has worked itself out. Not as many toll booths, either.”
“How much farther?”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just in time for dinner.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
We rode in silence all the way to the last exit, which led to the little peninsula of Cape May. A chill March wind was blowing in off the Delaware Bay. Most of the bed-and-breakfast places were still closed down for the season. We’d gotten two rooms in a touristy beach hotel, which I was surprised to find came attached to a respectable-sized liquor store.
“I see you looking at the inventory,” Mother said. “Don’t think that I don’t.”
“It’s an unusual setup,” I said, because it would have been impolite to explain just how much I needed something cold and sweet and alcoholic just then. It had been a long, emotionally draining day and if there was a better cure than a cocktail, I could not imagine what it might be.
“It is convenient. But it can wait until after the funeral. We’re going to walk in and out of that church like Kennedy widows, if you know what I mean. Dry-eyed and stoic and stone-cold sober.”
“So, does that mean no wine with dinner?” I asked.
“I don’t think,” she said, “that we need to do anything quite so radical.”
Chapter 9
We had a quiet dinner in the hotel’s restaurant and went straight to our respective rooms for the evening. I hadn’t brought a big bag, but I still took my time unpacking. I got all my makeup out and lined it up in a row on the bathroom counter. I shook the wrinkles out of my suit and hung it up so it would be ready to go in the morning. I set the alarm on the little clock-radio, and set an alarm on my phone, and called downstairs for a wake-up call. I knew that I would never hear the end of criticism from my mother if I made her late for the funeral, especially if it was because I had been up too late the night before.
I wasn’t planning on getting drunk. I’d had a glass of chardonnay with dinner, and it had tasted wonderful, and all I wanted was one more tiny little drop. I didn’t need alcohol to help me sleep, or that’s what I told myself to keep me from feeling that I had a problem and needed help. Of course, they don’t sell chardonnay by the drop, but it wasn’t my fault.
I waited until I was reasonably sure that Mother had gone to sleep—she was in the adjoining room—and walked softly down the corridor to the elevator. I would get a small glass of wine, sip it carefully, and head straight to bed. That was my plan, and it was a good one. Except that they say that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, and they say that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and they say these things for a reason.
The woman sliding onto the barstool next to me had jet-black hair, which she wore in chopped-off bangs. She had a silver skull-and-crossbones pendant on her necklace, which didn’t do anything for her dead-white skin. She was wearing a black, shapeless jacket over a tight black T-shirt. I ignored her, and I thought I was doing a good job of it.
“Well, hello there,” she said.
I looked up.
“Hi,” I said. I am normally a friendly drinker when I’m in a bar, but all I wanted to do just then was finish the last yummy dregs of my wineglass and head back to bed.
“You don’t recognize me, do you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She looked doubtful for a moment. “Just checking—you are Wendy Jarrett, right? From Temple?”
Take away the Goth necklace and the glossy black fingernail polish, add a little weight and a Villanova hoodie, and she could have been maybe familiar, maybe someone I’d seen in a bar once. Or in a lot of bars.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it,” she said. “You’d recognize me if I were wearing my natural color.”
I took a close look at her face, and imagined it wreathed in loose red ringlets. “You’re not Vanessa Sullivan, are you?”
“The same,” she said.
“You
“How much farther?”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just in time for dinner.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
We rode in silence all the way to the last exit, which led to the little peninsula of Cape May. A chill March wind was blowing in off the Delaware Bay. Most of the bed-and-breakfast places were still closed down for the season. We’d gotten two rooms in a touristy beach hotel, which I was surprised to find came attached to a respectable-sized liquor store.
“I see you looking at the inventory,” Mother said. “Don’t think that I don’t.”
“It’s an unusual setup,” I said, because it would have been impolite to explain just how much I needed something cold and sweet and alcoholic just then. It had been a long, emotionally draining day and if there was a better cure than a cocktail, I could not imagine what it might be.
“It is convenient. But it can wait until after the funeral. We’re going to walk in and out of that church like Kennedy widows, if you know what I mean. Dry-eyed and stoic and stone-cold sober.”
“So, does that mean no wine with dinner?” I asked.
“I don’t think,” she said, “that we need to do anything quite so radical.”
Chapter 9
We had a quiet dinner in the hotel’s restaurant and went straight to our respective rooms for the evening. I hadn’t brought a big bag, but I still took my time unpacking. I got all my makeup out and lined it up in a row on the bathroom counter. I shook the wrinkles out of my suit and hung it up so it would be ready to go in the morning. I set the alarm on the little clock-radio, and set an alarm on my phone, and called downstairs for a wake-up call. I knew that I would never hear the end of criticism from my mother if I made her late for the funeral, especially if it was because I had been up too late the night before.
I wasn’t planning on getting drunk. I’d had a glass of chardonnay with dinner, and it had tasted wonderful, and all I wanted was one more tiny little drop. I didn’t need alcohol to help me sleep, or that’s what I told myself to keep me from feeling that I had a problem and needed help. Of course, they don’t sell chardonnay by the drop, but it wasn’t my fault.
I waited until I was reasonably sure that Mother had gone to sleep—she was in the adjoining room—and walked softly down the corridor to the elevator. I would get a small glass of wine, sip it carefully, and head straight to bed. That was my plan, and it was a good one. Except that they say that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, and they say that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and they say these things for a reason.
The woman sliding onto the barstool next to me had jet-black hair, which she wore in chopped-off bangs. She had a silver skull-and-crossbones pendant on her necklace, which didn’t do anything for her dead-white skin. She was wearing a black, shapeless jacket over a tight black T-shirt. I ignored her, and I thought I was doing a good job of it.
“Well, hello there,” she said.
I looked up.
“Hi,” I said. I am normally a friendly drinker when I’m in a bar, but all I wanted to do just then was finish the last yummy dregs of my wineglass and head back to bed.
“You don’t recognize me, do you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She looked doubtful for a moment. “Just checking—you are Wendy Jarrett, right? From Temple?”
Take away the Goth necklace and the glossy black fingernail polish, add a little weight and a Villanova hoodie, and she could have been maybe familiar, maybe someone I’d seen in a bar once. Or in a lot of bars.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it,” she said. “You’d recognize me if I were wearing my natural color.”
I took a close look at her face, and imagined it wreathed in loose red ringlets. “You’re not Vanessa Sullivan, are you?”
“The same,” she said.
“You
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