Accounting? She almost groaned. Baking? Dessert. For dinner. Tonight. At the Ryans’ house. She groaned. Before they went caroling. Because she’d promised Mrs. Ryan at the auxiliary auction. “Oh, God.”
“It’s okay,” Lucy said. “We’ve got plenty of time. It’s only eleven.”
Tatum covered her face with her hands. “So you’re checking up on me?” she asked.
“Yes,” Celeste admitted.
“I’m fine.” She slid the glass across the table, sipping from the top. “That’s awful.”
“It is,” Celeste agreed. “But it will settle your stomach.”
She sipped again. “This is awkward.”
“Why?” Lucy asked. “We’ve all been there. Men can be...morons.”
“The question is, what can we do?” Celeste asked. “I’m a doer.”
Tatum shook her head. “I was going to bake a black forest cake...” She covered her mouth.
“You have everything?” Celeste asked, hopping up and opening the refrigerator.
She nodded, pointing.
“Recipe?” Lucy asked.
She shook her head and tapped her forehead. “Secret.”
They froze.
“Seriously?” Lucy asked.
Tatum shook her head, laughing weakly. “Red cookbook.” She pointed.
“You’re a hoot,” Lucy said, squeezing her shoulder gently.
Celeste turned off the overhead lights. “Better?”
Tatum nodded. “Can you see?” she asked, peering through bloodshot eyes.
“Yep,” Celeste said, already pulling out bowls.
“This sounds yummy,” Lucy said as she read the recipe.
She sat, sipping her green concoction, strangely soothed by Lucy and Celeste’s presence. At some point, she took a pain reliever. She felt almost civilized after the cake was in the oven and they made her take a shower.
But she emerged to find them standing, staring curiously at all the pictures, newspaper clippings, trinkets and one almost shredded pom-pom scattered around her room. In fact, her room looked like a bomb had exploded. She didn’t remember much. She’d come home so angry, so confused. Apparently she’d taken it out on her room.
Stubbing her foot on the shoe box full of travel liquor at the bottom of the hall closet had seemed like an answer to her anger. Worse than anger was pain.
“You were a cute cheerleader,” Celeste said, holding up a newspaper clipping.
Tatum sat on her bed. “I don’t remember doing this.”
“You drank a lot,” Lucy offered, stooping to pick up the bits of paper and photos scattered all over the room.
“I had been planning on cleaning out the room,” she muttered.
“I’ll get a box,” Lucy said. “No point in putting this stuff back up.” She returned with the empty shoe box.