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“Come on.” Mary pressed. “Tell me something that’s changed for you recently.” Hopefully, Deidre could equate change with something besides magical destination-setting star charts.
“Teacups.” Deidre sent a glance toward the door that the helper had gone through.
“All right.”
Deidre pulled her glance back to Mary. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I don’t want her to tell me to go to the South Pole on my birthday. I hear the penguins are cute but smell horrible.” She skated a hand out. “Listen, at this point, I’m exhausted from trying to climb out of my rut. If a trip to chat with a polar bear will spring me forward, I’ll do it. Just, if she could tell me that I need to be in Tahiti, that might be nicer, you know?”
Did Mary feel like she was in the same kind of rut as Deidre?
She held still to see how that fit.
No, Mary thought, she was a load of laundry, agitated then wrung out—that was how she’d describe the great uncoupling of herself from a nuclear family—her ex-husband by choice, her children by biological design. And now, through perseverance and effort, she’d moved herself to the dryer. Mary figured it was for a matter of time that she’d tumble around. Then, she’d come out of that stage, too. Hopefully, still warm and wrinkle-free.
That metaphor tickled the corners of Mary’s lips.
“I’m listening. Tell me about your new-found teacup considerations.” Mary extracted her fingers from the vice of Deidre’s grip, flipping her hand to rub warmth into her friend’s hands.
“It used to be that I could care less what I drank my hot drinks out of unless it was styrene or paper cups. I hate how those ruin the flavor, and you get that weird lip feel.” Deidre rolled her lips in.
“I’m with you on that one.”
“But now,” Deidre said, “I have certain mugs I want to drink my coffee from in the morning, others for tea. Coffee mugs are taller to hold more. Their circumference is large enough that I can wrap my hands all the way around them without overlapping my fingers, thick enough to feel substantial, thin enough that my lips fit correctly. Smooth enough that I don’t think about the texture and can focus on the flavor of the coffee. I’m happiest when there’s a picture of my son and his friends to keep me company.”
“Wow.” Mary held her brows high. “That’s specific.”
“Tea, I like my cups to be smaller, so the flavor is intense when I dunk a bag. I like a narrow bottom and a wide top. I want the sides to be thick enough and heavy enough not to topple if I brush it by accident. The wide top cools the drink, and I can tuck my face down and breathe in the herbal steam. That’s pleasant.” She ran her palms down her thighs and spoke to the highly-polished door as if it was part of their conversation. “I like muted colors—sages and earth browns. Colors that don’t ask me to divide my attention with the things outside the window. In the stillness of taking a sip, I notice small things that change from day to day, in the color of the leaves or the shape of the clouds. I think in my fifties, I’ve learned to sit still and pay attention to the small things, the tiny pleasures.”
“You’re waxing poetic,” Mary laughed, and it sounded a little nervous. Yeah, Deidre didn’t normally talk like this. Mary wondered if there was something more to this visit than Deidre had told her, so she’d just take the direct approach. “Is there something you’ve been keeping from me?”
Deidre dragged her gaze back to meet her friends. “I’ve been so busy living life that I have the strange feeling that I haven’t been living life at all. My doctor says anxiety and depression are part of menopause. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling. But I need this to work. I need a catalyst to get me headed in a better direction. You know?”
No, Mary didn’t know. She was just trying to keep her own head up as she felt like she’d been in that washing machine caught in the whirlpool circling the drain. Mary thought she’d be fine. She just needed some time. But Mary got while she and Deidre were at the same points in their lives—divorced empty-nesters—Mary was still, for today anyway, still in her thirties, and that had to make a difference in perspective.
The door opened to a woman wearing a traditional Indian outfit, a choli cropped top under a vibrant peacock green sari.
“You are Deidre,” she said with a British accent.
“I am.” Deidre stood.
“How do you do? I am Mrs. V.” She turned her attention to Mary. “And this is the friend I told you to bring?”
Deidre also turned to Mary, her brows drawing in. “She is.”
“I will work with Deidre first and with you after,” she offered a regal nod.
“Oh, no, I don’t have an appointment.” How much had Deidre spent on this woman? Was she digging for another dupe?
The woman seemed to hear Mary’s thoughts and, with a slow smile and gentle chuckle, said, “None of that is a concern. I will chart Deidre’s path forward. Then you and I will speak.”
Yeah, this woman didn’t seem like someone looking for a sucker.
Mrs. V. turned and walked back through the door, leaving it wide.
Deidre sent Mary a look that said she had no idea what was going on. With a downturned mouth and a lifted brow, she seemed to ask, “What should I do? Follow her?”
Mary made a shooing motion with her hands. Watching her friend disappear down the hallway, Mary tipped her head up, whispering her prayer. “Please make this good for her.”
Chapter Seven
