California Girls(73)

The blonde nudged her friend. “Don’t.”

“What? I’m just asking. I would hate my boyfriend to cheat on me, but with Treasure I guess it would kind of make sense.” She smiled. “My mom says you’ve had work done, but not enough to keep him happy. I’m thinking of getting bigger boobs, but I just can’t decide.”

The blonde shook her head. “Don’t do it. Wait until you’re her age to have surgery. You look great the way you are.” She turned to Finola. “So do you mind he’s sleeping with Treasure? I mean do you not care anymore when you get old, or does stuff like that still hurt? You know—being left and laughed at and stuff.”

Finola told herself they weren’t deliberately cruel, they were just young and thoughtless. At least she hoped they were because otherwise the next generation was going to be a disappointment.

Not caring that she didn’t have a full tank, she flipped off the nozzle and put it back in place, then screwed on the gas cap.

As she walked toward the driver’s door, one of the girls called. “You’re really not going to say anything, are you? Man, you totally are a bitch. You deserve it, you know.”

Finola started the engine, then drove away. She was careful to check for traffic before merging onto the street. It was only once she was safely away from the gas station that the shaking started, an aftereffect from trauma, she thought grimly.

There was no escape. There was nowhere to go where she wouldn’t be recognized and humiliated. Everyone had an opinion on her marriage, the affair, her appearance. Telling herself she didn’t care wasn’t helpful, because she did care. She wanted to be liked. More important, she needed to be liked to be successful at her job. It was so damned unfair—six weeks ago everything had been fine, and now it was all crap.

She drove back to her mom’s place in Burbank and thought wistfully of her own beautiful house. If only, she thought as she walked inside and called out, “Hey, Mom. I’m back.”

“In the kitchen.”

Finola set her bag on the entry table and kicked off her shoes. As she entered the kitchen she saw at least half a dozen boxes stacked by the back door. One was open with the contents spread on the table. Her mother brushed a stray strand of hair off her face.

“After Zennie left I was so upset, I had to do something so I dragged these boxes in from the garage. It was that or sit around and drink.” Mary Jo sighed. “Not that there won’t be wine later, but at least I’m doing something constructive first. Did you know?”

The question was direct enough that Finola knew there was no point in pretending she thought her mother was asking if she knew there would be wine later.

“Zennie told me a few days ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“She wanted to be the one to share the news.” Finola walked over to the table and looked at the collection of odds and ends. There was a photo album, some old dress-up clothes and a few books. She glanced back at her mom.

“I think she’s an idiot,” Finola said flatly. “She’s all caught up in the romance of the moment—giving her best friend a baby—but what if something goes wrong?”

“That’s what I said. This is so much bigger than she thinks. She’ll be carrying that baby, she’ll feel it growing inside of her and start to care. I remember how I felt when I first found out I was pregnant with you.” Mary Jo’s expression softened with a smile. “Your father and I were so happy. It was a dream come true.”

Finola couldn’t imagine being anyone’s idea of a dream, but it was nice to hear.

“What a mess,” her mother said. “Nigel cheats on you with that ridiculous singer, Glen dumps Ali and now Zennie’s having a baby for someone else. I swear, I must be the worst mother on the planet.”

“I’m happy to put all the blame on you,” Finola said without thinking.

Her mother stared at her for a second, then burst out laughing. “It’s always the mother, isn’t it?” Mary Jo pointed to the pile of junk on the table. “Let’s get this cleaned up. We’ll go through the other boxes, then drink the wine I opened.”

They sorted through the first two boxes quickly. The dress-up clothes were assessed for wear. Those still viable were put in the giveaway pile while the rest went into the trash. The books were sorted and the photo albums stacked to be gone through later.

The second box was more of the same, with the exception of several pairs of painted wooden spoons.

“Those are ugly,” Mary Jo said, reaching for the spoons. “They should be tossed.”

“No way.” Finola grabbed them and waved one in the air. “These are our fighting spoons.”

Her mother looked at her blankly.

“We used to have sword fights,” Finola explained. “Upstairs. The three of us battled.” She smiled at the memory of time spent with her sisters. She’d been older and not as interested in play but they’d always been able to entice her into joining them with the fighting spoons. “Trust me, Zennie and Ali are going to want to keep these.” She plucked out the two dark green spoons. “These are mine.”

“If you say so.”

There was a box of old summer clothes from when the sisters were young and a very dusty and slightly moth-eaten fur stole. Mary Jo shook it out before wrapping it around her shoulders.