Mourning Becomes Cassandra (6 page)

At one point I found myself sharing the chaise longue with Delia, Wyatt’s shy, self-effacing wife, and Julie the Droopy Paralegal. I wasn’t clear on the causes of Julie’s droopiness; she muttered something about having just broken up with her boyfriend, who may or may not have been present. Wyatt and Roy had discovered a mutual interest in wildlife photography and gotten pretty absorbed in comparing notes. Joanie was hanging on Daniel, much to Missy’s ill-concealed chagrin and the brunette’s confusion.

“How did you and Wyatt meet?” I asked Delia politely. Droopy Julie gave a dramatic sigh, which Delia and I ignored.

Delia smiled and ducked her chin a little. “In the library at the law school. I was a senior on work-study there fall quarter, and he kept coming by to ask me questions and trying to check out reference books that couldn’t leave the library.”

“He seems like a nice guy. Was he into the wildlife photography back then?”

Delia laughed. “No, back then, he was just into the wild life, period. Especially because he hung out a lot with Daniel. I don’t know how they graduated.”

“The more I hear about Daniel, the more I wonder that, too. He’s sure into the wine, women and song.”

“No kidding,” Droopy Julie interjected. Had she preceded Missy at some point? She was rather plain, by Daniel’s standards, but maybe I wasn’t making allowances for her current droopy state.

We all gazed thoughtfully at poor Missy, who was pouting gloriously into her glass of Chardonnay.

“Wyatt wasn’t so into the women,” Delia said presently, “but he was all for the wine and song. Daniel’s promised him we’re going to play some Rock Band tonight.”

“All of us? What do you play? Joanie has a great voice, so she does vocals.”

She smiled timidly. “I’m actually pretty good on drums. Wyatt sticks to the bass because it’s the least to keep track of, and Daniel does guitar. Do you play?”

“Only a few times with my husband’s brothers. Of course they stuck me on vocals, but I couldn’t say I was any good at it. I could muddle through the few songs I’d heard before.”

“Your husband’s brothers?” Delia looked puzzled. “Are you divorced?” Droopy Julie perked up a little, to think I might also have a broken heart.

I sighed inwardly, kicking myself for my slip. I absolutely
hated
always dragging around my tragedy like a ball and chain. A real conversation killer. “I’m widowed, actually, but it’s okay…” I babbled, holding up a hand to wave away her sudden gasp and crestfallen look. “Here, can I take your plate?”

As I fled, I overheard Droopy Julie murmur, “God, how awkward! She doesn’t look old enough to be a widow—I wonder what he died of.”

I ducked back inside, feeling that familiar lump rising in my throat and hating it. The kitchen looked like a take-out container graveyard. Painstakingly, I scraped food scraps into the yard waste bin and started rinsing the dishes, so I would have time to get my emotions back under control. Maybe I should have a signboard printed up:
Cass Ewan. I have been recently widowed and lost a child, and I
do not
want to talk about it. Thank you for your donations!
Hearing the door open, I quickly dashed my sleeve across my eyes.

It was Missy, still looking unhappy—or like Miss America unhappy. Miss America after she’s posed for inappropriate pictures and has to relinquish her crown to the runner-up.

“Would you like anything else?” I asked huskily and then cleared my throat.

She didn’t appear to be listening, but she came toward me languidly. “You’re Cass, right?”

“I heard your roommate just now telling someone else that you were a widow.” Crap! Maybe I should just get on the Palace’s fancy intercom system with a Public Service Announcement. The dishes rang and clanked as I loaded them with unnecessary force.

Tell me about it. I took a deep breath to steady myself. For Pete’s sake, Cass, she’s only trying to express sympathy, and you treat her like she’s somehow responsible!

She laid her plate on the counter. “At least…at least you’ve had a husband. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married, at this rate. All my friends are getting married.”

I almost laughed with relief. Self-absorption has its benefits, and I pounced on this opportunity to change the subject. “Of course you will, Missy. You’re absolutely beautiful and—and—friendly. I’m not sure guys like Daniel are going to be your ticket out of singleness, however.”

