“Sorry I’m late,” Libbie called. She hurried through the foyer with its mismatched antique furniture and back to the kitchen where she assumed the others had congregated. She found them gathered outside on the deck where Inga had installed a bar. By herself, of course, using slabs of reclaimed wood she’d acquired from a local lumberyard and a toolbox that looked older than she did. Inga didn’t need an ex-husband to fix bicycles. She was handy enough to do it herself.
“You’re here.” Kate Golden crossed the deck and greeted Libbie with a half hug. Kate and Libbie had been best friends since seventh grade, when they’d bonded over their shared love of the band Duran Duran. Libbie had always admired her friend’s confidence and poise and wasn’t at all surprised when Kate started her own business as a life coach. She even had her own YouTube channel and a list of clients from around the world. It helped that Kate had the poise and beauty of a movie star. Throughout their lives, Kate had longed for an interesting life, one filled with different experiences. She’d found a way to make it happen without leaving Lake Cloverleaf, minus the four years she’d spent at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia.
“Traffic is a bitch today,” Inga said from behind the bar, pouring Libbie a drink. “Took me half an hour to find parking.”
“No bartender tonight?” Libbie asked.
“It’s the holiday weekend,” Inga said. “I had to elbow my way through the liquor store for supplies. A bartender was out of the question.”
“I prefer when it’s just us anyway,” Libbie said. She felt more comfortable when no one was eavesdropping on their private conversations. Sometimes they shared details of their personal lives that Libbie would hate for others to overhear. She was circumspect about what she shared, of course. She didn’t want anyone to think that she was unhappy, and she knew that was how she sounded when she had a few too many cocktails and started talking more openly about her personal life.
“I told Inga it must be a special occasion,” Kate said. “She’s wearing her necklace.”
Libbie turned to admire the pale blue stone with its four holes. She remembered that Inga had worn it the first time they’d met. She’d found the stone along the lakeshore not long after moving to Lake Cloverleaf and decided it was a good omen. A hag stone she’d called it, though Libbie disliked the word ‘hag.’
“I consider every Friday night a special occasion.” Inga handed Libbie a flute of prosecco. They always started the evening with a single glass of the bubbly drink before moving on to other concoctions. Libbie couldn’t remember when the tradition started, but she enjoyed it immensely.
“Then why don’t you wear it every Friday night?” Libbie brought the flute to her lips. She loved the sensation of the bubbles against her skin as she took her first sip.
“Because sometimes it clashes with my outfit,” Inga said with a wink.
“How did your talk go with Joe?” Rebecca asked. Rebecca Angelos had been the last one to join their club, after the departure of another woman called Jodie. When Libbie had asked what happened to Jodie, Inga had simply said, “She isn’t one of us.”
Although Libbie sometimes wondered what she’d meant, she didn’t ask.
Libbie had told them last Friday about her plans to speak to her boss. Her cheeks grew warm and she took another sip of liquid courage. She could’ve used a bottle of prosecco at work earlier, although the customers might have gotten more interesting dishes than they’d bargained for.
“It didn’t,” Libbie said. “I was late and then…You know how Joe is.”
“He’s an ass,” Inga said. “That’s how he is. All ass, all the time. When he goes to the proctologist, the doctor has to clarify which end is up.”
The other women snickered. They were accustomed to Inga’s colorful assessments.
“I’ll try again next week,” Libbie said, knowing that she wouldn’t.
Inga thrust a plate of cheese and crackers in front of Libbie. “Why don’t you look for another job? You hate it there.”
Libbie selected a thick square of cheddar. “I don’t hate it there. Basecamp is fine.”
“Basecamp is an exercise in abject misery,” Inga shot back. “Don’t waste your life, Libbie. You’re too good for that place.”
“She’s too good for a lot of things she tolerates,” Kate mumbled.
Libbie’s stomach knotted. She knew the women weren’t fond of Chris. They’d told her more than once she could do better. It was the consensus of her friends that, after three years together, she and Chris should be married or split up. These were the kinds of thoughts the women shared on Friday nights after a few cocktails. It was never mean-spirited, and Libbie knew they had her best interests at heart.
“What are we drinking?” Libbie asked, in an effort to redirect the conversation. She felt too fragile to have her life under a microscope tonight.
“I picked up a new brand of tequila,” Inga said. Her blue eyes sparkled behind her thick glasses.
“Tequila and what?” Libbie prompted. She wasn’t a huge fan of tequila thanks to a college experience gone awry.
“Mojitaritas, baby,” Julie said and clapped her hands for good measure. If anyone needed a mojitarita, Libbie knew it was Julie Duncan. The fifty-year-old lived in a sprawling house on the lake with her bedridden mother, a domineering woman who controlled her daughter’s life. Julie had also lost her husband Greg to cancer two years ago. Libbie wished she knew the right way to comfort her friend. She’d read articles until her eyes glazed over, but still nothing seemed appropriate. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and upset her friend further, so she said nothing.
Libbie’s mother had attended Greg’s funeral and remarked, rather loudly, how strange it was that Julie didn’t cry. As though tears at a funeral were the only acceptable way to express love and sorrow. Libbie had been horrified by her mother’s comment. She was often horrified by her mother’s opinions and assumptions about people. Delia Stark was the type of woman who seemed to be acutely aware of everyone’s flaws, except her own. For someone who never passed a mirror without stopping to admire herself, Libbie found it ironic that her mother was incapable of self-reflection.
“What have I missed so far?” Libbie asked.
Kate smirked. “Rebecca was giving us an update.”
The petite brunette groaned. “Day eleventy-thousand and five of my period. The streak continues, literally.”
Libbie made a sympathetic noise. Over the past year, forty-six-year-old Rebecca had discovered what the other women already knew—the joys of perimenopause. She’d go months without a period, and then boom! Thirty days straight of spotting. It wasn’t a full-on cycle, but it was enough to require a pantyliner and make Rebecca crabby.
“It’s not enough for a tampon, which makes the whole swimming thing difficult. Hooray for summer.” Rebecca gave her finger a mock twirl in the air. “I feel like all the animals in the shelter know. They stare at me with their big eyes and I can see their pity.”
“They’re called puppy dog eyes for a reason,” Kate said.
Inga gulped down half her mojitarita. “I wish I could tell you it gets better.”