Онлайн книга Monday Mourning

“I got more attention from the hunk in 3C than I have from Tom Turnip in the past twelve months. Boy’s probably out buying me gardenias right now.” Anne knocked back a swig of wine. “Hell, messages are probably piling up on your answering machine as we speak.”

“What boy in 3C?”

“A sweet little stud I met on the plane.”

“You gave him my phone number?”

“He’s harmless.”

“How do you know he’s harmless?”

“He was in first class.”

“So were the nice lads who torpedoed the Trade Center.”

My friend looked at me as though I’d suggested she cut off a foot.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Tempe. I’m not actually going to see the guy.”

I wasn’t believing this. I use extreme caution in giving out my home number. Anne had blithely shared it with a complete stranger, who might be calling my home looking for her.

“I’d had a couple of Manhattans,” she continued, oblivious to the extent of my annoyance. “We talked. He asked where he could reach me. I jotted the stuff on a napkin—”

“Stuff? Meaning address, too?”

Anne gave an Academy Award orbital roll.

“I’m sure the guy tossed it as he exited the Jetway. How’s your veal?”

In contrast to the conversation, my meat was perfect.

“Good,” I mumbled. So the guy might not call. He could show up on my doorstep.

“Mine is parfait. See what I mean? Already I’m in a different galaxy from Clover, South Carolina.” Anne circled her fork in the air. “Québec! La belle province! C’est magnifique!”

I have been accused of speaking Southern French. Anne’s accent left me in the Dixie dust.

“This is just a cooling-off period, right? A marital sabbatical?”

When I was married to Pete, Anne and I often joked about the “marital sabbatical.” It was our code phrase for “road trip, no men allowed.”

“I could be dead a week and Tom Turnip wouldn’t notice I was gone.” The fork came back up, this time pointed at me. “No. That may be harsh. If Tom ran out of toilet paper he might holler to inquire as to my whereabouts.”

Anne gave one of her full, throaty laughs.

“Annie.”

“Hon, the boy is history.”

For a few moments we ate in silence. When I’d finished, I gave the topic one last shot.

“Annie, this is Tempe. I know you. I know Tom. I’ve seen you two together for twenty years. Tell me what’s really going on.”

Anne laid down her fork and began working the paper napkin under her wineglass. A full minute passed before she spoke.