The Book Club. Mary Monroe Alice

she knew hailed her as he passed by and mumbled something about what a terrible shock this all was. She responded in kind and sighed in relief when she saw his back.

      God, she hated these things. The somber faces, everyone spewing out pat phrases, and Doris lording over them like a high priestess. And who was that redhead carrying on in the vestibule? She wanted to walk right up to her and slap her! Get a life, lady. He wasn’t your husband, for crying out loud.

      Eve hadn’t cried; that’s what troubled her. It pained her to see the stricken look on Eve’s face as they wheeled the casket away. Her instincts told her Eve’s feelings ran deeper than grief. Was it fear? Or perhaps guilt? Over what, Annie couldn’t imagine. Eve and Tom had had one of those perfect marriages that gave the rest of them hope. People could always point to the Porters as living, breathing proof that good marriages still survived. Still, as a lawyer she’d handled many divorces, and over the years she’d learned that behind closed doors there were three sides to every story: his, hers and the truth.

      Annie sighed sadly and shook her head, sure that the look of utter devastation on Eve’s face as she stared at her husband’s coffin was too raw for an easy acceptance and peace. She’d counseled far too many women over the years to miss that look now.

      A brief beep from the curb was a welcome break from this train of thought. She looked up to see John’s long fingers waving her toward their BMW.

      “Are you ready to go home?” he asked when she climbed in.

      Annie smiled up at John’s solicitous face and nodded, her eyes expressing her gratitude that he could pick up on her needs so effortlessly. John was always there for her, watching out for her, caring for her. He really did spoil her.

      “I’m more than ready,” she replied, settling in and closing the door. She was relieved when the car swung away from the curb, leaving the church behind them. “Thank God that’s over. What an ordeal. Who knew Catholic masses could be so long? There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.” She began unbuttoning her suit jacket to the cool air-conditioning. While she did, she recalled the emotional eulogy and the message that one’s time on earth was finite. While the priest implied that one should prepare for heaven, her personal credo was to live each day as if it were her last.

      “How’s Eve?” John wanted to know.

      “I’m worried about her.” She shrugged. “But there’s nothing I can do for Eve now. Doris has everything under control at the moment. As usual.” The latter, she muttered under her breath. “My turn to help will come later, when she needs legal advice. I hope Tom took care of her, that’s all I can say. Otherwise, it’ll be tough going for her.”

      She brought her fingers to her brow and closed her eyes against the sorrow she felt for her friend’s suffering that pierced straight to the marrow. Eve appeared lost; it was clear she was going to need a lot of guidance. Annie knew what that felt like, knew how many hard knocks a woman could receive when she forged a new life of her own. She knew, too, that she’d be right by Eve’s side, every step of the way.

      “Let’s get something to eat,” John suggested.

      “Right now, I could use a good, stiff drink.”

      John’s eyes narrowed and his hands held the wheel tighter. “Isn’t it a bit early for a drink? We haven’t eaten a real meal yet today. How about we go out for a late lunch?” Then seeing her wrinkled nose, he said, “Okay, we’ll call it an early dinner.”

      Annie waved away his suggestions, annoyed by his worry about her drinking. “I’m not the least hungry. My craw is crammed full with sadness and death and depression.” She shook her hands in front of her, releasing the tension. “God, that funeral was just too, too sad. It’s really staying with me. I’m sick of death and sympathy. Don’t you feel the need to do something, oh, I don’t know, something to reconfirm life?”

      “Eating confirms life….”

      “No. What I really want right now is to go to my own home, have a nice, cold drink from my own glass, then make hot, passionate love with my own husband—all afternoon.”

      John’s frown turned upward. “Sounds good to me.”

      “I thought it might,” she said, catching his smile. Her palms itched to rub over his smooth flesh, to feel the warmth of his life’s blood. To rub skin against skin. He was a beautiful man, inside and out, and she loved him, needed him, more at this moment than ever before. This emotional tide had to be a result of the funeral, she decided. It wasn’t usual for her to have these gushy feelings race through her, but today in church she’d had some kind of epiphany. Watching Eve walk down the aisle of the church behind Tom’s casket, Annie was struck by how fiercely Eve had clasped the hands of her two children. In a flash Annie realized that Eve was gaining as much strength from Bronte and Finney as she was giving to them. There was a bond there, an energy, that was palpable.

      For the first time in her life, Annie felt the desire to have a child of her own.

      “You know,” she said, leaning over and linking arms with him, “since we’re talking about reconfirming life, and since we’ll be making love…there’s another idea I’ve been toying with.” She waited till he glanced from the road to her. His gaze was at first curious. Then, the second time he glanced her way, he caught something in her expression. His face stilled and his eyes sparked with intense concentration, as though he anticipated her next comment.

      She spoke slowly, wanting to be sure of her words. “John, I know you’ve wanted a child for a long time. While I was standing at the curb, waiting for you, I was thinking how life is so short, so precious. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”

      A moment passed while a flush of color crept up John’s cheeks. When he glanced her way a third time, she could tell from the excitement bubbling in his eyes that he was overjoyed, but trying his best not to appear overanxious, lest he spook her. She held back her smile, thinking that John would make a terrible lawyer. His eyes would give him away every time.

      “Are you sure?” he asked, almost stuttering.

      “Aren’t you?” It was terrible to tease him.

      He cleared his throat, utterly serious. “Sure, I’m sure. But I want to be certain that this isn’t just some reaction to Tom’s death. I mean, hell, Annie, this is so sudden. We’ve been married for five years and this is the first time you’ve ever agreed to so much as discuss having a baby. Every time I’ve brought it up you’ve stopped me cold. We aren’t getting any younger. I sort of gave up on the idea of ever having a baby. And now suddenly you want one? What about your law practice? What about all that pro bono stuff you’re so hot to do? How does a baby fit in with all that?”

      Her eyes danced merrily as she poked at his arm. “So…you’re saying we shouldn’t have a baby?”

      “No!” He almost shouted the word. He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. “No,” he repeated after a deep breath, his shining eyes fixed on her. “I’m only trying to make sure you want one.”

      That was so like John, she thought, looking into his clear, honest eyes. She stroked his arm lovingly. Her heart felt ready to burst. She wanted to give him the world, but she’d start with a baby.

      “I’m sure,” she replied, holding his gaze. Then, to deflect the intensity of the moment, she poked his arm one more time and winked, saying, “But I don’t think I want to make one right here. Gearshifts and bucket seats can be pretty damn uncomfortable. So put the pedal to the metal, boyfriend, and take me home to bed!”

      Midge drove home from the funeral to the far eastern side of Oakley, an area considered “risky” by the other women of the Book Club. The neighborhood bordered the western boundary of the city of Chicago, an area populated by low-income families, gangs and high crime statistics.

      It was also an area where old buildings were being converted into fabulous lofts, an area where ethnic restaurants thrived, and where artists, bead makers, writers and eclectic religions could