The Dirty Book Club Read online

  7. Your books are with Easton. (In boxes, of course.) Make sure the seals have not been broken. He’s a curious one.

  8. Membership is optional, substitutes are not. If one of you quits, all of you quit.

  9. Once you have agreed to the above, Easton will bring the first box.

  10. We saw Thierry first. He’s ours!

  Times have changed, women have not. You’ll see.

  —The DBC

  * * *

  ADDIE UNRAVELED THE key from her wrist and slammed it on the coffee table. “I’m out.”

  Jules’s eyelashes fluttered. “You’re leaving?”

  “There is no DBC. The club, the secrets, the whole sisterhood-of-my-traveling-aunts crap—it’s bullshit. They made the whole thing up.”

  “Why would they do that?” M.J. asked with a pinch of irritation.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Addie rolled her eyes as they shook their heads, no. “They want you to be my new best friends.”

  “Us?” Britt swiped her bangs to the side. “What’s so special about us?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point.”

  They watched Addie nibble on her thumbnail, waiting for a punch line that never came.

  M.J. thought of the team-building retreat she and her coworkers went on last winter, and how they were asked to describe her in a single word. They used: witty, inspiring, talented, stylish, emaciated, and tone-deaf. Now, only a few months later, she was nothing special? Is that how California saw her? Did unemployment matte her glossy finish or had she been born matte and City made her shine? “Explain.”

  Addie leaned back on her elbows and lifted her face to the chandelier. “You have a disease called ‘settling down,’ and Gloria wants me to catch it.”

  “I haven’t settled down!”

  “I have,” Jules said, “and I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Same,” Britt added. “What’s wrong with settling down?”

  “The husband, the kids, Costco.”

  “I love Costco,” Britt said.

  “Yeah, well, while you’re pushing your giant cart through their giant aisles, I’ll be in Europe having sex with hot foreigners who can’t pronounce my name.”

  “You’re leaving the women’s clinic?” M.J. asked.

  “You know where I work?”

  “You told me.”

  Addie’s icy expression softened; melted by the heat of humiliation, or maybe, the warmth that comes from being heard. “I’m giving my notice at the end of the summer and getting as far away from Pearl Beach as American Airlines and its Oneworld Alliance will take me.”

  “Why?” Jules asked, as if offended. “What’s wrong with Pearl Beach?”

  “Autopilot, that’s what. Everyone over thirty has the exact same life—marriage, babies, rescue dog, spin class, date night, school fund-raisers, girls’ weekends in the desert . . . I swear, if I go to one more bridal shower I’m going to shoot myself in the face with a Crate and Barrel registry gun. I need more.” Addie stood, moved by the force of her own conviction. “No offense.”

  “Lots taken,” Britt muttered while checking her phone, a watched pot that refused to boil.

  “So you think Gloria would create a fake club just to keep you in town.”

  Addie popped open her clutch and pulled out a tube of red gloss. “You don’t know Gloria like I do.” She drew the spongy wand across her lips, then kissed the top of her hand to blot. “I grew up without a mother, so she was kind of it,” Addie said. “And she was a saint. So were Aunt Liddy and Aunt Dot. But I don’t need a mother anymore. I need a scotch.” She peered narrowly toward the front of the shop. “Easton!”

  “You didn’t have a mother?” Jules asked, hand to heart.

  “I was born, she died ten minutes later, her best friends took care of me while my dad was at work, the end,” Addie said. Not knowing that her words hit M.J. like a punch between the ribs. Because, yes, mothers did die, and it sucked in ways that Addie’s glib resignation couldn’t begin to describe.

  “Do you think they wrote about her in their letters?” Jules asked.

  “Maybe she was a member,” Britt added. “You know, back in the early days.”

  “Okay,” Jules said, “I have got to read those letters.”

  M.J. was equally intrigued: the secrets, the books, the history, the possibility of friends. But these girls? They seemed better suited for Oprah’s Book Club than Gloria’s. And what if she ended up going back to New York? The eighth tenet said, if one quits, everyone quits. It wouldn’t be fair.

