her purse, and handed the woman a twenty dollar bill.
“We got no ashtrays in here,” the matron said as she quickly made the twenty disappear into her pocket. “You’re not supposed to smoke.”
Abigail leaned over and flicked the ash in the hand-painted sink. She inhaled again. The woman set the towels on the counter and went into a stall.
Looking into the mirror, Abigail frowned. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps Maddie and Kris were too involved in their own lives. Perhaps too many years had passed for her to expect to count on their friendship.
Suddenly another hot flash wound its way up the back of her neck. It crept around to her cheeks, clawed down her back, her arms, her legs.
Damn
, she said to herself, closing her eyes.
Damn, damn, damn
. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to make it stop. She had to change her life. There was only one way. Dammit, there was only one way.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” came the matron’s voice again.
Abigail opened her eyes, took another drag, then drowned the cigarette in the sink. “Lady,” she said, “we’re all in trouble.” Then she picked up her purse, tossed back her hair, and left the ladies room to set forth on her mission.
• • •
Maddie had chosen a Monte Cristo over the salad. Cracked crab and salmon skin salad seemed a bit too “Abigail.” She nibbled on a potato chip, settled into her long-ago role as the thorn between the roses, and decided that if not exactly comfortable, it was a role that at least was familiar: the underdog among the favorites, the ugly duckling amid the swans.
Well
, she reasoned, scrutinizing her friends,
it’s nice to know none of us has changed
.
Kris was her usual great, flashy self, and beneath it all she was still very sincere. She was certainly preoccupied, as if braced for Abigail to pounce, but Maddie thought she was overreacting. Writers, she supposed, did that sometimes, and Kris had always had a tendency for extremes.
As for Abigail, well, she was no more weird than Maddie had expected: uptight and inflexible, with the look in her eyes that scolded, even when her words sounded like compliments. Abigail was Abigail, still searching for perfection. Abigail definitely hadn’t changed.
But best of all, neither of them seemed to care about Parker. There had been no rapid-fire questions of “Why did he leave?” or “How did you stand it?” There had been no sympathetic “poor-you’s,” which surely would have come if she’d told them about Sharlene, the twenty-nine-year-old beauty who had stolen her life, the woman who stood five inches taller than Maddie and weighed forty pounds less, the woman Parker loved instead of her. There had been no pity, which Maddie could not have withstood, even from
them
, her very best friends.
She took a bite of her sandwich and slowly chewed, deciding that all in all it was okay that she’d come.
Then Abigail cleared her throat. “I’m glad you brought the photo albums, Maddie. It gives me a chance to bring something up.”
Maddie set down her sandwich and exchanged a quicklook with Kris, whose dark eyes told her the time had come.
“The way I see it, girls,” Abigail said, setting down her fork beside the cracked crab and sipping her Dom Pérignon, “this is our last chance.”
And then Maddie knew. She didn’t know what, she didn’t know how, but she knew Kris had been right: this quaint little luncheon reunion was about something far greater than birthdays. Abigail had an agenda. And it had something to do with them.
“We’re about to turn forty-nine,” Abigail said.
Maddie stuffed another bite of turkey and ham drenched with melted cheese into her mouth and wondered why everything had to be such a big deal. Why, to Abigail,
everything
always had to be such a big, life-or-death deal.
Abigail set her mouth in a clench, then leaned across the lace-covered table. “Face it,” she warned. “Next year we’ll be fifty.”
The food
“We got no ashtrays in here,” the matron said as she quickly made the twenty disappear into her pocket. “You’re not supposed to smoke.”
Abigail leaned over and flicked the ash in the hand-painted sink. She inhaled again. The woman set the towels on the counter and went into a stall.
Looking into the mirror, Abigail frowned. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps Maddie and Kris were too involved in their own lives. Perhaps too many years had passed for her to expect to count on their friendship.
Suddenly another hot flash wound its way up the back of her neck. It crept around to her cheeks, clawed down her back, her arms, her legs.
Damn
, she said to herself, closing her eyes.
Damn, damn, damn
. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to make it stop. She had to change her life. There was only one way. Dammit, there was only one way.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” came the matron’s voice again.
Abigail opened her eyes, took another drag, then drowned the cigarette in the sink. “Lady,” she said, “we’re all in trouble.” Then she picked up her purse, tossed back her hair, and left the ladies room to set forth on her mission.
• • •
Maddie had chosen a Monte Cristo over the salad. Cracked crab and salmon skin salad seemed a bit too “Abigail.” She nibbled on a potato chip, settled into her long-ago role as the thorn between the roses, and decided that if not exactly comfortable, it was a role that at least was familiar: the underdog among the favorites, the ugly duckling amid the swans.
Well
, she reasoned, scrutinizing her friends,
it’s nice to know none of us has changed
.
Kris was her usual great, flashy self, and beneath it all she was still very sincere. She was certainly preoccupied, as if braced for Abigail to pounce, but Maddie thought she was overreacting. Writers, she supposed, did that sometimes, and Kris had always had a tendency for extremes.
As for Abigail, well, she was no more weird than Maddie had expected: uptight and inflexible, with the look in her eyes that scolded, even when her words sounded like compliments. Abigail was Abigail, still searching for perfection. Abigail definitely hadn’t changed.
But best of all, neither of them seemed to care about Parker. There had been no rapid-fire questions of “Why did he leave?” or “How did you stand it?” There had been no sympathetic “poor-you’s,” which surely would have come if she’d told them about Sharlene, the twenty-nine-year-old beauty who had stolen her life, the woman who stood five inches taller than Maddie and weighed forty pounds less, the woman Parker loved instead of her. There had been no pity, which Maddie could not have withstood, even from
them
, her very best friends.
She took a bite of her sandwich and slowly chewed, deciding that all in all it was okay that she’d come.
Then Abigail cleared her throat. “I’m glad you brought the photo albums, Maddie. It gives me a chance to bring something up.”
Maddie set down her sandwich and exchanged a quicklook with Kris, whose dark eyes told her the time had come.
“The way I see it, girls,” Abigail said, setting down her fork beside the cracked crab and sipping her Dom Pérignon, “this is our last chance.”
And then Maddie knew. She didn’t know what, she didn’t know how, but she knew Kris had been right: this quaint little luncheon reunion was about something far greater than birthdays. Abigail had an agenda. And it had something to do with them.
“We’re about to turn forty-nine,” Abigail said.
Maddie stuffed another bite of turkey and ham drenched with melted cheese into her mouth and wondered why everything had to be such a big deal. Why, to Abigail,
everything
always had to be such a big, life-or-death deal.
Abigail set her mouth in a clench, then leaned across the lace-covered table. “Face it,” she warned. “Next year we’ll be fifty.”
The food
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