Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(33)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“Schenectady,” her mother repeated. “You might as well have made me from Los Angeles.”

“You don’t have to be from Schenectady,” Sarah explained. “You grew up in Alabama, but you moved to Schenectady when you were—”

“Twenty,” her mother finished. “And had you right away. That would make me fifty now.”

“I’m glad you’re into the fantasy,” Sarah said dryly.

“And I’ve moved back to Fairhope to live out my days in quiet solitude, without my only child interloping at inopportune times, such as Christmas.”

“I was in Rio!”

“They have airplanes in Rio.”

Theoretically, Sarah thought.

That night, she drove Quentin to the hotel where the bridge tournament was held. She marveled that in the car, he never once complained about the strange turn their date had taken. When they registered in the lobby, he towered over the women and stooped elderly men wandering about, yet he seemed completely comfortable. The uncomfortable one was Sarah.

The moment came. Her mother stood at the edge of the lobby, watching for Sarah, silver hair coifed in its neat bob, chic pantsuit impeccable. Her mother didn’t recognize her.

Sarah took Quentin’s hand and pulled him toward the inevitable. Her mother noticed them then, but she seemed to recognize Quentin first. Only then did she turn her gaze to Sarah. She wore her poker face, without even the raised eyebrow. Absolutely no reaction. It was almost worse than screams of What have you done to your hair? which was why, as a teenager, Sarah had never attempted to shock her mother.

Then they embraced, and Sarah introduced her charming mother to charming Quentin. For a few moments, she could almost imagine that she had a normal, loving mother. Even the mother she’d had before her dad died, though not normal, would do. She could almost imagine that she was introducing her normal mother to her handsome boyfriend, who was not in love with someone else.

Her real mother returned. “I never thought I’d say this,” she drawled, “but I do believe I’ll be glad when this tournament is over tonight. In one hand during the afternoon session, Beulah didn’t lead my suit after I bid it three times!” She glanced at her watch, then toward the ballroom filled with card tables. “Almost time!” She patted Quentin’s arm. “Have fun!” She swept into the ballroom as if she owned it and her partner, cowering at a table, was her maid.

Quentin stood directly in front of Sarah and looked down at her. “I see where you get your poker face,” he said. “But you kept yours, too. You took it real good.”

“Thanks.” She looked up into his beautiful green eyes and wished she could spend the evening in his arms. Without even having sex. She just wanted to be held by him. “I hate bridge.”

They took their assigned places at one of the tables and played for three tedious hours, with their opponents rotating to new tables every so often. Most of the other players seemed to be of the paste-eating variety, and some of the women and all of the men alternately stared at Sarah’s hair and ogled her cle**age. Natsuko would have accepted this as part of the territory, but Sarah minded.

And it wasn’t even any fun to play bridge with Quentin. Playing poker with novices was difficult for Sarah, because she never knew whether they were making a savvy move or just getting lucky as they bungled their way through the game. Bridge was similar, except that in bridge, Quentin was supposed to be her partner. It was almost impossible to play this partner game by herself. Now she knew how her mother felt.

A collective gasp echoed in the ballroom. Sarah looked over to see a large elderly lady at another table melt out of her chair and puddle onto the floor. Instantly a man was on top of her, pressing her chest and giving her mouth-to-mouth.

“Your turn,” the west player said.

With a shocked look at Quentin, Sarah set down a spade, then glanced back at the woman and the man performing CPR. Other people watched, too, and were periodically hounded by their opponents to keep playing their hands.

The east player suggested, “We should move our table so the stretcher can get through.” The four of them picked up the table and shifted it toward the wall to clear a path on the ballroom floor.

“Your turn,” West said again to Sarah.

The hand ended. They had to wait for the other tables, slowed by rubberneckers, to finish before their opponents could rotate to different tables.

Quentin stood and stretched. “I’m taking a little break.”

Sarah nodded. Probably he needed a moment in the lobby, or a drink from the bar, to collect himself after witnessing the shadow of death, or the Vulcan Regional Duplicate Bridge Tournament’s crassness in the shadow of death.

Instead, he walked to the supine woman, tapped the now slowing man on the shoulder as if cutting in at a ball, and took his turn pressing the lady’s chest and giving her mouth-to-mouth.

West asked East, “How does Annabelle look?” East shook his head.

“Is she a friend of yours?” Sarah asked in horror.

“A dear friend,” East said. “But she was doing what she loved to do.” He turned to West. “You really should have led the three of diamonds on that hand.”

The ballroom doors burst open and two paramedics rolled a stretcher in. It took both of them plus Quentin to lift the lady onto the stretcher, and it was Quentin rather than one of the paramedics who placed an oxygen mask over her face. Finally, as the paramedics wheeled the burdened stretcher out, Sarah thought she heard one of them call to Quentin, “Queen to king two.”

The ballroom door closed behind them. The hand ended. The east-west pairs switched tables, with the bustle more animated now that there was something to talk about. Several people patted Quentin’s back as he made his way to Sarah, sweat glistening at his temples.

Sarah asked a passing waiter to bring Quentin a glass of water. She was going to hug him, but he bent over to look into her eyes first. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “Your dad didn’t die playing bridge, did he?”

“Oh, no,” Sarah assured him. “Sitting at home in his favorite chair, listening to Bach.” She shook off a sob. “Is she going to be okay?”

“No,” Quentin said with finality. “She was already dead when I took over.”

“Then why’d you keep trying?” Sarah whispered, flashing back to Quentin’s strong arms pressing the dead chest.

“You have to try,” he said calmly. “You never can tell.”