She walked to the sunroom, where she had everything set up for book club, and sat down. It was supposed to start in an hour. Some people had to drive that long, so she couldn’t very well cancel at the last minute like this. Somehow she was going to have to see this through.
“I need more than half an hour,” he said, as if that was the point. As if that was the point at all.
“My book club is coming then. Do you really want to slither out of here in front of them? Because I promise you, I will call the police whether they are here or not. In fact, witnesses would probably be good.”
His face colored and she knew he was imagining word getting back to his colleagues somehow.
“I’ll pack a bag,” he conceded. “Then I’ll be back for my things.”
* * *
Book club, formerly an enjoyable enough diversion for Margo, had all at once become a nightmare.
In dreading having to entertain that night, after receiving the blow of news that her entire life was shattering, it hadn’t occurred to her that Susi Winslow’s husband also worked at Calvin’s firm, Cromwell and Covington, and that she might know about the promotion.
She did, despite the fact that it was the biggest firm in the area and the men’s paths probably never crossed.
And in a move she obviously thought was a kindness to a humble Margo, she made the announcement the minute everyone sat down with their drinks, going so far as to raise a toast to Calvin—and by extension, Margo—for their good fortune.
“You are going to love San Francisco! Summer is an awesome time to move there, warm days and cool nights. But, really, the weather is always amazing. We’re going to miss you in the book club, but, my God, you are going to have the time of your life!”
Margo didn’t know what to say. How to brace the world for the news without coming out with the whole true story right here and now. She couldn’t help but be glad he’d gotten out because, for all her bravado, she really didn’t want to have this scene in front of everyone.
So she sat there, frozen like one of those goats that goes stiff and falls over when it’s scared, half hoping she didn’t fall over silently. Half hoping she would. She cleared her throat, trying to buy a little time for an answer.
“You know . . . we’ve only just talked about it a little bit,” she said. “Obviously Calvin is going out there first . . .” There was nothing obvious about that at all, in fact it was weird, but she had long since learned if you said something definitively enough people didn’t even bother to think you were lying.
“Well, sure,” Marie Bentz muttered, after an awkward moment. “Makes sense.”
“And I’m not sure how I feel about leaving this town, honestly. I do love it here.” Never mind that an hour ago, for one brief moment, she’d been thinking what she’d give for a whiff of the Saffron Arancini and meatballs at Delfina. Or, right before that, fantasizing like a middle-schooler about the (alternative) life of a grown-up.
“Oh, come on,” Susi said, smiling and red-faced as usual. “You’ll get over that! How could you not?”
Margo tried to put on a smile, but it felt distinctly like the pursed, unyielding lips sewn into a corpse to prevent a reflexive gasp or gape. “We’ll see.” Desperation manifested as a rabbity heartbeat and tingling fingers and toes. She couldn’t have them start in on selling San Francisco to her. “Should we get to the book?”
There was no question that people noticed something was up with her. How could they not? Usually they spent a good long time catching up on each other’s lives before diving into the subject matter, and that was when no one had anything going on. That she was pushing ahead now when, ostensibly, she had some tremendous life news, it had to be crystal clear that something was up.
As it continued to be as they continued the discussion and she was mum. Her eyes were filled with tears, so she had to be careful not to blink too hard, lest they spill over her cheeks and become obvious. So she was still as a mannequin, with her painted-on mini-smile and wide, glassy eyes.
Finally, Jody Brooks nudged her, and it was her undoing. “What do you think about the distinction between grief and mourning, Margo?”
And that was all it took. Suddenly the tears she thought she’d held in so well all came out, and when she opened her mouth to speak, instead she took a gasp like a drowning person who’d been under for a minute or so too long. Suddenly she was shuddering and crying and everyone around her—friends, but not real friends—stayed in their places, looking absolutely flummoxed.
She tried to remember if she’d ever had a conversation of any consequence with any of them. If she’d ever seen a genuine emotion from anyone or shown one herself. Book club was easy, chatting about a book they’d all read was easy, lunch was easy, shopping was really easy. But if they were truly her friends, wouldn’t she have told them about Calvin the minute they’d walked in? Looked to them for comfort?
Instead she was just embarrassed beyond belief.
“I’m sorry,” she managed.
“What on earth is it, Margo? I had no idea this book would affect you so deeply!”
The book. They thought she was upset about the book. Her ironic laugh morphed into another sob.
“I found it exhilarating,” Jody said, and Margo took a minute to think the worst of her for simply echoing the word all the critics had used, which was pasted all over the book.
Margo looked at her, then at Michelle, and Susi, and Cynthia, and Sara. She still thought of Sara as “the new girl,” even though she’d joined them around Easter and Margo had even met her at Nordstrom Café for lunch once. They’d talked about shoes. The whole time.
“It’s just that . . .” The words surged in Margo’s throat before she had time to think about it, much less talk herself out of it. The lie came fast and somehow felt like the only thing that was believable. “I haven’t told many people this, but . . . I was married before. When I was young. And he died,” she hastened to add, lest her implication wasn’t clear enough to shut them up.
“How?” Sara asked, tactlessly. Of course she wanted to know. They all wanted to know. But one of the things about being an adult was realizing that you’re not allowed to ask how people died, no matter how hard you wondered.
She pictured Calvin, in a fast slide show of the ways she’d like to murder him right now: strangled, pushed down the stairs, battered to death by his plate, stabbed in the back with one of the steak knives he had told her were too expensive for a birthday gift.
None of those scenarios would work for her dearly departed nameless first husband, however. So she drew all the dignity she could muster around her. “I’d rather not talk about it. Like I said, we were young, it was a long time ago.” The more imaginary distance she could put between herself and this lie, the better. “I . . . I thought I could do this, I really did, but it’s just too close to the bone still.”
“We understand, don’t we, girls?” Susi said, but her eyes were nearly wild with the clear intention to quiz Margo on this later. Of the group, Susi and Margo probably were the closest, but that wasn’t saying much. About three times a year they added a game of tennis to what was, with everyone else, simply an occasional lunch. That was what constituted friendship for them.