washed over her. Jack was gone. She marched straight to the bar, refilled her glass with the melting margarita mix and returned, none too coordinated, to her chair. She stared with hostility at the ominous pile of envelopes instead of making eye contact with Shay and Della. Surely fragments of shattered dreams were still clinging to her face.
“Jack said to tell you that he hopes to see you again now that he’s back in town,” Shay said.
Heaven forbid. “I didn’t know that Jack was—” she hesitated, mentally rephrasing “—that Jack had a partner.”
“I thought you did.” Della shrugged. “Cal’s great. They’re opposites. Sort of yin and yang. A great fit.”
Mattie flinched at the image Della’s words conjured.
“I didn’t tell you that they’re moving back to Haddes because I just found out myself— Oh my God!” Della interrupted herself, her gaze glued to the entrance.
“Erica?” Mattie and Shay said in unison as they followed Della’s gaze.
Erica’s normally athletic gait was slow and as she neared, Mattie realized her friend’s arm was in a cast. The three women hesitated, as if not quite sure what to do with the injured, solemn-faced woman in front of them.
Erica grinned then, her face transforming into a familiar expression of bravado. She shrugged. “Land mine.”
The comment broke the ice and the next few minutes were filled with swapping comforting hugs and laughter.
Shay helped Erica into a chair with characteristic sympathy. “What really happened? Were you in an accident?”
Erica looked momentarily confused. “Land mine,” she restated, her brows arching.
“You mean a real line mand? Land mine…” Mattie corrected, hoping no one else noticed the tequila-slip.
Erica nodded, her face serious. “It was activated by a humanitarian relief crew I was following in Afghanistan. They were killed instantly.” Her gaze appeared distant before she straightened with a weak smile. “I’m okay, though. Just a few bumps and bruises.” She held up her arm. “And one minor fracture. I’m taking a month or two off to recuperate.”
“Here in Haddes?” Della asked.
“Um…maybe.” She pulled a tiny black purse into her lap and unzipped it. The envelope she produced had been folded accordion-style, no doubt to fit.
Erica always did travel light, Mattie thought. Friendships and relationships included. Without fanfare she tossed the envelope into the pile.
Della brought a drink, but Erica declined, holding up her injured arm. “Better not mix it with the meds,” she explained.
Mattie’s gaze slid from Erica’s arm to her face. She’d changed very little during the years that had separated them. Still strikingly beautiful, her dark hair spilled over strong tanned shoulders, and the calculated movements of her body fell somewhere between athletic and graceful. If you didn’t look into her eyes, it would be easy to assume she spent her days on a tennis court. But there were new lines at the corners of Erica’s eyes, and for reasons unclear to Mattie, she was certain that they’d been hard-earned.
Della slid the drink in front of Mattie instead and the next hour was spent filling in the gaps of information about their lives. It was awkward at times, a social dance that included accepting Shay’s silence when the subject of men came up and the lack of detail surrounding the last few years of Erica’s life. Della played hostess and gossip instigator like the pro that she was.
Conversation finally waned, and the four friends lapsed into companionable silence.
Mattie realized that their gazes had all inadvertently settled on the pile of envelopes. The creepy spider feeling began to walk up her spine again and her lips felt numb. The tequila? Maybe. The sight of the envelopes reminded her of an old black-and-white episode of The Twilight Zone, when the object of some paranormal event began to take on a life of its own—growing, heartbeat throbbing, spinning in the center of the camera lens…
“I just remembered…” She made a move toward the stack of envelopes.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Della said. She leaned her palms on the table, tenting the envelopes with her body.
Della looked like an angry rottweiler guarding its kibble. Was that a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth? Mattie stifled a hysterical laugh at the thought, then straightened, attempting to gain control of her ping-ponging thoughts.
“I’m sorry. I—I really can’t say—stay…” she stammered. “I have a shipment of books from Ralph Barnes’s estate that I need to go through.”
“Ralph Barnes?” Erica shivered. “He gave me the heebie-jeebies. Always walking around in that silk smoking jacket like Hugh Hefner.”
Della ignored her, focusing on Mattie. “You’re not wiggling out of this one, Missy. I don’t care if St. Peter died and left you the keys to heaven.”
Erica fidgeted with a bar napkin, seemingly oblivious to Della’s rising temper. “Isn’t St. Peter technically already dead?”
“It’s okay,” Shay said, shooting Della and Erica disapproving looks. “We understand.”
Erica shrugged but Della landed on her feet, pointing at Mattie. “No, we don’t!”
Mattie cocked her head, studying the image of her friend. With her arm extended in perfect pointer position, she looked more rabid golden retriever than rottweiler.
“Mattie!” Della’s voice cracked and Mattie jumped, suddenly alert. “I’ve waited twenty years to hear what’s inside of that envelope of yours.” Della’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What are you so afraid of, Mattie Harold?”
Oh crap. All sorts of things came to mind—bugs, the bottom of her garbage can when she lifted the bag out, the rejection of men dipped in self-tanner….
Mattie had never had an athletic moment in her life. She’d always assumed that whatever gene was responsible for hand-to-eye coordination was dormant in her body. She had a colorful history of sending tennis balls into outer space and gymnastic coaches to the ER. But for one shining moment, she was Olga Korbut and Chris Evert rolled into one. She was on her feet before anyone could blink. Her hand shot out, unchallenged, grasped her envelope and shoved it safely into her purse. She executed a perfect half-spin and was halfway across the room before Della knew what had happened.
“Gotta run!” she called cheerfully.
Then she tripped over the threshold on her way out the door.
Jack watched Mattie Harold weave her way hell-bent through the maze of bar tables and pinball machines toward the back door of the bowling alley. He’d suspected she was tipsy earlier. Her gaze had seemed a little out of focus and her face had been flushed. But when she stumbled over the threshold, arms flapping like she was an agitated flamingo in an effort to keep from falling, he realized she was more than tipsy. He grinned. Damn, she was cute. She’d always been the cute one in the bunch. She was Della’s age, a few years younger than he was, but she still looked like the kid he remembered.
A