Missy flipped her long hair back impatiently. “He’s hard to read. He seems to like me sometimes. I thought we had a great time last weekend, and then he didn’t even call me until today. And he went and invited those other friends, and his sister keeps hanging around his neck, and he doesn’t even seem to be trying to be with me.” She glared at me as if challenging me to deny any of this.

“Like I said, he may not be marriage material. He’s just to…have fun with…” I petered out awkwardly.

Her eyes flashed. “And he is fun, that way. I just thought it meant something more to him. I mean, last weekend—”

Before she could give me the gory details, the door opened again: Joanie and Roy, carrying stacks of dishes, followed by Phyl with her pile of Portmeirion. Having no paper plates is fine for a small dinner party, but tonight’s surprise turnout had taxed even the china resources of our combined households. As it was, a few of the guests were eating off Phyl’s Christmas plates because my stoneware was boxed in the attic.

It must have struck Missy that, with Joanie inside, Daniel was now wide open to the brunette’s advances; hurriedly she sloshed herself another glass of Chardonnay and went back outside.

“Your brother knows some interesting people,” Roy began conversationally. He was drying dishes for Joanie. “Had you met any of them before?”

“Some. The Collins’. Missy, of course. That guy Tom who was trying to hit on Phyl.”

“I think he’s married,” said Phyl. She was carefully wrapping up leftovers and rinsing the clamshell containers.

“He is,” said Joanie succinctly. “But always on the prowl—kind of like your dear ex.”

By the time dinner and the dishes wrapped up, it was already nine o’clock, and a significant portion of people took their leave. Rock Band was up next on the agenda, but with so many people wanting to play, everyone would spend a fair amount of time rotated out. Phyl and I seemed to be the only ones not interested, so we decided on a game of Scrabble. Dashing upstairs for my board, I came upon a couple making out on my bed, still clothed, thank heavens. Mortifying. Grabbing the game box, I made apologetic sounds, while they scrambled up and out, never to be seen again.

Joanie was getting things underway when I got back downstairs. Not for nothing did she work in the church worship department; with her voice and talent for mimicry, she distracted Roy constantly from his own screen prompts.

After opening up the next set of songs, Joanie handed off to Missy and came to check out the Scrabble progress, but Missy’s performance made concentration difficult. She was making up for her weaker voice quite effectively by adding plenty of hip gyrations and general booty shaking.

“If I tried that, it would be pure comedy,” I observed, as Missy cavorted about, getting in Daniel’s face.

“Oh, yeah, you gotta have at least D cups to pull off that move,” agreed Joanie.

“Don’t you think you could get away with it with only C cups?” I asked. “It’s all about distance and perspective. See, if you got right up in someone’s face like that, D cups become superfluous.”

“Hell, at that distance, A cups would do you!” Joanie hooted.

Phyl eyed our snickering with soft reproach. “Stop it, you two. It’s catty.”

“I’m marveling at her skill,” I sputtered mock-defensively, “Anthropologically speaking, that girl will get to pass on her genes. She’s sure got Daniel’s attention now.” He was leaning over to kiss her, the most notice Missy had gotten from him all evening.

“She is pretty,” Phyl sighed. “Usually everyone’s avatar looks way better than they do, but I think she wins hands-down.” She lay down her four-tile overlap, blocking my way to the triple-word score.

“Darn you, Phyl!” I groused. “I had a million-pointer to put there. Yeah, most people’s avatars look way better because most people are solid Tier Two.”

“Tier Two?” asked Phyl.

I nodded, explaining Troy’s theory. “And Daniel and Missy are definitely Tier One—as is Joanie, for that matter. I’d put you at High Tier Two and me at solid Middle Tier Two. In fact I don’t think there are any Tier Three people here tonight, since most people make it into Tier Two. Tier Three people have to have some overwhelming flaw, like limbs eaten away by MRSA.”

“Or like the guy at the billiards place who tried to hit on me but didn’t have any arms,” put in Joanie.

“What was he doing at a billiards place, then?” I laughed. “He should have played to his strengths and done soccer.”

We were rolling around cackling by now, and even Phyl’s disapproving mouth was twitching. “If you two are this way on one margarita, we might need to make these open houses dry.”

Sometime later, Daniel and Missy were rotated out. Daniel came over to check out our game board, and I could almost hear Missy’s irritated huff. She began running her fingers up and down his back, without measurable results.

