The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [3]
Now Eddie had given all that up. He’d quit a job he loved to take over the family’s hot tub business because his father, Leonard, needed bypass surgery. The irreverence Ginger loved most about Eddie had been cut out by the same scalpel that opened his father’s chest. Ginger felt alternately hurt, angry, and deprived—although not right now. Right now she was too drunk to care. All around her, the yard began to rotate slowly, like the first moments on a carousel, which she had always loved. She fumbled on the edge of the hot tub and picked up her cup.
Paisley’s invitations had said five to seven, but it was after eight and the four women who’d stayed were sitting exactly where they’d been an hour ago, not inclined to budge. Iona kept telling herself to get up and go. She was fifteen years older than these women and had been invited only out of politeness. She should have stayed home. She had no social life. The buzz in her head was pleasant. She stayed because of her inertia.
The only one who moved was Paisley, who had never dipped more than her legs into the hot tub but was wearing a bikini that showed how genuinely slender she was, how delicately long limbed and . . . well, beautiful. The others stared at her openly every time she hoisted her feet out of the tub onto the deck, flung her ridiculous white feather boa over her shoulders—“My cocktail waitress getup,” she called it—and retrieved the pitcher of what she referred to as Painkillers. Circling her guests to replenish their drinks, she swayed dreamily to the oldies on the CD player, and sometimes sang along.
“Anybody recognize this one?” she asked. “ ‘Earth Angel’ by the Penguins.”
Iona nodded. “I remember dancing to it in somebody’s basement with a guy from my English class.” But the image that swirled into her head was not of the boy she’d known thirty years ago but of her husband, Richard, dancing her around their living room. A few long, unguarded seconds passed before she remembered that Richard was dead.
Paisley pulled the pitcher toward her as if twirling a dance partner and crooned, slightly off-key, “Earth angel, earth angel . . .”
Iona tried to smile.
“Here’s something I bet you didn’t know,” Paisley said. “At first they thought the flip side, ‘Hey Señorita,’ was going to be the big hit. Can you imagine?” She waved the feather boa to the music. “The Crew Cuts also did a version of this, but I never liked it. I was surprised it did so well on the charts.”
“How do you know all that?” Iona asked. “Some of that obscure rock ’n’ roll trivia dates back to the ’50s before you were born.”
“My mother was a big fan. Still is. I grew up listening to the original records, the old 45s. Ask her about them next time she visits.”
Paisley danced over to Julianne, plucked her cup from her hand, and refilled it nearly to the rim before handing it back with a flourish.
“Very nice, the way you serve a drink,” Julianne said, slurring a little. “I’d pay you handsomely if I could get this kind of service at home.”
“We can negotiate, but I warn you, I don’t come cheap. I waitressed most of my way through college.” She two-stepped toward Andrea, draped the feather boa around her neck, and bent toward her with the pitcher.
“I think I’m too drunk to have any more,” Andrea said.
Paisley poured anyway. “It’s just what the doctor ordered. Exactly like a piña colada except made with orange juice. Practically a health food. A healthy dose of vitamin C.”
“Here’s to vitamin C!” Julianne tossed the long hair she’d been growing for a year, a dozen sun-streaked shades