The Dirty Book Club(76)
* * *
OUTSIDE, ON THE great lawn, a white tent gave cover to an assemblage of middle-aged wedding guests who, by lubricating their replaced hips and pinned knees with Veuve Clicquot, came to believe that dancing to a cover of “I Feel Good” was in no way painful.
M.J. wondered why they needed a tent at all. It hadn’t rained in months. And the bride and groom, who undoubtedly paid a premium for the cliffside location, couldn’t even see the sunset, which was now painting the sky with gashes, as if a tiger had run its claws across a mass of blue flesh and drew blood, orange blood that was deepening to red.
“Why are we standing out here on the grass?” Britt asked Jules. “And where are Addie’s shoes?”
Jules answered the first question with a switchblade’s flick of her finger, which was aimed back at the resort, where thousands of plants covered the building’s exterior like a patchwork quilt. Some waxy and thick-leafed, others feathery, swordlike, or lily-pad round. And the colors? Chartreuse, aubergine, cucumber green, yellow striped . . .
“It’s called a living wall,” Jules told them.
“Trippy,” Addie mused.
M.J. snapped a picture.
“What does this have to do with Paul?” Britt asked.
As if on cue, a small white truck rolled up to the wall, extended its hydra-ladder, and raised the man inside the bucket toward the center of the installation. Once stopped, he turned on his misting hose and began figure-eighting it over the plants.
“He’s been working on it for months.”
Britt’s wide eyes darted from Jules to Paul and back to Jules. “What about his back?”
“He designed it and his team installed it.”
“Bungee!” Addie swatted Jules on the arm. “He was working on this. He must be part of Paul’s team.”
“Paul has a team?”
Jules nodded. “His crew did the installation, and then Paul comes by at night to water it.”
Britt watched Paul ascend and descend in his bucket, misting his leafy canvas. “No bush in the bush,” she snickered. “That was his motto. Pubes, pit-hair, even eyebrows, he trims it all when he works outside, something about feeling the breeze.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?” M.J. asked, and then quickly remembered the contract she kept hidden from Dan for months.
“Because after years of believing in his half-baked pot-inspired dead-end business plans I told him I only wanted to hear about the sure things.”
“Then he probably won’t say anything for two more weeks,” Jules said.
“Why? What happens then?”
“If the plants thrive, Paul will be under contract to build living walls for every Cartwright resort in North America. And if those work, he’ll get Europe, Asia, and Australia.”
“And if they die?”
“He’s back on the couch.” Jules lifted her gaze to the brightening moon. After a brief pause she said, “It’s full tonight. We should be having a meeting.”
“We never got our next book,” M.J. said, because it was easier than reminding them that they quit.
“It’s probably in that secret room,” Addie said, with a jazzy flash of her hands and a flippant smirk.
“What secret room?” Britt asked.
“The one in the store.”
“Does Verizon know about this?”
“No.” Another jazzy-flash. “It’s a secret, remember?”
“How long until these Percocets wear off?” M.J. asked.
“Not long enough,” she answered.
“I’m your Realtor, Addie, why haven’t I seen it?”
“I didn’t think I had the key.”
“Didn’t?” M.J. asked. “And now?”
“That night when everyone left their keys on M.J.’s table, I noticed that mine was different.” Then with a devilish smile: “Different enough to think that maybe I do have the key.”
* * *
DARKNESS DIDN’T DESCEND that night, it settled slowly, the way a post-op patient might get into bed. Everything in the town’s center felt sluggish now that tourist season was over. Sidewalks were empty, restaurants quiet, headlights from the occasional passing car stretched by.
“Welcome to Verizon,” Addie said with a listless slur. She ushered them into the sealed-off bookstore, where the smell of ink and inspiration had been replaced by a stale must.
“So it’s official?” Jules asked.
“We’re in escrow,” Britt announced.
M.J. congratulated her as if another sterile, soulless chain store is exactly what Pearl Beach needed because she couldn’t call it what it really was: the murder of Liddy’s only living child. She couldn’t say that, soon, the “first editions” inside these walls will pertain to outdated cell phones, “hard covers” to protective cases, and “characters” to keyboard strokes. It was out of her hands.
Addie flicked on the lights.
Boxes had been packed and stacked along the water-stained walls. The cracked ceiling had been stripped of its dancing bookmarks. And the autographed shelves had been lined up, execution style with signs that read EBAY taped to their backs.
“Is it safe in here?” Jules asked, her gaze fixed on the gaping hole above what used to be the Pride aisle.