Creed hadn’t seen Camille enter the bar. He didn’t notice her tucked into the corner table at the back of the room until some fat guy tried to get her to dance to a country version of “Suspicion.” Creed had added the song to the playlist years ago because it hit so close to home, which was the hit people wanted from his brand of music.
Just say no, he willed as he watched her. It felt weird, catching some guy hit on his ex-wife. The young cutie at the front table thought Creed was smiling for her, and she smiled back. Hell, she winked at him. He wasn’t smiling for the girl. He was smiling at her because she was sitting in front of him. He was smiling for the shutdown Camille had given Mr. Big. She didn’t need that tub to be tromping on her toes.
It was the last set. Then it was last call. If Camille had come out to check up on him, Creed was inclined to let her get away with it without getting caught, whatever her reason. But he’d given her the chance to slip out, and she didn’t take it, so he sauntered back to her corner. He wanted to thank her again for including him on the cake tasting. He wanted to tell her he’d made the appointment to get sized up for his tux like she’d told him to and to ask her what was next on the wedding agenda.
He wanted to sit with her for a while.
She saw him coming. She made no move to take off, which he figured to be a good sign. Then she smiled at him, and he realized that she was totally blitzed. He smiled back. This was a first.
“What are we drinking?” he asked as he slid in beside her.
“We are drinking margaritas.” She raised a glass. The smile in her low-lidded eyes was sweet, unabashedly flirtatious. “On the rocks, with salt.”
“Good choice.” He noticed that she had a fresh one waiting.
“Have one. I’m buying.” She lifted her hand and snapped her fingers. “Garçon!”
“Honey, I don’t think there’s anyone at the Countryside Inn who answers to that name. Besides, the bar’s closed.”
“They haven’t brought me my last-call drink yet. That’ll be the one I buy for you. I think I’ve had enough.”
“What about that one?” He pointed.
“I don’t want that one.” She eyed the drink suspiciously. “Some guy ordered that for me after I said ‘No, thank you.’ Politely but quite firmly, making myself quite, quite clear, if you know what I mean. But I have definally had quite enough.”
He laughed. “Margarita has a way of sneaking up on a person, does she?”
“Is it ob—ob-vious?”
“Only to someone who knows you as well as I do.”
“You do, don’t you? You know me very well.” She toyed with the soggy corner of the napkin under her glass. “I think it’s fair to say we know each other pretty well.”
“What I don’t know is whether we’re celebrating or feeling sad.”
“Celebrating, of course. I don’t know why people go to bars when they’re depressed. You just get more depressed.”
He leaned back, enjoying the look of her. She rarely looked this vulnerable. “What do you do when you get depressed?”
“I don’t get depressed. I don’t have time to be depressed. If I feel something coming on and I think it might be depression…” She lifted one shoulder. “Well, I don’t know for sure, because I don’t get depressed, but if I think I might get depressed, then I get busy doing something. I make something, or I read something, or I plan something out.”
“You ever talk to someone?”
Squinting against the closing-time lights, she looked up at him and smiled. “I used to.”
“So what are we celebrating?”
“The bridal shower at Bridget’s. Our daughter made a nice haul. And everyone had a good time, I think. We had games and prizes and good food.” She enunciated with exaggerated care. “I made the favors and some of the decorations, and I made lemon bars and three kinds of tarts. You remember my tarts?”
“I can’t have a tart without thinking of you.”
“I can’t tell you how much it pleases me to hear you say that.” She gave him what was supposed to pass for a haughty look. “What’s your favorite kind of tart?”
“Chameleon.”
“No such thing.”
“Chamomile.”
“That’s a kind of tea.”
“Margarita, then. Margarita is very tart.”
“Very tart.” She waggled her finger, signaling him to lean closer. “I think I need your help,” she whispered.
“Sure. You need a ride home?”
“First things firtht,” she said. “Firsst. I’m afraid to stand up. Once I manage that, I’m not sure I can execute a graceful exit.”
He lifted a single eyebrow. “This sounds like some serious inebriation.”
“I’m quite sure I could walk out under my own, you know…”
“Steam,” he supplied.
“Yes, I have plenty of that. But it’s that graceful part that worries me.”
“You don’t want to wobble at all.”
“Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down,” she recited, recalling a commercial for a toy Jordan had loved when she was a toddler.
“Come on. I won’t let you fall down.” He stood, offering her a hand.
She leaned against him, slipping her arm around his waist. “Don’t let me wobble either.”
“How wobbly are you feeling?” One look at her pale face clued him in. He steered her across the hotel lobby. “Hang on, hon. I’ve got a room close by.”
“I’m not going to be sick,” she assured him as he slid his key card into the lock on his door. Because he was in a hurry, it took three tries to open it. He flipped on the light, and she pushed him aside and made a beeline for the bathroom. “Go away, Creed.”
