hand, which turned out to be some kitchen items and a string of chili pepper
lights left over from what Chloe claimed to remember as a wild block party in the nineties.
Tara found a stack of twenty-year-old
National Enquirers.
“Phoebe’s gospel,” she said with a fond smile, holding up one with Mel Gibson on the cover. She cut out the picture and hung
it on a branch. “What?” she said when Chloe and Maddie just stared at her. “I’d do him.”
“You do realize he no longer looks like that, right?” Chloe asked.
“Hey,
my
fantasy.”
They spent the next half hour drinking another bottle of wine and cutting out pictures of all the guys they’d “do.” Turned
out there were quite a few. Maddie claimed Luke Perry and Jason Priestley—pre all their horriblemovie-of-the-week specials. Chloe went for the boy bands. All of them.
“It can’t be just a hottie tree,” Tara decided.
Chloe nodded and hung a serving spoon, then cocked her head to study it critically, moving it over an inch like she was creating
the
Mona Lisa.
“I once dated a guy who had a face like this serving spoon. He was ugly as hell, but man,
oh, man,
could he kiss. He gave me a nightly asthma attack for the entire week we dated.” She sighed dreamily. “Ugly men make good
lovers.”
“Logan’s gorgeous
and
good in bed,” Tara said. “What does that mean?”
“Um, that you’re lucky to be married to him?” Chloe asked.
“No.” Tara shook her head with careful exaggeration. “Gorgeous men are flawed. Seriously flawed.”
“Not all of them,” Chloe said.
“
All of them.
”
Maddie found a doily. “My ex is good-looking. And good in bed. And…” The shame of it reached up and choked her as she carefully
folded the doily so it looked like a star. “And, as it turns out, violent.” She nodded to herself and set the “star” on top
of the tree. Yep. Perfect. Especially if she scrunched up her eyes. “Which I guess makes him pretty damn flawed.”
There was a long beat of loaded silence. When she managed to turn to her sisters, both were looking at her with shock and
rage and regret in their eyes.
“Is that who hit you?” Tara finally asked quietly. “Your ex?”
Maddie nodded, and Chloe let out a breath. “You hit him back, right?”
“And then called the police,” Tara said. “You called the police on him, didn’t you, sugar? Put him behind bars so he could
be some big bubba’s bitch?”
No, she hadn’t. And it was hard to explain, even to herself. But it’d happened slow, the gradual teardown of her self-esteem
until she’d no longer felt like Maddie Moore. She’d felt awkward and stupid and ugly.
Alex had done that.
No, scratch that. She’d let Alex do that to her, one careful, devastatingly cruel comment at a time before she’d walked out
on him.
Without her confidence, without her savings, without anything.
It sounded so pathetic now, which she hated. “I dumped his coffee on his family jewels,” she said. “Ruined his new Hugo Boss
suit, which was pretty satisfying, since he looked like he’d peed his pants.” Too bad her bosses hadn’t appreciated her show
of feminism and she’d gotten fired.
Details. But for the first time, she shared them over a third bottle of wine, while they cleaned and decorated the cottage
into the night.
And much later, lying under the tree together, the three of them stared up at the chili pepper lights and grinned like idiots.
Or that might have just been Maddie.
She couldn’t help it. The top of her head was bumping up against the scrawny trunk of the tree, and she was breathing in the
scent of pine. Above her, she could see a set of barbecue tongs dangling off the branches next to a picture of Jon Bon Jovi,
a whisk, a Tupperware lid, and a near-naked shot of a very young Johnny Depp.“I’ve never had a more beautiful tree,” she whispered reverently.
“That’s because you’re drunk, sugar. Drunk as a
lights left over from what Chloe claimed to remember as a wild block party in the nineties.
Tara found a stack of twenty-year-old
National Enquirers.
“Phoebe’s gospel,” she said with a fond smile, holding up one with Mel Gibson on the cover. She cut out the picture and hung
it on a branch. “What?” she said when Chloe and Maddie just stared at her. “I’d do him.”
“You do realize he no longer looks like that, right?” Chloe asked.
“Hey,
my
fantasy.”
They spent the next half hour drinking another bottle of wine and cutting out pictures of all the guys they’d “do.” Turned
out there were quite a few. Maddie claimed Luke Perry and Jason Priestley—pre all their horriblemovie-of-the-week specials. Chloe went for the boy bands. All of them.
“It can’t be just a hottie tree,” Tara decided.
Chloe nodded and hung a serving spoon, then cocked her head to study it critically, moving it over an inch like she was creating
the
Mona Lisa.
“I once dated a guy who had a face like this serving spoon. He was ugly as hell, but man,
oh, man,
could he kiss. He gave me a nightly asthma attack for the entire week we dated.” She sighed dreamily. “Ugly men make good
lovers.”
“Logan’s gorgeous
and
good in bed,” Tara said. “What does that mean?”
“Um, that you’re lucky to be married to him?” Chloe asked.
“No.” Tara shook her head with careful exaggeration. “Gorgeous men are flawed. Seriously flawed.”
“Not all of them,” Chloe said.
“
All of them.
”
Maddie found a doily. “My ex is good-looking. And good in bed. And…” The shame of it reached up and choked her as she carefully
folded the doily so it looked like a star. “And, as it turns out, violent.” She nodded to herself and set the “star” on top
of the tree. Yep. Perfect. Especially if she scrunched up her eyes. “Which I guess makes him pretty damn flawed.”
There was a long beat of loaded silence. When she managed to turn to her sisters, both were looking at her with shock and
rage and regret in their eyes.
“Is that who hit you?” Tara finally asked quietly. “Your ex?”
Maddie nodded, and Chloe let out a breath. “You hit him back, right?”
“And then called the police,” Tara said. “You called the police on him, didn’t you, sugar? Put him behind bars so he could
be some big bubba’s bitch?”
No, she hadn’t. And it was hard to explain, even to herself. But it’d happened slow, the gradual teardown of her self-esteem
until she’d no longer felt like Maddie Moore. She’d felt awkward and stupid and ugly.
Alex had done that.
No, scratch that. She’d let Alex do that to her, one careful, devastatingly cruel comment at a time before she’d walked out
on him.
Without her confidence, without her savings, without anything.
It sounded so pathetic now, which she hated. “I dumped his coffee on his family jewels,” she said. “Ruined his new Hugo Boss
suit, which was pretty satisfying, since he looked like he’d peed his pants.” Too bad her bosses hadn’t appreciated her show
of feminism and she’d gotten fired.
Details. But for the first time, she shared them over a third bottle of wine, while they cleaned and decorated the cottage
into the night.
And much later, lying under the tree together, the three of them stared up at the chili pepper lights and grinned like idiots.
Or that might have just been Maddie.
She couldn’t help it. The top of her head was bumping up against the scrawny trunk of the tree, and she was breathing in the
scent of pine. Above her, she could see a set of barbecue tongs dangling off the branches next to a picture of Jon Bon Jovi,
a whisk, a Tupperware lid, and a near-naked shot of a very young Johnny Depp.“I’ve never had a more beautiful tree,” she whispered reverently.
“That’s because you’re drunk, sugar. Drunk as a
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