“You have your girlfriends. At least that’s what you call them.”
The closest I’ve had to friends since I left Marfa are the women in my cognitive therapy group, and I don’t think that counts. Well, except for Katrina, but I don’t know that I trust her with sharp instruments. “Since you seem to know so much, what would you call them?”
He chuckles and takes a pull of his cigar. A smoke cloud streams off his lips, but he doesn’t answer.
I shiver from the cold and rub my hands up and down my arms. He’s handsome and I wouldn’t mind hearing what else he knows about Edie. I could ask the family, but they all look at me like I just got let out of the loony bin, which I did. “Everybody around here is walkin’ on eggshells—except Old Edie. She said my hair looks like her old cocker spaniel.”
“Elvis?” His chuckle turns to laughter.
I smile because it was funny. “I guess that’s what passes for ‘welcome home’ in this family.”
“I’m sure your mutt is glad you’re back.”
“Magnus? I tried to pet the dang dog and he almost bit my hand.” I shake my head. “He snapped and snarled at me for no reason.”
“Maybe because you named him Magnus.”
“Maybe because he’s as ugly as a stump full of spiders and just as cuddly.”
“That’s a fair description of all your dogs.”
All? “How long have we known each other?”
He looks at me like Donovan did. Like he doesn’t want to keep answering questions that he thinks I know the answers to.
“How long?” I push him.
He turns his attention to the lake and his voice is as deep as the shadows stretching to the shore. “I can’t think of a time when I didn’t know you,” he says.
A shiver runs up my spine but I’m certain it’s from the cold this time. “It’s probably a good thing we don’t like each other.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, and raises his cigar.
“Talkin’ to you is a chore.” I sigh. “Like puttin’ socks on a rooster.”
A lazy stream of smoke fills the air in front of his face. “I’m trying to be nice.”
I shake my head and look at the toes of my boots. “I’d hate to meet you on a night when you’re not tryin’.”
The conservatory door swings open and Meredith steps outside. “There you are,” she says. “How long have you been out here?”
I didn’t know anyone was keeping track.
“Not long.” He moves closer to put out his cigar in an urn filled with some kind of plant. I was wrong about him being Mr. February. He’s the whole dang calendar. “Edie’s been keeping me company.”
“And it’s been a hoot and a half.”
Meredith turns her head as if she sees me for the first time. “Oh!” Her gaze shifts between us. “Edie, I see you’ve met my brother, Oliver.”
“Now serving zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-one, two-seven at window fifty-three.”
The number I wrestled from Chablis Chardonnay’s grubby hands has been skipped two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three times now. My original ticket filled with zeroes was called a while ago. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting around since then because there’s no way of knowing, but I do KNOW I should be in heaven instead of a whore! I’m Edie Randolph Chatsworth-Jones of Grosse Point Shores. Yes, THE Chatsworth-Joneses, and I can trace my ancestry back to the Mayflower. There’s only one reasonable explanation for why I’m still here.
I tried to pull one over on God and he’s not happy with me. I get it. It’s like sneaking into the Yondotega Club dressed as a man. (I was terrified my father would find out.)
I lean my head back against the hard bench and sigh. God wants me to sit here and think about what I’ve done. He wants me to feel remorse, but I can’t fake something that I do not feel. He’ll know, because if there is one thing I’ve learned since I planted my feet on the garish sparkly path, it’s that there’s no outsmarting God.
“Now serving five-zero-two-eight at window one.”