I laughed. “a kind of Stray Cats meets the Talking Heads sort of thing?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You let me buy the tickets.”

The band was called The Chattering Classes. They weren’t bad. I’d seen The Police and Phil Collins in concert. This was my first local band.

Dave had looked embarrassed when I paid at the door. We flashed our driver’s licenses and the bouncer stamped “No drinks” onto the backs of our hands in glow-in-the-dark green ink. I felt that I was, if not even, then at least no longer under an obligation. I didn’t have to hold his hand on the way back to the car.

“Mustache didn’t help you,” I yelled over the noise of the crowd inside. “You still got carded.”

“They’re sophisticated over here in Chapel Hill,” he shouted back.

It was standing room only. Between the walk and the new blue shoes, my feet were killing me. Halfway through the concert, I excused myself and pushed my way through the crowd to the women’s bathroom. The line stretched all the way back to the bar, so I had another ten minutes to wait before I finally got into a stall.

Once inside, I put the lid down on the toilet, sat down, and pulled my pantyhose off. I started to stuff them into my purse, borrowed from my mother’s collection of thrift store finds, but I thought better of it and put them in the stainless steel container marked Sanitary Napkin Disposal instead. I pressed my bare feet against the back of the stall door and felt the cold spread up through my soles and into my legs. I had a blister on the little toe of my right foot. I thought it was a shame I hadn’t borrowed my grandmother’s purse, as she always carried an assortment of Band-aids. When I began to feel sorry for the beer drinkers lined up outside, I put my shoes back on, flushed the empty toilet, and washed my hands in one of the sinks. There were no paper towels, so I ran my wet fingers through my hair. The water felt good on my hot scalp.

The bathroom was in a short hallway that ran to one side of the stage. There were a couple of concrete pillars with circular plywood benches built around them between me and the spot where I’d left Dave. I was threading my way past one of them when I spotted Susan, or rather, we spotted one another. There was a moment’s hesitation, during which neither of us seemed to know what to do. Me because I was with Dave, and Susan because she had her arm around an attractive redhead.

The redhead looked like a younger, thinner version of the cellist at Jack’s. Despite the heat, which had forced Dave to take off his blazer within the first five minutes, she was wearing a black leather jacket. Susan broke the impasse. She said something in the woman’s ear and made her way over to me.

“A friend,” she said.

“A good friend.”

“Yes.”

The Chattering Classes were playing something reminiscent of Rock This Town, and people danced around us. The room stank of stale beer and sweat and cigarette smoke. The redhead was smoking. Susan laid a cool dry hand on my arm and leaned in close. Her breath smelled like beer and cigarettes.

“Poppy.”

I shook my head. “I can’t talk right now. I’m here with my friend, Dave. He’s waiting for me.”

She kept her hand on my arm. “I’ll call you.”

“Yeah.”

“I will.”

I meant to walk away in quiet dignity. I meant to go straight back to Dave and ask him to take me home. Instead, I stunned Susan and myself. In the sight of God, the Chattering Classes, and Susan’s redheaded friend, I took her face between my hands and kissed her right on the lips. Her eyes were bright when I pulled away, and she was laughing.

“Jealous?” she asked.

“Goddamn you,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”

I pushed my way over to Dave, who was propped up against a wall, yawning.

“I’m tired,” I yelled. “Would you take me home?”

The electric candle was in the dining room window when we pulled into the driveway. Hunter was home. I told Dave there was no need to walk me to the door. He put the car into park and leaned over. I braced myself, but all he did was pull the door handle.

“If you don’t pull it just right, it sticks,” he explained. “Thanks for coming to dinner with me.”

“Thank you for asking me.”

“Don’t forget about Return of the Jedi.” He cupped his hand over his mouth. “Luke,” he growled. “I’m your father, Luke.”

“Dave,” I said, also in a Darth Vader voice. “You’re such a nerd.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Good?” Susan asked.

“Witness the evidence.” I gestured at the small pile of chicken bones on my plate. “It was delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Shall we retire to the living room? Bring your wine glass.”

I sat down on the sofa, and Susan put Diana Krall on the CD player. The lights were dim, the music was right, and a full bottle of wine sat before us on the coffee table. At another time, under other circumstances, I might have kissed her while Diana sang Peel Me a Grape. The staging would have been irresistible.

“My mother,” Susan mused. “I feel like I should begin at the end and go backwards.”

“I’ve been doing that a lot lately,” I said. “Beginning at the end or in the middle. You begin wherever you like.”

She leaned back against the sofa cushions and made herself comfortable. I fought an urge to put my feet up on the coffee table. It was lightly stained mission oak and sported no visible heel marks.

“When my mother died,” Susan said, “I didn’t mourn. At the time, I didn’t feel much grief. I felt relieved, glad that she didn’t take anyone with her. The post mortem showed that my mother’s blood alcohol level was point three. The woman she hit had two kids in the car. They were both injured. One had a broken arm and the other needed six stitches on her forehead. They could have been killed. I couldn’t get that out of my mind. I don’t think my mother deserved to die, but those kids—what if one or both of them . . . what if they’d lost their mother?”

“They didn’t, Susan. It didn’t happen. Don’t borrow trouble.”

“What happened was bad, Poppy.”

“I know that. What happened was awful, but there’s no point in . . .” I stopped. “I’m sorry. I sound condescending, don’t I? I don’t mean to.”

She shook her head. “You’re not condescending.”