can tell me all about it.”
“And then?”
“And then . . . I’ll know what a refugee camp is like.”
“Is there a chance you’ll consider it?”
“There’s always a chance.”
“How big?”
“Invisible to the naked eye.”
“But there is a chance?”
“Yes.” M.J. laughed. “On one condition . . .”
Dan took her hand. “Anything.”
“If I decide to go—and that’s a big, huge if—I get to pack my own bag.”
“Done.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Three
New York City, New York
Monday, September 12
Waxing Gibbous Moon
GAYLE SNAPPED A breadstick and released both halves to her plate. “You look relaxed, too relaxed. Are you even wearing a bra?” She waved an arm, thin as six o’clock, at M.J.’s yellow maxi dress, then peeked under the tablecloth to assess her braided sandals. “What are those made of? Hippie hair? God, did I look this bohemian back when I was getting laid?”
It was then that M.J. realized how out of place she looked among the tucked and belted power lunchers at Del Frisco’s. “Bicast leather,” she said in defense of the ethically friendly footwear she bought from a local surf shop. “No animals were harmed.”
“Then why bother?” Gayle unfolded her napkin, laid it across her black Herve Leger dress. “If you were a goalie I’d be able to get one past you without even trying.”
“Did you just make a sports analogy?”
“I oversee seven magazines now. Unfortunately, Ballers is one of them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No one is sorrier than I.” Gayle raised her pinot grigio. “Anyway, welcome home.”
They grinned over the rims of their wineglasses, casting off months of resentment into the clamor of clinking forks and background chatter.
“And now for your belated birthday present.” Gayle lifted a maroon crocodile embossed satchel out from under her chair, held it proudly by her side. “Many animals were harmed.”
“Alexander McQueen?”
“Thank God,” Gayle said, hand to chest. “It’s really you.”
“I found a leather alternative,” M.J. said, “not Jesus.”
“In that case, it’s yours.”
M.J. sniffed the bag; it smelled like new car and compliments. “Are you serious?”
Without waiting for an answer, M.J. transferred her things into Gayle’s $1,800 apology.
“What are those?” Gayle asked, as M.J. moved a handful of turquoise envelopes into their new silk-lined home.
“Offers to buy my apartment. The doorman gave them to me on my way out. His name is Hamlet,” she added because she finally could.
“You’re not going to sell it, are you?”
“Dan wants me to. He thinks it will prove I’m committed. But I can’t. Not yet. I bought it with the money I got after my parents—” She lifted her eyes to the stained-glass ceiling, and drank. “Hopefully, packing up my stuff and shipping it across the country will be proof enough. At the very least it will prove we need bigger closets.”
Gayle’s eyebrows leveled. Her smile sank. The good-time glint in her dark eyes turned matte. Small-talk time was over. “You’re going back to that beach town?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And how, exactly, is that going to work with City?”
“You got the article I sent, right?”
“I did.”
“That’s how.”
Gayle flicked her wrist at a passing waitress, signaling for another round. “What you sent was a woo-woo piece comparing life to waves. I assumed it was another accident.”
“No.” M.J. laughed, though she knew Gayle wasn’t joking. “It’s my solution.”
“Staring at the ocean and contemplating life? I don’t understand.”
“I want to live in Pearl Beach and write for City.”
Gayle reached for M.J.’s glass of wine and drained it. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“That’s your big proposal?”