Page 103 of Something Borrowed

“Seriously? I know Monika had an axe to grind with you then, but as an adult?”

“Try, last year,” Madeline said. “It defies imagination.”

Gwen nodded. “She must be a deeply unhappy person or something, but, man, does she seem to get a kick out of making people miserable.” Then she shared the high—or low—notes of her own saga with Monika, and Vic’s mind boggled. Compared to Gwen, she’d gotten off lucky.

“But Cal had to see through her and Kelsey,” Gwen continued a bit later. “He was a year ahead of us, sure, but his sister Carrie hung out with Monika occasionally. I even heard he dated Monika a couple of times. He must know what she’s like.”

Vic shrugged. “I don’t think it’s about Monika so much as it’s about him being shocked by who I am.”

“Not who you are,” Madeline said staunchly. “A couple dumb things you did when you were grieving and lost in the woods.”

“You—” Vic pointed a chopstick at Madeline “—are kind and loyal to your friends to an almost pathological degree.”

“Pathological. You love that word—and yep, now you’re really starting to get me.” Madeline grinned at the same time as Gwen said, “It’s one of her very best qualities.”

A server popped by the table and asked if they wanted more tea. They all looked at each other.

“Just one more cup. Thank you!” Vic said, and Madeline and Gwen both nodded.

“I’m going to need a trolley to wheel me out of here,” Gwen said contentedly.

“Me too.”

“Dibs on pushing you two loafers,” Madeline said, then grew serious. “So, that’s it for you and Cal, really?”

“Yeah, I think so . . .” A tiny bit of the joy that had hugged Vic all night loosened.

“I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t, or that this is one of those times or not,” Gwen said, “but sometimes if you really want something or someone, you have to fight for them.”

Vic nodded. “True—and for the first time ever in my life, the someone I want to fight for is me.”

Madeline inhaled sharply, then nodded. So did Gwen.

“I didn’t hurt Cal,” Vic continued, “and I would’ve shared my side, reassured him that the things he’s worried about, though real, are also things I’m working hard to never do again. He either sees me, the real me that I’m intent on being, or . . .” She shrugged. “He doesn’t. Either way, I’m done begging for a man’s scraps. I would rather be alone and lonely sometimes—a hundred, no, a thousand times, over—than to supposedly be with someone and always feel alone.” Vic felt the truth of her words, her own conviction, right to her very core. She shivered.

Before Gwen or Madeline could respond, applause burst out behind Vic, and a loud, slurred voice cheered, “Hear, hear!”

Startled, Vic turned in her chair—and faced a woman about their age dining alone, seated directly behind her, who had also turned in her chair—apparently because she’d overheard their conversation and gotten pulled into it.

The woman looked so miserable that Vic couldn’t feel self-conscious or intruded upon.

A fading rose. The description dropped into Vic’s head from who knew where, as she took in the curvy woman amply filling her chair. And it was fitting. Blonde with attractive, slightly darker roots, she had Marilyn Monroe curls and the kind of alabaster skin, even with her cheeks pinkened from alcohol, crying, or both, that Renaissance painters depicted.

Her pale blue—gray?—eyes were huge and luminous, though, like her cheeks, slightly reddened. Vic recognized the flattering, though rumpled, tunic she wore as Italian linen.

The woman stopped clapping abruptly, as if just becoming aware of Vic’s surprised-rather-than-intentional scrutiny and Gwen and Madeline’s equally, momentarily startled silence.

“Oh my . . .” The woman’s voice faltered. She shook her head. Vic was certain, even in the dim light, that she saw a fresh swell of tears fill the woman’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” Another headshake. Then an outstretched hand and tentative upcurve of her full mouth. “My listening in, my interruption . . . I am . . . unforgivable. I’m Leigh. Leigh Carter. I’m mortified—and drunk. Sooo drunk. I promise I will turn around and let you have your visit in peace.” She continued to babble, though. “I’m a mess, just a frunken drunken mess. I’m sorry.”

Vic laughed, and not just because of the funny, softened—intentionally or not—expletive and its rhyme. She took Leigh’s extended hand and shook it. “Vic. And the very last thing you ever have to do is apologize to me for being a mess.”

“Or to any of us,” Gwen added. The trio exchanged a look, and Vic widened her eyes in a silent question.

Madeline and Gwen nodded.

“We’re not staying a lot longer, but would you like to join us for a final final cup of tea?”