The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,73
all about the suicide statistics for LGBT teens. I don’t want my daughter to be one of them.”
“I don’t either. How old is Erin?”
“Fifteen. Going to be a sophomore.”
God, poor girl. Three more years of Lynchfield.
I was ready to deflect, to tell Kim I couldn’t help her. What did I know about talking to a teenager about being queer in a small town? I hadn’t put that label on what Sophie and I had until later when I realized my passion for Sophie hadn’t been unique, that I could also find it with other women, the physical desire, anyway. The emotional connection, that was unique. Sharing my experience in Lynchfield meant outing Sophie. But, when I saw the hope and trust and uncertainty in Kim’s expression, I couldn’t say no. I would have to find a way to thread the needle with Erin.
“I’ll talk to her.”
Kim threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Nora. You don’t know what this means to me.”
I hugged Kim back and saw Brenda Russell stand, and come toward us. “Oh, Lord.” I pulled away from Kim.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Russell,” Kim said. “You look very pretty tonight. How’s your back these days?”
“It’s been better, and it’s been worse.”
“Need another drink, Brenda?”
Brenda’s lips puckered, but she held out her wineglass. I turned my back on the two women, filled the glass with ice and whiskey. When I turned around, Kim’s eyes were wide, and Brenda did not look amused. “Thought you might want something a little stronger. Being around me must be a tax on your nerves.”
“I couldn’t,” Brenda said.
“Oh, you’re right. My bad.” I dumped the whiskey and ice into a rocks glass and held it out to her. “Wrong glass.”
Brenda smiled at Kim. “Could you excuse us for a moment?”
“Sure.” Kim mouthed, What the hell? at me.
I shook the glass at Brenda. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you home. Or would you rather have a margarita?”
“You have some nerve.”
“It’s just a drink, Brenda. I promise you won’t go to hell.”
“Why can’t you leave my daughter alone?”
I laughed and shook my head. “Me? I’m always the bad guy in this, aren’t I?”
“Sophie would have never...”
I raised my hand. “We had this conversation eighteen years ago. Not interested in having it again, Brenda.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You expect me to show you respect? Deference? You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Brenda inhaled sharply and lifted her nose in the air. “You’re disgusting.”
I leaned forward. “And your daughter loves every minute of it.”
Brenda narrowed her eyes. “You need to leave before I...”
“What? Threaten to have me arrested for rape? I’m sorry but what we did in the laundry room earlier was completely consensual, I assure you.”
“You are the vilest... I can’t even call you a human being. Definitely not a woman.”
“Be careful, Brenda, or you’re going to talk me into moving back to Lynchfield.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Why not? It would make you miserable, and that’s reason enough.” I downed the drink I made for her. I licked my lips and looked in Sophie’s direction. She had her back turned to us, but Logan was watching. “Now, excuse me. I’m going to help Sophie with dinner.”
Brenda grabbed my arm. “Stay away from my daughter.”
I pulled Brenda into a hug. She struggled, but I tightened my grip. “You need to leave, right now.” And, with a voice shaking with anger, I told her what would happen if she didn’t.
eighteen
sophie
When the shit hits the fan, it happens fast, with no warning.
Three things happened at once; Brenda cried out, Logan gasped and said, “Grandmother just slapped Nora,” and the doorbell rang.
Charlie was walking in from the patio with a cutting board full of meat when I turned around in the aftermath of whatever the hell had just happened. My mother had her purse and was running to the door as fast as her sciatica would take her. Nora rubbed her cheek with an expression of satisfaction. The rest of the crowd followed Charlie and the cutting board and the scent of fresh fajitas. The doorbell rang again. I stood in the kitchen, holding the wooden spoon I’d been stirring the peppers and onions with, a dread coursing through me, my eyes drawn not to Nora, or my husband, or my mother pushing past Logan, or Todd and Ivey at the front door, but to the bottle of whisky on the bar behind Nora.
Charlie put the cutting board on the island. “What was that all about?”