Lena could never correct them, though. If people thought they knew The Story, it meant they had accepted it, plot holes and all.
There had been not quite four hours between when the last guest had left Lena’s party and the police officers knocked on her door looking for Tim. They were the defining moments of Lena’s life.
The fewer questions about them the better.
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER, 12:01 A.M.
Jett the bartender was the last to go, with a fat tip in his pocket. He had nodded tiredly when Lena slipped it to him, as if in agreement that he’d earned every last cent.
Lena leaned against the front door, stepped out of her heels. Always such a bittersweet feeling when a party finally ended, a little relief, a little sadness mingled with the contentment.
She surveyed the kitchen. Alma used to say you could gauge an event’s success by the mess, in which case tonight had been epic: wineglasses and stacked dirty plates and half-empty platters covered the countertops.
Lena stole a cube of Manchego from a platter on the island and popped it in her mouth before going upstairs.
Behind the door of her room, Rachel sang along to loud music in an unselfconscious falsetto. Lena thought against knocking, did not want to ruin the carefree moment.
In her bathroom, Lena smeared cold cream on her face, carefully slipped off her dress and pulled on a nightgown, sat down at her vanity to sponge off the cream.
She heard the mechanical whir of the garage door.
Through the years she would agonize: Why hadn’t she really listened?
She’d have realized that Tim was in no position to drive, and she could have run downstairs to stop him, stop all of it.
Because Lena was too selfish to see past her own happiness to care about anyone else, too filled with thoughts of how, right before Gary had left to drive his son to meet friends, he’d said a casual I’ll call later, twisted his pinky finger around hers and held it a little too long.
She pressed in her face oil with light upward sweeps of her finger, climbed between the sheets and fell into a dreamless heavy sleep that was interrupted by the ring of her phone.
The clock said 1:15. Her heart sprinting, she fumbled the cordless receiver off its stand, pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” Lena lied. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Indulgently, she stretched her arms above her head. “What are you doing up?”
“Waiting for my son to call for a ride home,” Gary said. “Want to sneak out and wait with me?”
Lena paused.
“Don’t say no.”
Lena didn’t. She was already getting out of bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do you think Colin is gay?”
Paul ignored Jen’s question. He took a sip of wine, swallowed. Carefully cut another bite and pushed it onto his fork and slid it onto her plate.
“You have to try the lamb,” he said.
They were at a restaurant that had once been a ranch house, and was perched atop a winding road on acres of farmland, deep in the Foothills. Paul and Jen were in front of the giant stone fireplace, with a view outside to the rows of evergreens, Christmas lights strung through their branches.
Jen had decided they should split a bottle of champagne. Since book club started in the fall, she’d found herself adopting the club’s attitude to alcohol, which she could best describe as: Why not? I deserve it!
And it was true. A glass of something now and then made everyone seem more fun and every problem a little more bearable. Even Jen’s mother couldn’t find the worry in her new habit.
You go girl, she’d told Jen clumsily, uncork a little.
“Or do you think Colin’s bi?” Jen said. “And before you accuse me of stereotyping because he’s got the hair and the eyeliner, I asked him this afternoon whether he ever thought of dating Emma and he said, ‘Not my type.’ Have you seen Emma?”
Paul nodded. Yes, he had seen Emma, the other assistant teacher, who was gorgeous with that long shiny hair and creamy skin and the boobs and get positive boppiness. Jen guessed that Emma would be anyone’s type.
“Maybe Emma’s simple?” Jen said. She held up a hand. “Not dumb. I don’t mean dumb. I mean not complicated. Colin is complicated.”
“If you say so.” Paul forked another morsel of lamb.
She sighed. The problem was that alcohol made Jen uncork and Paul brood. It really wasn’t as much fun when you were the only gabby one.
“I know Colin’s young, but he’s got a wise soul. Bruised, though.”