machines still lined the wall but were now frighteningly referred to as “vintage.” Rows of neatly arranged liquor bottles topped a mahogany bar devoid of graffiti. Mr. Murphy, Della’s father, had an imposing presence that kept the locals in line. His glare as he wiped down the glossy wood was usually the only warning necessary.
Della’s brother Jack hadn’t been behind the bar since his summers spent home from college. He’d moved to Atlanta fifteen years ago to start a career as a private investigator. Mattie could never seem to reconcile the quiet athlete she knew with her image of a PI, though Della assured her it was less gumshoe and more corporate inquiry than the books that filled the mystery section of the bookstore led one to believe. Still, the job sounded dark and mysterious and only fueled the fantasy.
As if her fantasies about Jack needed more fuel. They had been simmering since she was the ripe old age of thirteen. Though she knew he often made it home for the holidays, the Murphys were a tight clan and Mattie made certain not to intrude on their family time. She’d run into Jack a time or two, though, her knees turning to Jell-O and her brain becoming sixteen again.
Thirty-eight-year-old knees and a sixteen-year-old brain. A scary combination.
Muffled voices from the far end of the bowling alley caught her attention. Mattie froze. She could have sworn she was alone. She glanced around, still feeling like a trespasser. Mattie grabbed her purse and thumbed through it to distract herself from the acid burning in her gut. She found her envelope in the side pocket of her purse and tossed it on the table as if it contained flesh-eating bacteria.
She’d experienced absolutely nothing written inside. But the moment of truth was here.
She wasn’t anxious to admit her failure. So why was she here, trespassing, wishing her friends had remembered their childish pact?
“Long time no see.” Della’s familiar voice rang out as she sidled up to the table and slung her ten-pound purse atop it.
Della was still beautiful, despite the fact that there was more of her to love these days. She’d styled her platinum-blond hair in an ultramodern cut picked up from a recent hair show in Birmingham. It barely brushed her shoulders, the ends moussed to messy perfection. Everything about Della’s appearance spoke confidence. Tight, black capri pants said, “Love me as I am,” and a spaghetti-strapped tank peeked from beneath a colorful mesh blouse, flashing glimpses of ample cleavage.
Mattie was so shocked that Della had showed up, that she was speechless. But Della didn’t appear to notice. She lifted her well-padded hips onto the vinyl seat across from Mattie, sighing heavily.
“You little sneak. I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Ditto.” The knot in her stomach loosened considerably and she smiled. “I thought… You had so many clients waiting.”
Della waved a dismissive hand, nails the identical shade of red they’d been twenty years ago. “I gave them to Kimee.”
“You did not!” Mattie suddenly pictured hordes of Haddesians walking around with Goth haircuts like a scene from The Night of the Living Dead. “Oh my God, please tell me you didn’t leave old Estelle Ashworth with Kimee.”
Della grinned a grin so mischievous that Mattie had only seen it on one other face—that of Della’s three-year-old son, Trevor. “I did.” She giggled. “I can’t wait to see what she does to her.”
“You mean Kimee or Mrs. Ashworth?” Estelle Ashworth was no shrinking violet. She ran the local dry cleaners and had a reputation for being gruff. She kept a candy jar full of Dubble Bubble and handed pieces out to the children along with a fierce pinch and a smile. Half left crying and the other half knew to refuse the offer politely. “I don’t know which one to be worried about.”
“Good point. It should be worth showing up in the morning.” Della laughed, then opened her purse and began sorting through the contents. “Estelle gripes every time I cut her hair. Maybe after Kimee gets through with her, she’ll appreciate my talent. In fact, I’m going to consider it a crash course in Della appreciation.”
Mattie nodded. That course should be mandatory for a few people she knew. Namely, Donald. But she kept that observation to herself.
“So have you heard from anyone else?”
Mattie knew the “anyone else” Della was referring to meant Shay and Erica. She shook her head.
“I have a feeling we’ll be the only attendees at this little party.” Removing a sandwich bag filled with what Mattie hoped were raisins and a Hot Wheels car, she continued fishing until she extracted her envelope, placing it atop Mattie’s. “Last I heard Erica was out of the country and Shay was out of her mind.”
Mattie chose to ignore the comment about Shay. It hurt that Shay had withdrawn from their lives, but her reasons were certainly valid. She’d left Haddes to free herself from an abusive marriage, and despite the fact that her life was totally unconventional—maybe even a little weird—Mattie understood. And what was worse—making every poor choice available, as her friend had, or taking no chances at all, as she’d done?
She lifted the corner of the sandwich bag and examined the contents. Was it possible for raisins to shrivel? She gave Della a questioning look and dropped the bag. “Last I heard, Erica was covering the war in Iraq.”
Della ignored her silent commentary on the state of the raisins. “If a war breaks out without someone there to snap a picture, does it really break out?” Della slipped from her chair and sauntered to the bar, smiling at her humor.
Mattie considered the caustic comment. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling a little ordinary. Besides, she knew Della well enough to realize that the comment was sheer bravado. Sarcasm was easier than worrying about Erica’s safety.
“Do you have any red wine back there?” Mattie asked. She’d only recently learned to tolerate alcohol in the form of wine. Half of the articles in the medical magazines she stocked at the bookstore were now claiming that red wine was beneficial to your heart. But in all honesty, holding the stem of a graceful wineglass while she read in bed at night made her feel more like a literary connoisseur and less like a lonely spinster.
“No, no red wine,” Della answered absentmindedly, ducking beneath the bar in search of something.
“Are you sure?” Mattie eyed the dozens of bottles on the shelf.
“No.” Her friend’s blond head popped up. “Besides, today I’m making margaritas.” She shook a canister of salt for emphasis, cha-chaing her hips to the beat, then held up her hand when Mattie started to protest. “Don’t be a wimp, Mattie.”
She snapped her mouth shut. Tonight she was not a wimp. She was a successful small-business owner, single and still a size six. She bit her lip. Well, a size six most of the time. If she wasn’t retaining water and if she held her breath. At any rate, she was going to drink a margarita without grimacing, dammit.
After sipping and perfecting, adding various potions and revving the mixer to a deafening RPM, Della returned to the table with the drinks, leaving a half-full blender on the bar.
Mattie took a sip and managed not to grimace. A muted burst of male laughter erupted from the direction of the conference rooms. Della waved her hand as she sipped.
“Chamber of Commerce meeting in the back.”
Mattie was about to get the details when a soft rustle from the entrance caught her attention. Shay stepped out of the shadows, her tall form gliding gracefully toward their table.
“Shay!” Mattie jumped to her feet, scooping her friend into a hug as she neared. Della was next in line for a hug, though Mattie thought she detected a guilty expression, at least one that looked as close to guilty as Della ever came.
“We never dreamed you’d come.” Della hesitated. “How are you?”
Shay took a seat and met their eyes, hesitating until she had their full attention. “I’m great,” she