“Come on,” she prompted.
“Beck had a life before he landed here a few months ago. I can’t fault him for that,” I said. “Was it weird and uncomfortable to hear about it from Decker? Seriously, yes. Does it change anything for me? No.”
Meara let out a snarly groan that made me want to pull one of her braids. “I need you to tap into your possessive side. I need you territorial. Primal. It’s so much more fun when you stop being reasonable about everything.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She glanced over as she pulled into my driveway. “It makes the husbands totally wild, the territorial thing. If I’m ever possessive in public, it’s only a matter of time until one of them whispers in my ear that I have five minutes to find a semiprivate location or the other throws me over his shoulder and runs for the door.”
“How do you handletwoof them?” I asked. “My hands are full with one.” I gave a slight nod toward my lap. “And I don’t think my body would be able to keep up with any more than that.”
“Well,” she started, gazing off into the distance, “it’s a balancing act.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“Not really,” she said. “Not anymore. These things take practice but that’s just how relationships are.” With a shake of her head, she went on. “So, what do you think is going to happen with the first meeting of the book club? What are the odds these folks actually read the book?”
“I’m guessing it’s fifty-fifty. I know there are people reading the book because they mention it every time they come into the café. But some will show up tomorrow night and immediately admit they haven’t even read the back cover.”
“That’s so funny to me because I’d never go to a book club event without having read the book,” Meara said. “If I don’t do the homework, I keep my ass at home.”
“Right, because that’s your brain and the way you experience books. You and Muff could exist in your own little book world without anyone else and be happy as peas in a pod. For other people, book clubs are as much about the social experience as they are about the literary experience. They want to hang out with folks who love stories about love and other bookish things, even if they can’t always contribute to the conversation themselves.” When Meara only raised a brow, I added, “We’re going to have a great turnout and everyone will love it.”
She shrugged. “I’m going to trust you on that.”
“Do you want to come in? Beverage, snack, bathroom break? I want to make sure you’re prepared since you have a very long drive home,” I teased. She lived forty-five minutes away from Friendship which, by Rhode Island standards, was a hefty commute. “Perhaps you should stay the night.”
“I do not miss LA traffic,” she said, “but at least the people in LA knew they wouldn’t fall off the edge of the earth if they ventured more than ten miles from their front door.”
I laughed. “So, you’re coming in for a drink?”
“No,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “I’m good. I need to get home.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
As I pushed open the door, Meara grabbed my wrist. “Wait, wait, I just remembered. I figured out what’s been happening with the back door and why it keeps getting banged up. I noticed tonight that it’s not closing all the way, and if there’s any wind at all, it blows the door open and slams it against the side of the building. I watched it happen and I saw exactly why we’ve had to replace that handle so many times.”
“So, it’s just…the wind? It’s not raccoons with tools or angry deer or—hell, any of the crazy and somewhat disturbing ideas I thought up?”
“Just the wind,” she said. “And we need to get that handle fixed again.”
I climbed out of the car, laughing. What a damn relief. “Hopefully for the last time.”
I waved as Meara drove away and let myself into the house where I was promptly swarmed by dogs. They circled me, sniffing up and down my skirt and licking my palm, huffing and whining the whole time. Before they could finish this inspection, a knock sounded at the door. Meara was back.
“I knew you’d need to pee before—”
I swung the door open to find Beck standing there, one shoulder leaned against the frame while he rubbed his eyes, his glasses dangling from his other hand. He was dressed in button-fly jeans that renewed my faith in the church of denim and a t-shirt that looked like my next sleep shirt. His hair was shower-damp and he seemed to smell like lawn clippings. There was a bruise blooming on his jaw and an ugly welt near his eyebrow.
“I wasn’t about to get married,” he said, his fingers still pressed to his eyes. “Or even engaged. It endedlast year.”
I nodded but he didn’t see it. “Okay. That’s good to know.”
He dropped the hand from his face. “It is?”
“Yeah, because it’s helpful context for this little downpour of information. But I wasn’t worried, Beck. I know you. Even when you’re a warty old bridge troll, you’re honest.”
“Bridge troll?”
