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I notice the silk scarf she wears tied at her neck is missing and an extra button on her blouse has come undone. I slip it back through the hole and pat the silky fabric at the collar.
“If you need to get laid, there are plenty of clients at-da-cub.” My sister has slipped her palm over my mouth, muffling my last words.
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Yet,” I tease.
I swear since her divorce, Laurel’s harder up than I ever was. It has me worried about her because I’ve been there. In a moment of weakness—after my so-called engagement crumbled—I considered stooping to sleeping with my boss’s boss.
Her lips twist and Laurel raises a brow, but we share a laugh.
“Cary is easy on the eyes, and it’s nice to have something to look at now that Dusty isn’t around as much,” Laurel muses.
My best guy friend started dating one of my best girl friends this winter. I’d seen the writing on the walls early on, and where Dusty was the closest thing to a father figure Bhodi had, I put in an application with the big brother program. The coordinator matched my son with Cary Cass of all people. Thankfully, they hit it off during a group outing to a Triple-A baseball stadium for a behind-the-scenes tour before the players reported for spring training.
“At least, tell me you gave him a hug.”
“A hug? Why? Oh, crap on a cracker!” Dropping a box of rice I pulled from a reusable sack, I smack my forehead with both hands.
“You forgot. You had one chance to express your condolences—and cop a feel—and you blew it.” Her lips twist and her finger waggles in the air. “Bless your silly little heart, what were you thinking letting an opportunity like that pass by?”
Laurel and I dance around one another, placing the groceries in the appropriate spots on shelves and in the fridge.
“I had just woken up from a catnap, and I was doing the same thing I always do; trying not to look. Oh God, Laurel, I must seem like such a—” Laurel makes me defensive. Still not being alert enough to be compassionate toward Cary is distressing.
“Cunt. Bitch. Floozy. Dipstick. Natural blonde instead of the bottle-headed bimbo your friends think you are?” She gives it to me the way only a sister can.
“Hey!” I shove her with a can of beans in my grip.
“I had one chance to live vicariously through you tonight and you blew it.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
I feel awful. Not only for the fact that my sister sees my pathetic life as enviable, but that I hadn’t the common courtesy to offer Cary my condolences for the second time in person.
He’d called last night asking to switch Saturday for Friday. Cary wanted to hang out with Bhodi at the dealership to get his mind off of his dad’s death. I hadn’t expected he would contact me at all this week, and when he did, the last thing I considered was refusing.
Laurel and I have lost both of our parents, and I remember those emotions keenly. It was hard not to wade through the memories when I saw Mr. Stanton’s obituary featured on the news. He’d been a big-to-do business executive in the area long before the Cass-Stanton Group began buying their competition and became a conglomerate. However, Bhodi was so excited to see Cary that he darted outside as soon as Cary pulled up in front of the condo. By the time they got home, it slipped my mind.
Laurel opens her arms and gives me a big hug. “It’s okay, sis. When Cary comes to pick up Bhodi next weekend, explain you didn’t bring it up because you hadn’t wanted to upset him. I mean, you never know how a man is going to react over his own father’s funeral.”
I let go, closing my eyes. Guilt washes over me and then I’m hit with the scent of bergamot and citrus from the only soap powerful enough to erase the scent of my prepubescent son’s pits and stinky sweat socks.
“I’m hungry, Aunt Laurel.” He turns to me. Water droplets drip from his sopping hair, wetting his pajama top. “Why are you still here?”
“Oh my God, I’m late!” I grab my purse and Bhodi by the cheeks to plant a fat red kiss on the top of his head. “Later, tater. I love you. Be good. Show Aunt Laurel your homework! I know it’s Friday, but go to bed at a decent time!” My instructions get louder as I run for the door.
Thank goodness Sweet Caroline’s isn’t far from where we live. I’m parking in the club’s lot as the two zeros appear after the hour on the dashboard clock.
The early crowd who came for happy hour is leaving the building. The bouncer holds the door open as I slip in. Kimber is double-checking to ensure we’re stocked with ice and mixers. Her husband, Trig, has been planted in his favorite spot at the end of the bar for months. His presence doesn’t pique my interest until a half an hour later when Jake, the owner, shows up out of the blue.
Sweet Caroline’s is a well-oiled machine on evenings Jake isn’t around. Kimber’s taught me how to stay on his good side. I’m comfortable going to him if there is a problem, but I’d rather not. We’re given the autonomy to keep those pesky issues that crop up to a minimum. Jake doesn’t like the daily workings of his own business bothering him. He’s a bottom-line guy. And by that I mean he cares about how the newest dancer’s bottom looks in a g-string and if it draws in a big crowd to make him money.
Trig runs a surveillance company—which came in pretty handy when he offered to find out more about my son’s “big brother”—and between the cameras and his permanent butt print in the stool, watching over his wife, I’m certain Jake figures Trig’s got everything under control.
“What’s up, fucker? I had plans tonight.” Jake slaps Trig on the back.
I’ve already got the tumbler filled with ice for Jake’s drink. Kimber takes it from me and is heavy-handed with the shots. Not her norm. Kimber doesn’t mind serving, but she’s also conscientious when it comes to the staff. Many are recovering addicts and she’s the queen of concocting non-alcoholic drinks so they can have an inconspicuous glass in their hand along with everyone else.