  Outside, a car horn honked.

  “There’s my date!” Addie announced.

  “David?” M.J. asked, remembering Gloria’s son and how he had bathroom sex with Addie at Leo’s shiva.

  “David went back to Colorado,” Addie said, closing her clutch with a definitive snap.

  “Oh, I thought he was your boyfriend.”

  “Nope, just a buddy.”

  Another honk, this one longer than the first.

  “I better go.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Jules said. “Are you really dating a horn honker?”

  Confused, Addie nodded.

  “Oh, shugah, you can’t. That man needs to go to cotillion and learn some manners.”

  “As long as he hits clit-illion first,” Addie said, fluffing her cleavage and then turning to leave.

  “Wait!” Jules said. “What about the you know what?”

  “You mean the fake club?” Addie called over her shoulder. “I told you, I can’t do it. I’m leaving in September.”

  I might be heading back to New York, so I can’t do it, either, M.J. wanted to say, mostly to show Addie that she was special, that she too was allergic to Costco. But that little girl tugging on her dress wanted to give the club a chance.

  “September is back-to-school and back-to-soccer. I won’t have time to read a stop sign, let alone an entire book,” Britt said. “Maybe we should pass.”

  “But I’ve never been in a secret club before,” Jules whined. “Well, unless you count my teen pregnancy support group. But after a few months that secret was out.” She held her hands in front of her belly. “Way out.”

  Addie kept walking.

  “Oh, please, can we at least try? Y’all can quit when you have to.”

  “Good point,” M.J. said. “Britt?”

  “My kids are gone.”

  “Addie?” Jules called. “Pretty please? We can’t do it without you.”

  “It’s a trap!”

  “I’ll give you a free pass for the Majestic spa . . .”

  Addie kept walking.

  “For the entire summer.”

  “With a guest?”

  “With a guest.”

  Addie stopped. “I’m not going to read the books.”

  “The tenets don’t say squat about actually reading,” Jules pointed out.

  “And I’m not going to wear this necklace,” M.J. said, lifting it over her head.

  “Hold it . . . ,” Britt said, looking up from her phone, her eyes wide with concern.

  “Fine. I’ll hold it, but I’m not wearing it.”

  “No, I meant hold the conversation. Where did you say Dan was?”

  “Java.”

  “That’s near Jakarta, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Britt flashed the news alert on her screen.

  “Sneezes H. Crust,” Jules muttered.

  Addie hurried back.

  Easton was summoned—asked to bring water, Xanax, a brown paper bag—anything to help calm M.J. down while they searched for more information. She wanted to call Dr. Cohn, but her mouth was too dry. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t stop breathing. It was happening all over again and these three wackos were the closest things she had to friends.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Pearl Beach, California

  Monday, June 6

  Waxing Crescent Moon

  “YOU SHOULDN�
�T BE alone right now,” said Sara Hart. Or was it Marni Wells? It was the first time M.J. had spoken to Dan’s mothers and it was hard to tell them apart. Not because they sounded similar—Sara’s voice was calm and measured, Marni’s croaking with short-A sounds that linked her to Boston—but because they were both on the call, talking over each other. Had these been happier times—say a 7.8 magnitude earthquake hadn’t rocked Jakarta and Dan hadn’t been among the hundreds of people missing—M.J. would have marveled at her sudden discovery: that his surname—Hartwell—was his mothers’ last names combined. But these weren’t happier times.

  “Hop in the Mini Cooper and drive up to San Francisco,” Marni said. “Stay with us. Benita, Randy’s wife, is here with the kids. It helps. Being together helps.”

  “I don’t have a Mini Cooper,” M.J. answered, though her mode of transportation was hardly the point. But better they think she was an uptight stickler for details than a self-involved neurotic who would steer a conversation about their potentially dead son into one about her fear of driving.

  “So, he went with the Range Rover?”

  “It wasn’t a Range Rover, Marni, it was a Land Rover.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Yes, honey,” Sara said, her clench-toothed smile audible. “Of about sixty thousand dollars.” Then to M.J., “So, what did Danny settle on?”