“Sounds familiar,” he grumbled as she closed the bathroom door on him. But she wasn’t kicking him out for long this time. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“Go away!”
“I’ll get you some”—he pocketed his plastic key and grabbed a plastic bucket, typical trappings of a temporary home—“ice.”
Returning after the promised five minutes plus a few more, he found her stretched across his bed. He thought she’d passed out, but not Camille. Passing out was beneath her. Her face was buried in his pillow, and her shoulders were trembling.
Camille was crying?
Creed set the ice bucket on the table next to the pull-out sofa and sat beside her on the bed.
“I always wondered what kind of a drunk you’d make. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be the cryin’ kind.”
“Why not?” She lifted her face from the pillow. “I have feelings, you know. I cry sometimes.”
“How long has it been?”
“I don’ know. A while.” She rolled to her back, swiping at her tears with a childlike fist. “I don’ exac-ly enjoy it, you know. But now that I got started, I don’t know what…how to make it…st-stop.”
“I could hold you.”
She went still for a moment. “Do you want to?”
“I really do, yeah.” He stretched out alongside her, slipped his arm beneath her shoulders, and drew her to his chest. He smiled, thinking that of all the scents that had ever assailed him when he’d climbed into bed with a woman, the smell of his industrial-strength Listerine on top of her regurgitated margarita had to be the most endearing, if not the most pleasant.
He rubbed her back. “Yeah. Cry all you want. You never used to let me do this. Hold you while you cry.”
“I was too mad…usually crying…over you.”
“Good song material,” he said with a chuckle. “But you never even let me see you cry.”
“What difference…? Wouldn’t change…anything.”
“Is that why you’re crying? What do you want to change?”
“Nothing. There’s no reason.” Her gasping and sobbing had given her hiccups. “Just…that stuff doesn’t taste very good…coming up.”
He couldn’t help laughing.
“Stop it,” she whined. Another hiccup. “You’d cry, too.”
“Damn straight, I would. I have once or twice. But you’re right. It didn’t change anything.”
She looked up at him. Big, sorrowful puppy eyes. “Can I stay here?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know what it is. I just feel so weird sometimes.”
“Weird, how?”
“Hou, Creed.” She put her palm in front of his face, being silly again. “Hou, weird white woman.”
He groaned. “As weird as it gets, funny girl.”
“It gets pretty weird. Like, I was washing my face this morning, and all of a sudden I was just watching the water run through my fingers. Fill my hands back up, tight fingers.” She drew back, holding her hand up high, the way she’d described. “Can’t stay that way very long. It still runs out. Just takes longer. So I’m standing there, leaning over the sink, my throat getting all tight, and it’s just water. There’s plenty more water.”
“Plenty more.” He brushed his fingertips across her damp cheek. “Here’s some, mixed with a little salt of the earth.”
“Stupid. I’m acting stupid.”
“Everybody gets the blues, even Camille Delonga.” He ought to be singing to her, he thought. Wouldn’t that be corny as hell? But that was the way he felt—corny as hell, with a song in his heart. “You need to let go once in a while, go with the flow.”
“But it was a good day. I had a really good day. The shower was fun.” She snuggled against his shirt. “Jordan and James had a little lovers’ tiff on the phone, though.”
“About what?”
“She didn’t exactly say. She hung up bawling. Then she went out with the girls. No moms allowed.” She giggled. “Mums.” Hiccupped. “The queen mum, the princess bride. Mum’s the word.”
“He’s gonna be good to her, isn’t he?”
“Prince James? I hope so. I hope they’re good to…for each other.”
“So Jordie went out with the girls. What about your mom?”
“She went to bed.” After a pause she projected softly, “I don’t think she’s telling me everything.”
“About going to bed?” He looked down at her, grinning. “Are you gonna tell her where you slept tonight?”
“She’d pin a medal on me, probably. She’s changed. Still changing.” She pressed her lips together, blinking back more tears, and then took a deep steadying breath. “Going somewhere. It feels like she’s getting ready to go somewhere, but she won’t tell me.”
“Does she have to?”
“I suppose I should go with the flow,” she allowed, voice raspy. “But you know me—I can’t just float along. I want an engine. I want a steering wheel and a rudder.”
“I know you,” he said, rubbing her back again. “And you know me. I’m satisfied with a raft.”
“That’s why she called you to take her to the emergency room. No ambulance. No…no…”
“You can only push this one so far, hon, this time-and-the-river-flowing bit. Right now it’s about Jordan.”
She looked up with a tremulous smile. “The river or the daughter?”
“Damn, I should’ve seen that coming.” He smoothed a damp bit of hair back from her face. “Jordan, the daughter and granddaughter. Jordan, the bride. Your mom ain’t goin’ no place else before we have that wedding.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded.