“Who put down ‘bastard’?” he asked.

“Cass, of course!” said Phyl, deprecatingly. “Ordinarily I try to keep it clean. She could have played off my ‘d’ and made ‘dastard,’ but she couldn’t resist. ”

“That would’ve opened a triple-letter for you,” I defended. “And ‘bastard’ being a totally legitimate word, so to speak, there was no reason to pass up a bingo opportunity.”

“What’s a bingo?” asked Daniel.

“When you play all seven letters in one turn,” I explained. “You get fifty bonus points. That little ‘bastard’ is the whole reason I’m trouncing Phyl.”

“You should play with us some time,” Phyl coaxed. “And you too, of course, Missy,” she added belatedly. “We always try to get Joanie to play, but she says she can’t spell.”

Missy shrugged noncommittally, but Daniel said, “I’d like to. I think I know at least as many bad words as Cass.”

He actually winked at me when he said this, which goaded me into replying, “Oh I’m sure you could teach us all something about bastards.” Expecting him to be affronted, his quick grin surprised me. Phyl looked ready to melt under the charm onslaught, so I kicked her under the table to get the goofy puppy look off her face. “Let’s go, Levert. I have a great word to play if you don’t mess it up.” Having Daniel watching seemed to addle her brains, and she kept shuffling her tiles around nervously until he and Missy wandered away.

“Honestly, Phyl, what are you thinking?” I demanded.

“Nothing! I’m not thinking anything. He’s just so handsome! Tier Two people can
look
at Tier One people, can’t they?”

“Phyl, it’s not just his looks,” I tried to reason with her. “It’s his whole approach to life, his goals, his beliefs. Daniel is almost a different species. If you tried to mate, you’d probably have sterile offspring. Like mules. Cross a donkey and a horse, and you get a mule.”

“And I suppose I’m the donkey?” Phyl complained.

“If you fall for someone like Daniel,” I warned, “I think the biblical word would be ‘ass.’”

It was 10:30 before the Collins’ and Roy took their leave. Missy was practically wilted with lack of attention, but she revived when Daniel leaned to murmur in her ear and they headed off to the Lean-To.

Talking over the open house was almost as fun as the thing itself, and we all agreed that, apart from Missy, everyone had enjoyed themselves. “And she should be cheering up right about now,” Joanie yawned. “Besides, I don’t think she’ll be around for more than one more open house. I should have warned her that the less she fawns on him, the longer he’ll like her.”

“But you fawn on him all the time,” Phyl pointed out. She was laying on the sofa with her eyes shut.

“That’s me,” said Joanie simply. She was scrunched up in the armchair, leaning her head against me as I draped on the arm. “I’m touchy-feely.”

“And he can’t suspect you of wanting to marry him,” I added. “Poor Missy. At least by dating Daniel she might get fed up with men who don’t treat her well.” Phyl looked as if she might say something, but catching my eye, she shut her mouth firmly again.

Over the next couple weeks I found myself settling into a cautious new happiness. The grief was there, to be sure, but shut up tight and put high on a shelf to worry about later. How could I not be distracted and excited, to wake up in an unfamiliar place with sunlight streaming in and the smell of coffee brewing downstairs? I couldn’t shower and get ready fast enough to join Joanie and Phyl in the kitchen for quality time before they headed off to work.

We quickly learned each other’s habits. Phyl was a hot breakfast gal and never sat down with less than two eggs scrambled, toast, and juice. Joanie would eye this feast askance, unable to stomach more than coffee and some bready item before ten o’clock. For me it was always cold cereal and Earl Grey tea, and Daniel would usually dash in, fill his commuter mug with coffee and, often as not, steal Joanie’s dry toast on his way out.

“You big loser,” Joanie yelled after him, one morning. “We cook you dinner, not breakfast!”

By eight o’clock the house was mine. I wasted a lot of time in the beginning, reading the paper or dinking on the piano or figuring out good neighborhood walks, but I had already wasted the past year of my life lying in bed, and now I had responsibilities to my housemates, besides. New house, new start. Soon I divided my day into blocks of duty and reward. Start with housekeeping responsibilities, then read the paper. Exercise before settling down to a few hours’ work.