Why don’t Ifeel horrible?
That question had plagued her for the remainder of Sunday and wasthere waiting for her bright and early when she opened her eyes on Monday, asif it had camped out in a chair in the corner of the bedroom while she slept.
And now it was settling in, what had happened on Saturday. Whatshe’d done. Probably because she would see Rebecca tonight.
God,Rebecca…
Her brain started to drift as she lay in bed, tossing herflashbacks and images of Saturday at Rebecca’s house. In Rebecca’s arms.Rebecca was an amazing kisser…Spencer had never been kissed like that. Sothoroughly, so painstakingly, as if Rebecca’s only care in the world was tomake sure Spencer was enjoying the act of kissing. And oh, how she had enjoyedit. Before they’d even come close to traveling beyond the kissing, before anybuttons had been unfastened, Spencer was already more turned on, more pleasuredthan she’d ever been with Marti. Or Chelsea, even. Anybody. She and Rebeccamight have butted heads in many other aspects of life, it seemed, but when itcame to sex, they excelled.
She let her hand drift up to her face, brushed her own lips withher fingertips, and closed her eyes with a soft exhalation.
Opened them. She was going to have to face this.
She took the pillow next to her, held it tightly over her face,and screamed as loudly as she could. Again and again until she was empty of thefrustration, the anger, the worry, the guilt.
Then she called in sick.
And then she called her sister.
* * *
The Hummingbird was a small café not far from the house whereSpencer’s parents lived. They met there often for coffee or lunch, and thestaff—and many of the customers—knew them and greeted them whenever theyarrived. Rather than a flood of working folk, the Hummingbird catered to anolder, more laid-back crowd. No hustling, bustling yuppies or business people.The clientele was made up of mostly retired folk, all of whom knew one anotherand all of whom were there three to four times a week. Maybe more.
Mary Beth Thompson was the exception. She was not retired and,aside from Spencer, she was probably the youngest human in the place, buteverybody still knew her, thanks to past introductions from her parents. MaryBeth was a financial advisor. Her clientele spanned all ages, but Spencer waspretty sure about 70 percent of her retired clients met her through herparents. Folks waved and called out greetings to her, and Mary Beth had to stopand chat three times before she was able to reach the table where Spencer sat,menu in hand, sipping a Diet Coke as she watched her big sister mingle. Shelooked professional and competent in her navy blue pantsuit, her modest heelsclicking across the linoleum of the floor as she finally made her way to thetable, her light brown hair pulled back in a twist.
“Hey,” Mary Beth said in greeting, as she bent to kiss Spencer’scheek.
“Hey, M.B.”
She took a seat across from Spencer, folded her hands on thetable, and studied her. Part of the reason Mary Beth Thompson was so good ather job was her uncanny ability to read people. Spencer included. “You okay?”she asked.
Spencer reached into her bag and pulled out a little black velvetpouch, handed it to her.
Mary Beth loosened the drawstring and tipped a pair of earringsinto the palm of her hand. They were gold and black, dangles, simple, butsomehow a bit elegant. “These are beautiful,” she said, then looked back up atSpencer. “And now I know you’ve got something on your mind.”
“How?”
“You make jewelry when your head is messy. I’ve met you.”
Spencer inhaled deeply, then let it out very slowly. With a nod ofacknowledgment, she took a sip of her soda and looked around the café. Shewanted to talk to Mary Beth about what was on her mind, but she didn’t want tolook at her while she did, didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. Ahard swallow and a nibble on the inside of her cheek steadied her. “I didsomething.”
“Okay.”
They were interrupted by the waitress. Mary Beth hadn’t evenglanced at the menu but ordered anyway. A tuna melt with Swiss cheese and aDiet Coke. Spencer hadn’t been hungry, but her sister’s order suddenly soundeddelicious, so she ordered the same.
“This thing you did,” Mary Beth said once the waitress had left.“Is it bad?”
Spencer nodded.
“Are the police looking for you?”
The twinkle in her eye tugged one corner of Spencer’s mouth upagainst her will. “No.”
“All right, well, that’s a relief.”
Spencer nodded, slowly twirled her straw in the nubbly plastic redtumbler that all cafés and diners seemed to use.
“Are you going to tell me or should I just start guessing whichfigurine you broke?” Her tone was kind, gentle. She knew Spencer well, and thiswas how she’d always gotten her to talk. She’d coax her along, make tiny jokesto bring tiny smiles until Spencer felt comfortable enough to spill whateversecret she’d been holding. This had been Mary Beth’s method since Spencer wasfive and broke one of her mother’s favorite knickknacks, the pepper half ofWinnie the Pooh and Piglet salt and pepper shakers. They’d gone to theirmother, hand in hand, and told her what had happened. Well, Mary Beth had toldher. Spencer had stood silently as fat, hot tears rolled down her cheeks. “Itwasn’t Mom’s Elmer Fudd glass, was it? Please say no. I’m not sure I could protectyou if it was.”
