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Marah sat opposite her instead, leaning back against the silk-upholstered footboard, with her legs drawn up. Ragged holes in her favorite jeans showed the knobby curl of her knees.
Kate couldnt help longing for the time when she could have scooped her daughter into her arms and held her. She needed that now. "You knew about the show, didnt you?"
"Tully and I talked about it. She said it would help us. "
"And?"
Marah shrugged. "I just wanted to go to the concert. "
The concert. It hurt Kate deeply, that simple, selfish answer. Shed forgotten about the concert and Marahs running away. The trip to Kauai had cleared her mind of all of that.
No doubt as Tully had intended. It had also gotten Johnny out of the way so he couldnt stop the plan.
"Say something," Marah said.
But Kate didnt quite know what to say, how to handle this. She wanted Marah to understand how selfish shed been and how deeply that selfishness had hurt Kate, but she didnt want to load guilt on her. The weight of this debacle fell on Tully. "Did it occur to you when you and Tully were hatching this plan that I might be hurt and embarrassed by it?"
"Did you think that Id be hurt or embarrassed by not getting to go to the concert? Or rockin midnight bowling? Or to—"
Kate held up a hand. "So its still about you," she said tiredly. "If this is all you have to say, you can leave. I dont have the strength to fight with you now. You were selfish and you hurt my feelings, and if you cant see that and take responsibility for it, I feel sorry for you. Get out. Go. "
"Whatever. " Marah got off the bed, but she moved slowly. At the door, she paused and turned around. "When Tully comes over—"
"Tully wont be coming over. "
"What do you mean?"
"Your idol owes me an apology. Thats not something shes good at. Id say its something else you two have in common. "
For the first time, Marah looked scared. And it was at the prospect of losing Tully.
"You better think about how youre treating me, Marah. " Kates voice broke on that; she struggled to sound in control. "I love you more than the world and youre hurting me on purpose. "
"Its not my fault. "
Kate sighed. "How could it be, Marah? Nothing ever is. "
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Kate knew it the second she said it, but she couldnt take it back.
Marah yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind her.
Quiet came instantly. Somewhere outside a rooster crowed and a pair of dogs barked at each other. She heard people walking around downstairs. The floorboards of this old house creaked with the movement.
Kate looked at the phone, waiting for it to ring.
"I think it was Mother Teresa who said that loneliness is the worst kind of poverty," Tully said, sipping her dirty martini.
The man to whom she spoke looked startled for a moment, as if he were driving on some dark, empty stretch of road and a deer had suddenly bounded into his path. Then he laughed, and there was so much in the sound, a shared camaraderie, a hint of superiority, an undercurrent of privilege. No doubt hed learned to laugh like that in the hallowed halls of Harvard or Stanford. "What do people like us know about poverty or loneliness? There must be one hundred people here, at your birthday party, and God knows the champagne and caviar didnt come cheap. "
Tully stood there, trying—and failing—to remember his name. He was her guest; she ought to know who in the hell he was.
And why had she made such a ridiculously transparent remark to a stranger?
Disgusted with herself, she finished the martini—her second—and walked over to the makeshift bar that had been set up in the corner of her penthouse. Behind the tuxedoed bartender, the glittering starburst of the Seattle skyline was a magical combination of bright lights and black sky.
She waited impatiently for her third martini, making small talk with the bartender. The minute the drink was ready, she set a course for the terrace, sailing past the table overflowing with foil- and ribbon-wrapped gifts. She knew without opening a single package the kind of gifts shed received: champagne glasses from Waterford or Baccarat; silver bracelets and frames from Tiffany; Montblanc pens; perhaps a cashmere throw or a pair of blown-glass candlesticks. The kind of expensive presents that strangers and co-workers gave each other when theyd reached a certain economic status.
There wouldnt be anything personal in any of those beautifully wrapped packages.
