and just so you know, I’m not sure I was the one that ended it.”
“I thought you told me that you were talking on the phone, the two of you were fighting, and you hung up on him. That’s all you said about it, and of course, he never said anything at all, so I have to wonder—what were you arguing over?”
“I’d tell you, if I could remember. I honestly thought we were having one of our typical fightfests, and that we’d have fun making up. I know that we were talking, then I told him I was going to hang up, and then he said if I did, he wouldn’t call me back.”
“But you thought he would.”
“Sure, eventually.” Babette did remember a bit of the conversation, and oddly enough, she recalled that they were talking about Clarise and Ethan and the kids. That’s why Jeff’s weird attitude really threw her off. She didn’t think it was all that big of an argument, but apparently it had been, at least on his end, and by the time she realized that, he wasn’t calling.
And Babette—being Babette—didn’t call him either. Two stubborn souls does not a good relationship make. However, they did have good sex. Great sex. Superb sex. But besides missing their notable tangos beneath the sheets, she couldn’t deny that she also missed sparring with him, chatting with him, and laughing with him, for that matter.
“Neither of you were seeing anyone else, right?”
“Well, we never said we were only dating each other. It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”
Clarise cocked a brow.
“Okay, I wasn’t seeing anyone else, but I sure wasn’t going to tell him that.”
Babette’s tiny beaded purse started quivering on the table, and she fished out her vibrating phone, then eyed the caller ID. “It’s Mom,” she said, smiling, and a bit thankful that her mother had literally saved her by the bell. Or rather, the vibration.
Her mother, father, and his sister Madge all lived in a retirement community in Fort Lauderdale. They’d sent Babette a birthday card with a check inside. No matter how much she needed the money, she wouldn’t cash the check, but it was the thought that counted.
“Happy birthday, dear,” her mother said as soon as Babette answered. “How’s your day?”
“Everything’s great.” It wasn’t completely a lie. The cake was good, and her mother had just saved her from having to delve into her feelings for Jeff with Clarise. Not bad. “Daddy and Aunt Madge there?” Babette asked, assuming that they were probably, as usual, calling her via the speakerphone.
“Yes, we’re here. Happy birthday, honey,” her father said, and Babette grinned.
“Happy Birthday,” Madge echoed. “So, you found a guy yet? Or maybe a job?”
Babette rolled her eyes, and Clarise, leaning close enough to the phone to hear Madge’s yell, stifled a giggle. Babette was used to her aunt’s teasing, and typically added fuel to the flame by announcing whatever her latest job venture, date, or degree choice happened to be, but she wasn’t in the mood to mess with Aunt Madge today. So she simply said, “Thanks.”
“Are you having a good birthday?” Babette mentally translated her mother’s question—have you met a guy yet, and is he there with you? Janie Robinson was many things, but subtle wasn’t one.
“I’m having a terrific birthday. Matter of fact, I’m eating cake, right now.” No, it wasn’t birthday cake, and it wasn’t even a cake made for her, but it was cake. And good cake too. She fingered another dab of icing.
“How old are you, Babette?” This came from Aunt Madge.
“Thirty-four.” No use lying.
“Wow, next year, you’re officially midlife, right?”
“I don’t believe midlife is thirty-five now, Madge,” Babette’s mother corrected.
“Well, if it isn’t, it’s mighty darn close,” Madge snapped.
Clarise’s hand moved to her mouth while she only marginally controlled her laughter.
Babette glared at her, and Clarise merely shrugged.
“Anyway, how’s the job situation going? You still at the retirement center?” her father asked.
Babette shook her head at Clarise. No way did she want to divulge that she’d lost job number twenty-three. She’d tell her parents later, when it wasn’t her birthday and when Aunt Madge wasn’t listening.
“I just finished my third week,” she said, holding back that she’d also just finished her last day.
“That’s some kind of record, isn’t it?” her aunt asked, then she grunted, and Babette had a sneaky suspicion that she’d been elbowed.
“Not yet. My current record is eight weeks.” Babette silently dared Aunt Madge to respond. Smartly, and probably with the threat of another elbow to