Eleanor laughed. “Not exactly. I just had the feeling you would be coming by one of these nights.”
“God, Eleanor, it’s been a hell of a day. I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”
“Prescription: dry martini. Stat.”
“But I have the dog with me.”
“So? Bring him in. I like dogs. Better than most people, as a matter of fact.”
I opened the garden gate and Jasper and I headed her way. Instead of the usual black attire, she wore a simple white T-shirt and gray yoga pants. Jasper needed no further encouragement as he eagerly pulled me through the front door, sniffing like a bloodhound on a mission.
I was a little eager myself. I’d never been in Eleanor’s house before.
In the foyer, a ladies writing desk was softly illuminated by an Art Deco lamp featuring a nude female bronze. I dropped Jasper’s leash, and Eleanor and I followed him down the hallway.
In the dining room on the left, a vase of fragrant white phlox stood on a round tiger oak dining table. The house had a faint hint of lemon, of fresh laundry, of newly cut wood.
To our right, we passed a remodeled kitchen with cream-colored French country-style cabinets, marble countertops, and stainless steel appliances.
At the end of the hall facing us was a giant circular clock on a pale gray wall that jutted out slightly as if it housed a back staircase behind it. Instead of Martha’s living room crammed with family photos, Eleanor had one gorgeous painting of a barn at sunrise hanging above the slate fireplace. A man walked with his dog toward the barn across snow-covered fields.
The rest of the gray walls were unadorned. There was no television. The sofa and love seat were slipcovered in white cotton duck fabric and arranged in an L-shape. One armchair near the fireplace was upholstered in a blue ticking stripe, like an old-fashioned bedspread. The wood floors gleamed under exquisite wool rugs, and the wide windowsills were big enough to sit on to look out into the garden.
“Glass of wine?” she asked.
“Actually that martini sounds pretty good right about now. Could you make it a vodka one, though?”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow but made no comment. She went over to an antique dresser that had been repurposed into a bar. Jasper followed and flopped to the floor behind her while she made the drinks.
I sank into the striped armchair and tried to breathe.
A few moments later, she handed me a fishbowl of vodka. I watched the pungent oils from a twisted lemon peel smoke their way through the chilled liquor before I took a deep swallow.
The raw power of the drink burned my throat, cleared my sinuses, and raged through every quivering synapse of my system, torching any remnants of rational thought from my mind.
My God.
Eleanor perched herself on the sofa and took a sip of her own martini.
I sucked down another body-cleansing gulp and shuddered.
“Well, Eleanor, I came home today to find the house in a complete uproar. The kitchen floor is ruined, and some of the cabinets and our precious butcher block table, too. All chewed to absolute smithereens by this guy because he was left shut up in the kitchen.”
Jasper lay down at her feet and Eleanor stroked his forehead. He swiveled his eyes up to her as if to say, See, I can be good if I try.
“But you know what?” I said as I pointed the glass holding the last inch of vodka at the dog, “I don’t blame him. Not one bit. No, sir. I blame Sarah.”
I blew out a long breath. “Everything is crap, Eleanor. Everything is falling apart. Joe isn’t even talking to me anymore.”
I drained the glass, smacked my lips, and set it down on the coffee table. “There’s something else. Something I’ve never told you before. Visiting the Perkins brothers today kind of brought it all back.”
I pinched the skin between my eyebrows and wondered where the hell to start.
“At the beginning is usually the best place,” she said, even though I hadn’t spoken out loud. I blew out the rest of the breath I’d been holding. Was she really psychic?
Although with Eleanor I didn’t have to spell things out. She understood pain and suffering. If nothing else, from her years of experience as a high school nerd. I knew I could tell her the unvarnished truth and it would go no farther than these four walls. I loved Martha—she was my best friend—but you have different friends for different reasons.
Eleanor slid gracefully over to the bar and began mixing another batch of martinis.
I suppose I should have called Joe to let him know where I was, but I didn’t have my cell phone with me, and he hadn’t acted as if he cared that much anyway.
She came back quickly with a tray holding two martinis, a bowl of mixed nuts, and another one of green olives. The cocktail napkins said, “What’s a nice girl like me doing without a drink in her hand?”