The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [4]
Wobbling a little, she jumped into the waist-deep water and stood on tiptoe to call attention to her flat, tanned midriff, punctuated by a tiny sterling ring. “Check out the navel decor, ladies,” she said, pointing. “You can do it, too. Have a piercing or two and make a jewelry statement!”
Ginger peered at Julianne’s stomach, which was impressive for a woman who’d popped out three sons. Of course, none of her boys were babies anymore. She’d had plenty of time to get back in shape. The ring looked like it belonged on a teenager. So did Julianne’s skimpy bikini. Ginger herself wore a stylish one-piece suit, as did Andrea and most other young mothers who no longer wanted to show their midsections. Not Paisley, of course.
“Weird,” Ginger told Julianne. “Not my kind of jewelry statement.”
“Mine, either.” Iona patted her belly. “Too flabby in the middle. Too old.” Ginger noted that Iona was not in swimwear at all, but in the body-concealing uniform of walking shorts and short-sleeved shirt she’d been wearing ever since she moved into her house last spring, revealing only a pair of feet crying out for a pedicure, and a set of knobby knees. Everyone knew Iona’s husband had died in an accident a year or two ago, but she seemed determined to look like she was still in mourning.
“Where’s your little girl?” Iona asked Paisley.
“Mason has her. He took her for pizza at a sit-down restaurant where the service is notoriously slow. It’s a big treat for a four-year-old. I told him to keep her out as long as he could.”
Seeing she’d lost the group’s attention, Julianne stopped pointing to her belly and seized the bra top of her bikini. With a mischievous grin, she yanked it up to expose a perfectly formed small, tanned breast. “I’m piercing my nipple next!” she shouted.
Andrea and Ginger and Paisley and Iona exchanged glances.
Iona decided Julianne’s husband must be having an affair, for her to turn into such an exhibitionist.
Andrea wondered what would happen if she exposed her own breasts to the sun. Just her luck, she’d probably burn to a crisp.
Ginger wondered what Eddie would think if he could see this. Would he prefer to spend his nights with breasts like Julianne’s instead of Ginger’s, which were larger but less perky? She immediately censored the thought. She hated getting jealous like this. Of course, Eddie looked at other women—all men did—but as far as she knew, he was faithful. He loved her. He loved their children. He was the kind of man who’d leave a job he loved, a prestigious job you’d be proud to tell people about, in order to fulfill a family duty in a damned hot tub store. She took another sip of her drink.
“Did it hurt?” Andrea asked Julianne. “The belly, not the breast, which I’m assuming was a joke.” Andrea put her cup down, held her back against the edge of the tub, and let her spindly legs float out in front of her.
“Not a bit,” Julianne said.
“I don’t believe that. Piercing a body part with a steel instrument—that’s got to hurt.”
“It didn’t, I swear to God.”
“Well, hell. I wouldn’t want to do it anyway.” Why would anyone choose mutilation if they didn’t have to? Andrea’s daughter, Courtney, had a mark on her abdomen, too. She hadn’t chosen it. A year ago, when she was only three, she’d been diagnosed with a Wilms’ tumor, a kind of kidney cancer. She’d had surgery and then chemo. There was still no certainty how it would turn out. The scar would last forever.
Andrea had loved this night, up until now. For the first time in a year she hadn’t thought of Courtney once, until Julianne started talking about piercings.
“Oh, shit,” she said, remembering. “I have to get going. I told John I’d be home by nine. He’s doing me the great favor of watching Courtney.”
“Well, here. Call him.” Paisley offered her phone.
Andrea felt her features lock into a pose of determination. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Let him worry, for once.” She seemed to have made this decision without thinking. Too drunk to think.