The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [5]
Hearing her talk like that, the others realized that Andrea was every bit as drunk as Julianne. Well, good! Andrea deserved an evening of escape, after what she’d been through. Even though the chemo was finished, Courtney was still bald. Did anyone know how pathetic a bald four-year-old looked? The last time Ginger’s son, Max, had to take an antibiotic, he’d nodded solemnly before swallowing the spoonful of thick pink liquid and said, “This’ll make me better. And then my hair will fall out like Courtney’s, right?” It was all Ginger could do not to burst into tears as she took her son into her arms. “Oh, not at all, Max,” she’d murmured. “Your hair won’t fall out at all.”
A silence fell. Julianne tried to pull herself together. What was she doing, taking off her top? Dark thoughts sloshed around in her head. Next thing she knew she’d be showing them the still-tender tattoo on her butt. What was she doing?
Ginger closed her eyes and let herself ride the slow carousel of alcohol around Paisley’s twilit yard. She used to like Julianne so much. A doctor’s wife should be classy, not trampy, and Julianne had been classy. Until lately. She wasn’t beautiful like Paisley, but she was a natural blonde. Men found that irresistible, even Eddie. Of course, it was mostly Paisley Eddie looked at. Ginger wasn’t going to dwell on that. She was forever looking at Paisley herself. Being jealous made no sense.
The gate opened just then, and in walked Mason, a lanky, bespectacled man who looked exactly like the newspaper editor he was, with a skinny little girl half-asleep against his shoulder. “Good evening, ladies. Good evening.” With his free hand, he pretended to tip his hat. “I hope you’re having fun.”
“Oh, we are, honey.” Paisley kissed him on the cheek but didn’t move to take her daughter. “Put her to bed, all right? Then come back and see us.”
“Well, I surely will.” The way Mason smiled as he opened the door to take his daughter inside, Iona thought he was making a joke she didn’t quite get. She wasn’t part of this group; she was too old.
Then, as sometimes happened, the fact of being drunk lifted Iona right out of herself, into a perfectly clear vision of what she’d become. Her age wasn’t a hindrance here. It gave her some perspective. All these young women, Andrea and Paisley and Julianne and Ginger—every one of them was drowning in estrogen soup. Thirtysome years old and their lives were about nothing but kids and sex. Sure, they probably had hobbies they loved and volunteer work they thought was important, but mostly they were just trying to keep themselves one step ahead of their hormones.
Iona, on the other hand, was beyond all that. Her head was clear. She was lucky.
Then the liquor turned on her, as it always did. She wasn’t lucky. She had been like these women once, coupled and comfortable. And now she was alone.
In the gathering dusk, Paisley lit a citronella candle against the no-see-ums that had begun to plunge from the sultry air onto their shoulders, hungrily nibbling. The door to the house opened and Mason came out, carrying a little box. He made a great show of lifting off the top. “Something special for you, ladies,” he said. “I wouldn’t offer this to everyone.”
“Cigars!” Andrea cried.
Sure enough, there they were—long, fat, unladylike cigars circled by paper rings.
“Oh, me first!” demanded Julianne, who extracted one and put it in her mouth. Paisley produced a lighter. Mason bowed, clowning, and went into the house. Julianne lit the cigar, sampled it, and handed it around. “Now, don’t inhale,” she warned.
“Oh, I won’t.” Andrea took a puff and blew smoke rings into the air. Lovely. She hadn’t had a cigar in years. Iona made a face and refused. When it was Ginger’s turn, she drew the dry, bitter smoke into her mouth and tried valiantly not to cough.
“I thought it’d taste more like a cigarette,” Julianne said, “but it doesn’t. It’s more like smoking reefer.” She fixed her gaze on Andrea.