Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘Sounds good,’’ she said.

I turned to Natalie. ‘‘Got time for a drink?’’

She checked her watch, then tossed her head. ‘‘Sure. Why not?’’

From somewhere to my left, Sandy said, ‘‘Mind if I join you? I could use a drink.’’

It felt odd going into the pub alone. I’d never been there without Karl and the kids. When you were riding herd on coats, hats, mittens, absentminded spouses, or moody teens and outbreaks of sibling war, you didn’t notice ambiance; you noticed how fast the service was.

Tonight, I saw beyond the menu and the popcorn. I noticed how homey and inviting the hanging tin lamps were. I saw all the laughing guys with their pregnant bellies pressed against the bar, not one of whom probably worried about homework or whether he looked fat. The smell of food made me hungry enough to order a burger instead of salad and to eat the fries instead of leaving them. Even Natalie was tucking into a great big burger.

‘‘I used to think it was just guys,’’ she said, ‘‘but sometimes a woman needs a big hunk of meat.’’

Sandy choked on her wine.

‘‘I meant the burger.’’

We discussed our reactions to the course, Sandy and Katie telling stories of clients who’d been unbalanced and menacing. Yet, as I drank wine and ate forbidden food, I realized I was having fun. I liked Sandy’s insightful comments, Katie’s punchy iconoclasm; even Natalie, despite her brittleness and desperate sadness, was a nice person to spend time with. I admired her concern with protecting her kids from their father’s neglect and bad behavior.

‘‘If you don’t mind my asking,’’ Katie said, ‘‘did you have any idea your husband was seeing someone?’’ Katie does a lot of domestic work.

Natalie shrugged. ‘‘I was trying not to see it, but it was there. There was this company dinner a few months ago. The bimbo-her name’s Tiffany-was wearing a skimpy dress, very inappropriate for a business dinner. She kept coming up and sticking her chest in his face. At the time, I thought it was pitiful and wished someone would set her straight so she didn’t embarrass herself.’’

She pushed a lonely, ketchup-daubed fry around her plate. ‘‘On the way home, I suggested Sterling get one of the older women to give her some tips. He said it was just that she was so young. Laughing, you know, like we were the grown-ups and needed to be understanding. Dammit!’’ She dropped her fork onto the plate. ‘‘Now he’s sleeping with her and I’m still supposed to be understanding.’’

Katie, whose nose was slightly pink, signaled the waitress and ordered another glass of wine. Natalie checked her watch again-kids at home and no spouse for backup-and got one, too. Sandy said, ‘‘What the heck.’’ I didn’t want to be the only sober one, so I caved. The extra wine led to a brownie sundae and four spoons.

We were deep into chocolate when Natalie’s phone rang. ‘‘Excuse me, it’s my son.’’ She flipped it open and turned away. She listened, then said, ‘‘He what? Tonight? Why didn’t you call me?’’ There were more staccato questions, her head tipped to catch the answers over the bar noise, until she said, ‘‘Oh, honey. I know that was hard but you did just right. I’ll be home soon.’’ She snapped the phone shut.

‘‘Goddamn that man. Goddamn him. Goddamn her. He’s lucky I don’t have a gun.’’ She burst into tears.

Sandy pushed a small packet of pink tissues with Valentine hearts into Natalie’s hand. ‘‘What did he do, dear?’’ she asked. Her soft, faintly southern voice invited confidence.

‘‘He showed up at the house tonight, knowing I’d be at class. I changed the locks, see, after he left. I guess he thought he could talk his way in if it was just the kids.’’

Her eyes traveled around the table to see if we understood. ‘‘He didn’t come to see them. He hasn’t spoken to them since he moved out. Not even a call on Sammy’s birthday. He came to get our financial records. For his lawyer.’’ She hissed the word ‘‘lawyer’’ like the guy was a real snake. Probably was. When my sister divorced, she had a snake. She said it made all the difference. ‘‘My lawyer said don’t give him anything until we’ve made copies.’’

She drained her glass. ‘‘That isn’t the worst of it, either. He brought her with him.’’

‘‘To your house? When the kids were home and you were out?’’ Katie said. ‘‘That’s really low.’’

‘‘The kids were good, though. They wouldn’t let him in, so he banged around in the garage and the mud-room, then left.’’ She drummed on the table with her fists. ‘‘I’d like to beat his head in.’’

Katie grinned in that manic way she does after a little wine. ‘‘What about her head? Why is she off the hook? She’s not some innocent seduced by the wicked wolf. She went after a man she knew was married. I mean, she’d met you, for heaven’s sake. Anyone with any values knows that’s wrong. Now she’s showing up at the house to rub all of your noses in it. Whatever happened to discretion? For that matter, whatever happened to shame?’’

‘‘It does take two to tango,’’ Sandy said.

‘‘Yeah,’’ I agreed. ‘‘All these weeks we’ve been going to class, learning how not to be a victim, how to assert ourselves in threatening situations. What’s more threatening than someone out to destroy your marriage? And who’s doing the threatening? She is.’’

Natalie brightened. ‘‘I know where she lives. What kind of car she drives. And she never stays all night at his hotel.’’

‘‘How’d you learn all that?’’ Katie asked. ‘‘You hire a detective?’’ Natalie nodded.

‘‘So what are we waiting for?’’ My voice cut through their wows . ‘‘Maybe we should have a talk with the young lady. Point out the error of her ways.’’ I try to speak like an educated woman, but I love clunky old clichés like ‘‘the error of her ways.’’ And, as we know, alcohol lowers inhibitions.

They responded to my modest suggestion like I’d yelled, ‘‘Charge!’’

We paid the check. Natalie called her kids. By the time we were in the parking lot, I was having second thoughts. I’m a facilitator, not an instigator, and despite the meal, company, and restorative wine, I was still jumbled. I wasn’t even sure why I’d made my crazy suggestion.

‘‘Maybe we should rethink this,’’ I said. ‘‘What do we do when we get there?’’

‘‘No way. It’s brilliant,’’ Katie said. ‘‘It’s not like Natalie’s going to beat this girl’s head in. Why shouldn’t she have a chance to say how she feels? That’s all we’re going for.’’

Put that way, it sounded absolutely reasonable.

‘‘I’ll drive,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I’ve got a good head for wine.’’

If this were a movie, we’d have jumped into something big, shiny, and black. Probably been wearing leather, too. Or navy blue FBI-style jackets with NINJETTES in goldenrod letters. And stilettos. But this was a quiet suburban town and we were a clump of slightly tipsy matrons. We all piled into her Subaru wagon.

Natalie took the front to navigate. Katie and I dumped L.L. Bean canvas totes, an umbrella, rain boots, South Beach snack bars, and assorted audio-books into the back and fastened our seat belts. This was either going to be fun or a monumental disaster.

Tiffany lived on the first floor of a three-decker on a quiet Cambridge street. We found a parking space just one house away, and waited. Trees just leafing out overhead were a soft yellow green under the streetlights and the air coming in the open windows had the earthy scent of spring.

‘‘I don’t see her car,’’ Natalie whispered. ‘‘She’s got one of those Mini Cooper things. A yellow convertible.’’