The High Tide Club

Before the kid could reply, another valet pulled up, at a more sedate speed, in Brooke’s Volvo.

Gabe held the door while she slid behind the driver’s seat, his rage seemingly forgotten. “You remember the way to my house, right? Turn left at the first roundabout, then a quick right and two more lefts.”

She waited until she was out of sight of the clubhouse before calling Farrah again. She called two more times, each time waiting until the girl’s voice recording played.

Hey, this is Farrah. Leave me a message, and I’ll hit you back later.

Brooke pounded the steering wheel in frustration. This wasn’t like Farrah. Something had to be wrong. Instead of taking a left at the first roundabout, she made a right. When she’d reached the causeway that would take her back south to St. Ann’s, she winced and tapped Gabe’s number on her cell phone. He’d be pissed, she knew, but if he was sincere in his concern for her as a mother, he’d have to understand. Henry came first.

He answered on the first ring. “Are you lost? I knew I should have had you follow me home.”

“Actually, I’m not coming to your place. I’m so sorry, Gabe, but Farrah hasn’t answered any of my calls, and I’m already sick with worry. I’m heading back to St. Ann’s. I’m hoping you’ll give me a rain check.”

There was a deafening silence from the other end of the call. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. This isn’t like Farrah. I’m terrified something could have happened. You understand, don’t you?”

“Not really.” His voice was cold. “You said yourself the girl is very responsible. It seems to me that this is you looking for an excuse to pull another disappearing act.”

His words felt like a slap in the face.

“I see. Well, thanks for a lovely evening.” She disconnected the phone, her cheeks burning with anger and indignation.

57

Brooke kept the Volvo’s speedometer at seventy-nine miles per hour on the drive back to St. Ann’s. Any faster than that, the car’s whole chassis would have vibrated, plus she would have been ticket bait for the cops, who ran a notorious speed trap on that section of highway. She was grateful she’d limited her alcohol intake to two drinks over the course of the long evening. And she didn’t really slow down until she reached the turnoff for St. Ann’s.

Jaxson’s black Ford F-150 truck was still parked at the curb in front of her house. She could see the lights in the kitchen window, but the front of the house was dark. She’d been rehearsing the lecture she’d give Farrah when she got home—assuming she still had a home when she got there—but seeing the boy’s vehicle further fueled her anger.

She opened the front door, which she noted was unlocked, and stepped inside. The television was on, and two bodies were slumped sideways on the sofa. Brooke gasped. And then she saw the coffee table. The pizza box was still there, along with an empty liter bottle of Coke and a mostly empty liquor bottle.

Brooke stomped over to the sofa and picked up the bottle. Captain Morgan rum. An inch of brown liquid sloshed in the bottom, and from the looks of it, the rest had been consumed by Farrah and Jaxson. His head lolled against the back of the sofa cushions, mouth open, snoring. Farrah’s head rested on his chest, and a thin trickle of drool dampened his T-shirt. She slammed the bottle back down onto the table, but neither of them stirred. They were both alive, but dead drunk.

Henry was asleep in his bed, tucked between his green stuffed Ninja Turtle and a large Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal. She bent down and kissed his cheek, then went to her own room, where she quickly stripped out of her party dress and diamond-and-pearl earrings and into a pair of lightweight summer pajamas.

She took a cotton bedspread from the closet and draped it loosely over the sleeping couple. It was nearly two o’clock. In the morning, she promised herself, she would raise hell with those two. But for now, she needed to sleep more than she needed to vent.

* * *

Bleeeeechhhhh. Bleeechhhhh. Brooke sat up in bed, momentarily confused. Where was she? It was still dark outside—6:15 A.M. according to the digital clock on her nightstand. The horrific noise was coming from the hall bathroom. She got out of bed to investigate.

Farrah was hunched over the commode, her head nearly invisible.

“Hey.” Brooke sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

The girl raised her head and gazed at Brooke from bloodshot eyes. She looked like hell.

“Hey,” she said weakly.

“You look like hell,” Brooke said. “I’d say Captain Morgan is no friend of yours.”

Farrah retched for another five minutes. Brooke found an elastic band and fastened the girl’s hair. She ran cold water over a washcloth and placed it on the back of her neck.

Brooke tiptoed out to the living room in time to see the black pickup zoom away from the curb. Picking up the pizza crusts, Solo cups, and rum bottle, she noted with grim satisfaction that Jaxson had been in such a rush to depart that he’d left behind a pair of nearly new, expensive-looking basketball shoes. She picked them up and deposited everything in the trash.

Back in the bathroom, she found Farrah sprawled, facedown, on the tile floor. “Your super-classy boyfriend had to leave,” she said.

“Uuuuggghhhh. He is so not my boyfriend.” Farrah managed to pull herself up to a sitting position. “And I want to die.”

“Okay,” Brooke said pleasantly. She turned on the shower. “But we need to clean up your corpse before we bury you. A hot shower is your first step to salvation.”

By the time Farrah stumbled into the kitchen, Henry had finished his frozen waffle and was happily knocking back a sippy cup of milk. She sank down onto a chair and gratefully accepted the mug of coffee Brooke offered.

“Fawwah!” Henry yelled. He held out his cup. “You want some milk?”

The girl’s face turned a new shade of green. “You drink it, Henry.”

“How’re you feeling?” Brooke asked. “Any better?”

“Not really. I mean, I stopped barfing, so I guess that’s something.” The girl looked balefully at her employer. “I’m really, really, really sorry I let you down, Brooke.”

“Yeah. Me too. I expected better of you.”

Farrah hung her head. “I know. I was so stupid. I should never have let Jaxson come over here with me last night. You were right. He’s nothing but bad news.”

“Whose idea was the rum?”

“His. But I went along with it, you know? He didn’t pour it down my throat or anything.”

Brooke took a sip of her own coffee. “Was Henry awake when you started drinking?”

“No! He was asleep. I swear. But I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to fire me.”

“I don’t want to fire you. My son adores you. I adore you, or I did until I drove back here like a maniac last night after you didn’t call, only to find you and Jaxson passed out on my sofa.”

“I really fucked up your big night, didn’t I?” Farrah pressed her fingers to her temples. “I bet Gabe is really mad.”

Brooke mentally replayed Gabe’s cutting remark about her pulling “another disappearing act.” It hurt as much now as it had when he’d said it last night.

“He wasn’t thrilled. He had big plans for the rest of the evening, and then I pulled the plug. I think it’s safe to say our fine little romance is kaput.”