Joan Kilby - Party of Three

She nodded, and Ben steered her into the lounge room. On the TV, Sharon Stone was undressing in front of a mirror while a man looked on in the background.

“For crying out loud, Danny,” Ben said, switching it off. “What did I tell you?”

“You told me not to watch garbage. This movie got four stars in the TV guide.”

“Don’t be a smart aleck.” Ben left Ally and rummaged in his dresser for track pants and a T-shirt. He threw them onto the bed and then found a towel and handed it to Ally. “You’d better change before you catch pneumonia.”

He ran downstairs, ordered a meal for her and came back with a bottle of Remy Martin. Ally emerged from his room, dwarfed in his clothes, her hair wrapped in the towel. He poured out half a tumblerful of cognac and handed it to her.

She took a gulp of the thirty-year-old liquor and choked.

“Easy. Pace yourself,” Ben said.

Ally took another sip and with a deep shudder, swallowed the fiery liquid. “I’m going to get blotto.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“On the contrary, it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.” She drank again then held out her glass. “More.” Hiccup. “Please.”

BEN SPLASHED A SOUPÇON more cognac into her glass, only too aware of a still wide-eyed Danny avidly watching the proceedings. He’d better not blab to his mother….

“I’ll call a taxi to take you home,” Ben informed Ally.

She tilted the bottle and gave herself another five or so ounces. “I don’t want to go home. Not until George has had time to pack and leave.”

The alcohol had to be hitting her empty stomach like a ton of bricks. As she took a swig, her eyes began to glaze.

“I need to get back to work,” Ben explained. “Do you have a friend or a relative you can call to come and get you?”

“No, no, don’t want to cause a fuss.” Ally suddenly noticed the glass in her hand and raised it to her lips. “This is good.”

“Are you sure I can’t take you home?” Ben was starting to feel desperate.

“I have no home,” she declared melodramatically.

“You’ve had enough cognac, that’s for sure, at least until the food’s ready.”

Ally twisted away before he could take her glass and moved unsteadily across to the window overlooking Main Street. The storm was directly overhead; wind gusts rattled loose windowpanes and spattered them with rain.

Ben went to the side table that held the phone and the local directory. “What’s George’s last name?”

“No!” She whirled around, arm outstretched as if she was a wizard about to smite Ben with her staff. “I forbid you to call him.”

Oh, boy. What had he gotten himself into? Ben led Danny out of Ally’s earshot and into the cramped kitchen with its old-fashioned appliances. “I’m going to run downstairs, check on the staff and pick up her dinner. Take care of her for a few minutes, okay?”

Danny’s eyes widened. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Don’t let her go back out in the storm.”

“I’m just a kid. How can I stop her?”

“Lock the door after I leave.”

“What if she’s crazy and chops me up into little pieces?”

“She’s not crazy. She’s upset.”

“You can’t leave me alone with her,” Danny said, obviously panicking.

He was probably right. Ben went back to the lounge room. Ally had collapsed on the overstuffed couch and was refilling her glass. Amber liquid slopped over the rim and she licked it off her hand. She raised her glass to him with a giggle. “It’s not the drinking that’ll get you, it’s the steady sip, sip, sip.”

Ben checked his watch. He’d been away from the restaurant for over half an hour. Anything could have happened in the kitchen in that time. Gord was a volcano waiting to erupt, especially when he got into the bottle of vodka he kept hidden in the walk-in freezer.

Ben paced the wide space between the couch and the fireplace, trying to come up with a plan. Who could he call? He didn’t know anyone in town well enough to ask them to babysit a drunk woman.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. “Dad?”

“Shh, Danny, I’m thinking.”

“Dad, never mind.” His son pushed him around to face the couch where Ally lay sprawled, eyes shut, one arm clutching the bottle to her chest, the other dangling above the floor, clinging to the empty glass. “She passed out.”

Ben walked over and with a sigh, removed the glass. “I guess she can stay here tonight.”

WHEN ALLY AWOKE her head felt as though it was gripped inside a vise being screwed tight by some sadistic monster while a dozen tiny hammers pinged on miniature anvils. Scrunching her eyes shut she tried to slip back into oblivion.

“Water?” asked a voice floating above her.

“Go away,” she muttered. Something awful swam just below her consciousness, something too terrible to acknowledge, too enormous to confront.

“You really should take liquid after drinking alcohol,” the annoying voice persisted.

“I don’t drink,” she croaked. Then she became aware her throat was dry, her skin burning hot. She opened one eye. A man loomed over her, holding out a glass.

He had streaked blond hair and was somehow familiar.

Memories of yesterday flooded through her like an injection of poison. George. Kathy. The storm. Cognac.

“Ohhh,” she groaned, and curled into a fetal ball. George had cheated on her. With Kathy.

The bed creaked and sank beneath a weight greater than her own. A hand gently grasped her wrist and pulled her arm away from her face. Ben’s jaw appeared, bristly with golden stubble, his hair tousled from sleep.

“Drink this,” he said, propping up her pillow. “You’ll feel better.”

She pushed back the rumpled chocolate-and-cream-colored duvet and sat up. Then she saw the source of the pinging; leaks from the roof were dripping into pots at various locations around the room. Talk about Chinese water torture. Her right shoulder was damp where she’d been dripped on in bed.

“Is the storm over?” she asked, accepting the glass of water with shaking hands.

“Pretty much. The rain is easing.” Ben placed his cool fingers over her feverishly hot ones to steady them. Ice water slipped down her sore throat, easing the dryness. “You must feel awful,” he added.

She nodded, which made her head hurt so much she decided not to risk speaking.

“A broken heart is just about the worst thing going,” Ben went on, smoothing her hair off her face. “Trust me, anyone who would cheat on you isn’t worth having.”

He thought she was sick over losing George. Ally sipped more water, taking a moment to examine her feelings. Was she heartbroken? No…relieved described it better. Her pride was badly dented but George was out of her life without her having to be the bad guy, or worry that he’d be lonely. In fact, things had turned out pretty well. She was free. Her lips curved in a tremulous smile.

“That’s the spirit,” Ben said, rewarding her with one of his own warm smiles. “But remember, it’s okay to cry. If you want my shoulder, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” she rasped. “I feel better already.”

She glanced around the room. An old-fashioned wardrobe leaned against the wall, the door open to reveal a rack of men’s clothes. A wicker chair in the opposite corner was draped with her skirt and blouse. Apart from her clothes, nothing looked familiar. “Where am I?”

“In my apartment above the restaurant.”

“Whose bed am I in?”

“Mine.”

“We didn’t…” she croaked in alarm. “Did we?”

“No.” He seemed faintly amused. “I spent a rather uncomfortable night on the couch, if it makes you feel better.”