Part 10 (1/2)
”I don't think I could drink that many shandies,” Claire said, her words starting to slur a bit. Brooke had the impression that the only thing keeping her upright was the corner of the sofa back.
”I don't think the drinking part is mandatory,” Samantha said. ”Besides, sometimes it's better to spread out the good things. You know. So you have something to look forward to.”
Brooke looked at Samantha Davis in surprise. Surely the woman's life was a string of good things, each one better than the next.
”Well, I wouldn't suggest the marathon to Edward,” Claire said. ”You might be put on a DA watch. He's got a plan and I don't think he wants us to devee-date.” She rolled her eyes. ”I mean dee-vee-ate.” She looked inordinately pleased when she got it right.
Slowly people rose and began to say their good-byes.
”I'm walking you home,” Brooke said to Claire.
”Me, too,” Samantha said.
”Home is only six doors down the hall,” Claire said with what sounded like surprise.
”I know but the way you're swaying, I'm afraid you'll get on the elevator and end up somewhere else,” Brooke said.
”Like the bottom of the pool,” Samantha said.
Claire perked up. ”Swimming would feel good right now.”
”I rest my case,” Brooke said.
”You're definitely in no condition to be anywhere near a body of water.” Samantha smiled.
Edward came up behind them. ”Is everything all right, ladies?”
Yes,” Samantha said hooking her arm through Claire's. ”It's been a great evening. And I see our numbers are growing.”
The concierge nodded, pleased. Then he turned his attention to Brooke, looking at her in the same a.s.sessing way he had earlier. ”I wonder if you might be available to come talk with me sometime this week?”
Brooke's good mood began to evaporate. She couldn't imagine what the concierge would want to talk to her about. Was it the maintenance fees? Had there been a complaint about Darcy or the girls? ”Is there something wrong?” she asked.
”No, not at all,” he said quickly. ”I just think it's too late to cover the topic I wanted to broach.”
”Oh, no,” Claire said. ”Did he say there were roaches? I hate roaches. I spray the s.h.i.+t out of them-make them sleep with the fishes.” She said this in a fair imitation of Marlon Brando in the G.o.dfather.
”That was 'broach,'” Edward said drily. ”And I promise you it's nothing negative.”
”Well,” Claire said. ”Thanks for . . .” Apparently unable to find the right words, she raised her arms to encompa.s.s the room. ”It was fun.”
”Yes, it was really great,” Brooke agreed, but she felt his eyes on her as she followed Samantha's lead and hooked her arm through Claire's other elbow.
Claire swayed slightly on her feet. Because they were connected Brooke and Samantha swayed along like pa.s.sengers on a wave-tossed deck.
Carefully, Brooke and Samantha walked Claire down the carpeted hallway. At Claire's door they waited while Claire fumbled with the key. The second time it landed on the floor, Samantha bent down to pick it up. ”May I?” At Claire's nod, Samantha inserted the key smartly in the lock, then pushed open the door.
”Hey, tha.s.s good.” Claire's voice indicated her admiration ”Now you go inside and lock the door behind you.” Brooke said this slowly and carefully as if speaking to one of her children.
Claire stood and stared into her condo as if she'd never seen it before. Brooke and Samantha looked at each other.
”Okay,” Samantha said. ”I guess we'll escort you in.”
”'Kay.” Claire stood and waited patiently, but she didn't move.
”Turn sideways,” Brooke said. ”If we're going to stay linked together like this we're not going to fit through the doorway head-on.”
”'S right. Too wide.” Claire nodded sagely, not moving. ”No offense.”
Samantha snorted. ”None taken. Hold on.” Keeping her arm linked through Claire's, she realigned herself so that she was facing the doorjamb. Brooke did the same pulling Claire around with her. Samantha led a sideways sashay into Claire's condo. ”There.” They walked her to her bedroom alcove. ”This is a great unit,” Brooke said, looking around.
”Yes, really functional. And very cute,” Samantha agreed. They lowered Claire onto the edge of her bed and pulled off her shoes. ”Do you have any aspirin?”
Claire stared blankly at both of them. Then she yawned.
”Check the bathroom medicine cabinet,” Brooke suggested. She tucked Claire's shoes halfway under the bed so Claire wouldn't trip over them if she got up during the night. A picture of Claire and a girl in cap and gown stood on the nightstand. ”Is that your daughter?”
”Hailey.” Claire nodded in confirmation. Her eyelids fluttered shut.
”Hold on.” Samantha returned with a bottle of aspirin. In the kitchen she filled a cup with water from the refrigerator door dispenser. ”Take these first,” she said, opening the bottle. ”You'll thank me in the morning.” They waited while Claire slitted her eyes open and complied. ”Thirsty.”
”I bet.” Brooke took the cup from her and set it on the nightstand. ”Okay, we're going to go so you can sleep. Why don't you just come lock the door behind us and . . .”
Claire fell backward onto the bed. Her feet remained on the floor.
”No.” Brooke grabbed one limp arm and hauled her up. ”We leave. You lock the door. Then you sleep.”
Brooke let go of Claire's arm and she fell backward again. ”What now?” she asked Samantha as Claire's breathing evened out.
”I don't know. I haven't dealt with anything like this since college,” Samantha admitted. ”I guess we tuck her in, lock the door, and slip the key under the door when we leave?”
”Good plan,” Brooke said. She'd done little partying herself in college. And once she'd dropped out to put Zachary through she'd been far too tired for drinking or much of anything that didn't revolve around him.
Together they tucked Claire under the covers. Samantha refilled the gla.s.s of water and made sure it was within reach.
It was a short ride to the ninth floor. After saying good night to Samantha, Brooke stepped off the elevator and headed down the silent hall. All the way to her door and as she let herself in to her even more silent condo, she tried to imagine why Edward Parker had been looking at her in that X-ray sort of way of his. What he might have seen. And what in the world he could possibly want to talk to her about.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY AND HIS PRODIGIOUS alcohol consumption notwithstanding, Claire had never found alcohol a particularly helpful part of the writing process. She couldn't imagine how running in front of a herd of p.i.s.sed-off bulls would contribute to anyone's word count, either. But then she-and most female writers she knew-had never had a Paris, or any other kind of wife, to take care of them and keep the rest of the world at bay while they wrote.
She woke late Monday morning groggy and with a throbbing headache that seemed way out of proportion to beers laced with lemonade.
”Aarggh,” she said, though this was a word better typed than spoken. Burying her face in her pillow in an attempt to block out the suns.h.i.+ne, she willed herself back to sleep but it was a halfhearted effort. Finally she flipped onto her back, opened her eyes, and squinted up at the ceiling, hoping to find something there that would motivate her to get up. What she saw was a fresh coat of white paint and a circus of dust motes performing in the spill of sunlight that streamed through the windows.