The Things We Keep(40)

“Well,” he says, “I’d better—” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.

“Okay. Thanks again for your … help today, Angus.”

“No problem.”

He starts toward the door and I turn my back, tying on my apron and then grabbing a canister of flour from a high shelf. As I lift the lid, a tiny cloud of white powder puffs out and scatters, absorbed into the air.

“Oh, Eve?”

I nearly launch right out of my skin. When I turn, Angus is still there. “Yes?”

“I do my grocery shopping every Tuesday afternoon. If you ever want some company—or a bodyguard!—just let me know.”

And then, without waiting for a response, Angus strides away. And whatever it was that had been on my mind just a moment ago floats up into the air and vanishes, just like the flour.

*

That afternoon, while I’m attempting to iron one of Bert’s shirts, Mother calls.

“I’m picking Clem up from school today,” she says in her no-nonsense voice. “And I’ll keep her overnight so you can go to Book Club.”

I laugh-cough. “Book Club?”

“It’s tonight, isn’t it? The third Wednesday of the month?”

Wow. She’s right. Her memory can be crazy good when it suits her.

“Uh, yes, but…” It’s hard to find words to describe why I shouldn’t go to Book Club, mostly because it’s so plainly obvious. For one thing, I haven’t been to Book Club in four months. For another, I suspect the members of the book club—Andrea Heathmont, Romy Fisher, Jazz, and a bunch of other mothers from school—would sooner eat the selected book than discuss it with me over red wine and soft cheese.

“I don’t know what book they’re discussing,” I say weakly.

Mother laughs. “As if anyone reads the book! Isn’t it just an excuse for a midweek glass of wine with the girls? Who knows, you might end up going into town and having a dance?”

“Mother, I really think—”

“I’m picking Clemmy up, anyway, so suit yourself. But I think you should reach out to your friends. They may have their grievances with you, but if you don’t stick with them, how can you expect them to stick by you? Like your grandmother used to tell me, the best cure for melancholy is your girlfriends. Go. What have you got to lose?”

That night, I lie on the couch in my pajamas with Mother’s words on auto-play in my head. “What have you got to lose?” Maybe she’s right? The truth is, I don’t have a whole lot left to lose, and who knows, perhaps the ladies would understand it wasn’t my fault?

I look at the clock. It’s 8:01 P.M. If I leave now, I’d be late, but I’d still make it.

Ten minutes later, I’m out in the evening air. I still have my reservations, but I feel surprisingly free. Maybe I can do this? I am, after all, one of the founding members of Book Club. When it started, the members had been just Jazz, Andrea, and me. We used to meet in our living rooms, but when the girls started kindergarten, we invited a few other moms to join and moved the location to the back room at Emilio’s Wine Bar. Now we have about fifteen members, though generally only seven or eight come to any particular meeting.

Emilio’s is quiet up front, but from the entrance, I can hear shrieks of laughter out of the back room, and I get a boost of confidence. It feels like forever since I’ve gone to Book Club. And how long has it been since I laughed like that?

As I round the corner, I count about twelve heads around the table—a good turnout. Romy is talking to Madeleine, a glass of wine hovering at her lips. Andrea digs a piece of flat bread into spinach dip, laughing at something Carmen is saying. Clearly the group discussion has finished (if there even was one), and now the women clump in twos and threes, gossiping. This is the good part of Book Club. I made the right decision to come.

“Eve!” Jazz is the first to notice me. Her face is the image of shock—open mouth, wide eyes, pink cheeks. It takes a few seconds because of the music, but one by one, heads turn.

“Hello,” I say, forcing a smile. “Room for one more?”

“Sure,” Jazz says eventually. “Yeah. Take a seat.”

A couple of women shuffle over, and I sit next to a kindergarten mom I know vaguely. Someone pushes an empty wineglass toward me. I look around eagerly but everyone remains silent.

“So,” I say. “What’s the book?”

“Gone Girl,” someone says. “Have you read it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I enjoyed it.”

I sound a bit formal, a bit nervous. There’s an open bottle of red on the table and I pull it toward me and pour the remaining few inches into my glass.

“So … how are you, Eve?” Carmen asks, leaning forward on her elbows. “You must be having an awful time.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“And your … little one? Clementine? How is she?”

Carmen is talking loudly and Jazz and a couple of other mothers look over, casually interested. A few others resume chatting among themselves.

“Clem’s fine,” I say, wondering if this is true. “She’s grieving, of course, but she’s a tough little thing. She’ll get through it.”

“Good.” Carmen pulls on her gold necklace and smiles a little too brightly, the same smile as the woman next to her, and the woman next to her. “Good.”