“Do you know whether she had any more tests done without telling me or anything like…like more…”
“No, I don’t. I really don’t. It looks to me like she wants to handle it herself for now. I think she’ll let you know when she can’t do that anymore.” He could tell she wasn’t convinced, so he moved on. “Jordie says the dress is beautiful.”
“Oh, it is. Wait till you see.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He put his lips close to her ear. “I’m kinda nervous about the whole thing.”
“You?” She leaned back, gave him that incredulous, don’t-be-ridiculous look. “You get up in front of people all the time. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m telling you something personal here. I’m worried about getting all choked up in front of everybody.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “Go with the flow.”
“Right.” There was something else he’d thought about, felt foolish about, figured only she would understand. “I don’t want to be alone that day. I don’t want to feel…divorced.”
“Neither do I,” she whispered.
“Let’s make a pact, okay? On Jordan’s wedding day we go with the flow together.”
“It’s a deal.” An easy moment passed before she switched gears. “I wish Bridget and Tim could make the same pact.”
“Their wounds are pretty fresh.”
“Creed, I don’t know what she’s going to do. She’s losing everything, and she hasn’t supported herself…well, ever. I tried to tell her she could stay with Mama and me, but I think she was insulted. She said I was just being kind.”
“Were you?”
“No. We’ve been friends…” She leaned back on another double take. “What’s wrong with being kind?”
“Nothing. I think it’s great. Maybe when I get old, you’ll even let me come home.”
“What, so I can mash your food and change your diapers?”
“Maybe we can mash each other’s food, huh?” He laughed. “Let’s not think about the other part.”
“Let’s not.” Another moment passed before she asked with sleepy curiosity, “What kind of an old man do you plan to be?”
“A dead one. I was never one for goin’ back to the blanket. I sure ain’t puttin’ on any diapers.”
“What happened to go…mmm…with the flow?”
“I don’t know. It sounded good when we were talking about other things.” He looked down at her. “Why are we talking so morbid anyway?”
“Seems like the logical follow-up to getting drunk and puking one’s guts out.”
He smoothed her hair back again, marveling at how young she looked with her eyes closed and her lips all moist and puffy. “One is feeling better?” he asked gently.
“One is feeling very tired.”
“Figures.”
It had been a long time since Camille had turned over in bed and bumped into an erect penis. Its owner’s eyes were closed, but that didn’t mean he was asleep. Beneath strange bedcovers she moved her hand slowly up her midriff until she encountered underwire.
“You’re covered,” he said. “Bra and panties.”
“What about you?”
“You wanna check me out?” Eyes still closed, he smiled. “Again?”
“I wasn’t checking you out. You were invading my space.”
His eyes flew open. “How do you figure? I’m paying the rent on this bed, lady.”
She lifted her head, then eased it back to the pillow as lightning stabbed her in the temples. “Oh, dear. My head’s throbbing.”
“Join the club.”
“Are we getting up now?”
His laughter shook the bed, which made the pain worse.
“What I meant was…” She had to join in. “Oh, God, it hurts to laugh. I was going to offer to look the other way if you will.”
“There’s nothing under here you haven’t seen before.”
“I don’t remember taking my clothes off.”
“I do.”
She tried to think, which also hurt. “I did?”
“I did.”
“You did,” she echoed, drawing out the words and the thought. “I don’t remember that either. What else don’t I remember?”
“I’ve gotten pretty good at reading your mind, but not good enough to pick up on anything that isn’t there.”
“I don’t remember having sex last night.”
“Well, that’s good, because I don’t either.”
“We didn’t?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know about you.” He rolled toward her and propped himself on his elbow, grinning. “If you’d had sex with me, I guaran-damn-tee you’d remember.”
“Don’t be too sure.” That grin of his was way too bright, along with the sunlight crashing through the partially open drapes. She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what’s happened to my memory lately. Margaritas notwithstanding.”
“Your memory was always way too sharp for your own good. Maybe the good Lord’s taking pity on you by filing the edge off a little.”
“It’s mainly the short-term memory that’s gone bad.”
“Maybe we can find a cure. Let’s see if this brings anything back.”
She felt a kiss coming on. The warmth of his bare chest, the soft whisper of his breath, and the brush of his lips gave fair warning. It would take too much effort to turn her head. It would be too jarring, hurt too much. It was so easy to part her lips and lift her chin and receive his open-mouthed kiss as though she wanted it, respond as though she meant it.
He raised his head. “Remember that?”
She nodded.
“Long-term, or short-term?”
“Long.”
“Too long?”
“Much too long,” she admitted, but feeling that second kiss coming, and thinking of the way she must taste and smell and look, she turned her head away and whispered, “No.”
He took his weight and his warmth from her as abruptly as she had turned from him. She felt bereft, and she thanked God, for what a mistake this threatened to be.
“Creed?”
“I’m not lookin’.” He struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Get dressed.”