  “Settle on?”

  “For your birthday.”

  “Sara!” Marni hissed. “Don’t ruin the surprise.”

  “I thought he did it already,” she whispered back. “He was going to hide the key in her—” Sara whispered something to her wife. It sounded like ache.

  M.J. bicycled the sheets off her stubbly legs and padded to the front window. A white Mini Cooper convertible was parked in front of the cottage. It had been there since Dan left. She had assumed it belonged to a neighbor or was placed there by the city in lieu of an ugly grate. But hers? No way!

  After wrenching the black key from the bottom of her purse, M.J. pressed the lock icon with her thumbnail and the headlights flashed—a lady in waiting, found.

  “Ohmygod.”

  Marni gasped. “Is it Dan? Did you hear from him?”

  “You were right.” M.J. sighed. “He bought me a Mini Cooper.”

  A ticker tape of bratty thoughts scrolled across her brain: Why would Dan get me a car? He knows driving gives me panic attacks. He knows I’d never get white. White makes me look washed-out. He knows all of this. . . .

  The part of M.J. that appreciated Dan’s thoughtfulness, creativity, and good intentions were in there, too. But all gratitude would have to wait until he was safe.

  She turned away from the window, rested her forehead on the cool kitchen counter. An ant scurried across the gray-veined marble. She considered crushing it with her finger, then decided not to bother. The cabinets were empty. It would die of starvation soon enough. Maybe they both would.

  “Don’t waste time packing,” Marni said. “We have four daughters and a garage filled with clothes they’ve been meaning to collect for ten years. Just get on the road.”

  M.J. promised she would be there by dinner and then began searching flights to San Francisco. She wanted to thank Dan for having such wonderful mothers. She wanted to strangle him for not being there when she met them.

  There was a knock on the door.

  M.J. wanted to ignore it, but what if it was Dan? Head wrapped in bandages, delivered to her by a kind Samaritan.

  It was Britt, dressed in a frayed denim skirt, silver Birkenstocks, and a white T-shirt. Her My Other Bag Is a Birkin tote hung heavily off the crook in her elbow like a punishment, the tray of brownies resting in her palm, a reward. “What took you so long to answer?” she asked, as if waiting for hours. Maybe she was. “I have a broker preview at Gloria’s and thought I’d check in.”

  “Still no word.” M.J. considered inviting Britt in for coffee or whatever people in small towns did when unexpected visitors stopped by. But she had a San Francisco flight to book and more crying to do. Entertaining was not an option.

  Britt adjusted her grip on the brownie tray. “Last time, I spent two hundred bucks on croissant sandwiches. I had no leftovers and even fewer offers. So I’m going homemade this time. Fuck the freeloaders, you know?” She glimpsed M.J.’s rounded shoulders. “Speaking of food, when’s the last time you ate?”

  M.J. thought of Dan. Hadn’t he asked her the same question the last time they Skyped? She was in a playful mood that afternoon and asked him if toothpaste counted. A response she might have given Britt. But it didn’t matter if toothpaste counted. M.J. hadn’t used any in days. She started to sob.

  Britt put the tray on the kitchen counter, pulled a white T-shirt from her tote, and insisted that M.J. use it to blow her nose.

  “On your shirt?”

  “I always bring an extra. I tend to spill on myself. But I won’t need it because I’m leaving the brownies with you.”

  “No—”

  “My husband, Paul, made them. He loves to bake.” Britt lifted the edge of the Saran Wrap, slid out a corner piece, and held it in front of M.J.’s tear-soaked face.

  “I can’t,” she said, her insides too clenched to eat.

  But in between gasps, Britt stuffed it in M.J.’s mouth.

  Saliva rushed to the bottom of M.J.’s teeth. She swallowed and reached for another.

  “They’re all yours. If I need a fucking brownie to help me sell a beachfront bungalow in June, I’m in the wrong business.” She cut a look to the sealed DBC box by the microwave. “Open it. Our first book is Fear of Flying and there are erect nips on page one. It might be a good distraction.”

  * * *

  M.J. WAS LYING on her bed, legs stretched before her in a limp V, tray across her chest like a feedbag, sunglasses on. The midday sun seemed amplified, her need for curtains immense. But even if they had curtains, M.J. wasn’t sure she could have closed them. Her muscles felt leaden, her limbs a prosthetic sort of numb.

  She considered her options: harass the Red Cross for updates (again!); book another emergency session with Dr. Cohn; open the DBC box; reread Gayle’s offer, which she exhumed from a pile of black cashmere while packing . . . Her flight to San Francisco wasn’t until 7:00 PM. Unfortunately, there was time to do it all. And yet, all M.J. could do was stare up at the ceiling fan through polarized, bronze-tinted lenses.

  Then, suddenly, as if she was a balloon being filled by helium, she felt light . . . tingly . . . giddy.

  “Giddy,” she said aloud, then giggled. What a funny little word. Wobbly as a toddler, it woke her mouth like a pack of Pop Rocks. It grew fingers and tickled her brain.

  The sensation quickly spread to her cheeks, her gums, her torso, and all the way down the limp V of her legs to the tips of her chipped pedicure, until laughter claimed her entire body. She hadn’t felt this wonderfully untethered in years.

  Then her phone rang. Trilling along as if in on the joke and laughing, too. If she picked up, the caller would ask why she was so amused—a question she couldn’t answer. If she didn’t pick up, no one would want to know why she was so amused. And few things in life were more awkward than cracking up alone.

  “Hello?” she managed. There was interference on the other end. A seashell’s hollow hiss. “Hello?”

  “M.J.?”

  The helium feeling stopped; something more grounding was filling her now.

  “Are you there?” said the voice. “Can you hear me?”

  M.J. sat up so quickly the brownie tray toppled onto the floor. “Dan?”

  “Hey!”

  “You’re alive?” her voice echoed, the connection was terrible.

  “Of course I am,” he enthused. “How are you? How was your birthday? Did you like the cake?”

  “The cake? Who gives a shit about cake? I thought you were dead!” Her voice was shaky and unfamiliar; maybe they were both dead. “What happened? Are you hurt? Why didn’t you call?”

  “You hear
d about the earthquake, right?”

  “Um, yes, Dan, I heard about the earthquake.”

  “I was surfing when it happened. You should have seen the swell, babe, it was epic.”

  “Epic?” Was she glad he was okay? Of course! But his euphoria in the face of her despair felt like being trampled by a conga line.

  “Waves five to six feet overhead. By the time we paddled in, the quake had stopped, but man, it was chaos.” The connection dropped out. At best she heard every other word. “Broken sewage pipes . . . contaminated water . . . used our filters . . . life savers.” While Dan went on about his work with the search-and-rescue teams, M.J. texted his mothers to let them know he was okay.

  “How’s Randy?”

  “Incredible. We cleaned wounds together all night. We’ve met so many brave people, M.J. The humanitarian effort over here is mind-blowing.”

  “And not one of those humanitarians had a phone?”

  “Most of the cell towers collapsed. The ones left standing were maxed out. This is real front-lines shit. Full-on triage. Thank God you stayed home. What if you had been touring around Jakarta when—” An ambulance siren wailed in the background.

  M.J. moved the phone away from her ear. Every part of her gnashed with a premenstrual-type of irritability. Hundreds of Jakartanese (if that’s what they were even called) were dead, dying, missing, displaced—and she felt irritable? What right did she have? If anything she should be leaking relief because Dan was safe, or gushing pride because he was saving lives. She should have been giddy! And yet, that word no longer wobbled or popped or tickled inside her body. It felt flat, drained of its titillating delight much like sex after the orgasm or sushi once full.

  “M.J.? Are you still there?”

  She curled into a comma and gave in to her heavy eyelids. “Yes,” she managed. The sudden exhaustion was bone-deep. She balanced the phone between a pillow and the tip of her nose to relieve her tired hand.

  Everything would be better once Dan was back—she’d be better. She’d have four days to sort out her ambivalence with Dr. Cohn, get some sleep, and give him the welcome he deserved. “Home Friday night, right?”