A Catered Fourth of July by Isis Crawford Page B

gotten the scars.
    Gail put on a rueful expression. “I got too close to a roasting pan that was coming out of the oven.”
    â€œOuch. That must have hurt.”
    â€œOh. Believe me, it did.” Gail was quiet for a moment.
    Her phone rang again. “My husband,” she explained. “I guess he forgot where I am.” She was quiet for another moment then she said, “I still can’t believe what happened at the reenactment.” Her voice got shaky. “I just can’t get that picture out of my mind.”
    â€œNeither can I,” Libby said. It was true. She still couldn’t.
    â€œI keep dreaming about it,” Gail confided.
    â€œMe too,” Libby said, which was also true. Her glance fell on Gail’s toes. They were painted a dark shade of purple. Almost black. So were her fingernails. In Libby’s opinion, Goth was not a good look on teenage girls, let alone on middle-aged ladies, especially middle-aged ladies who wore thigh-high skirts because they were trying to look like teenage girls.
    Libby shook her head to clear it. Where had that come from? She was getting as hypercritical as Bernie. Maybe being in the nail salon had infected her in some way with Bernie-itis. Who knew where something like that would lead? Libby might have to get her hair colored and styled or go clothes shopping or even, God help her, go to the gym and take spin classes. She felt a frisson of fear as visions of hours spent on self-improvement wafted through her head. Get a grip , she told herself . Deal with the matter at hand.
    Gail leaned over. “You must feel so bad.” She lowered her voice so none of the other patrons could hear her, not that there were many people in the place. It was why she always went to the nail salon at that particular time of the day.
    Libby frowned. “Why should I feel bad?”
    Gail’s eyes widened. “Well . . . you know . . . being . . . with Marvin. It must be terrible.”
    Libby cocked her head. “Why?”
    Gail gave her a pitying look and pointedly changed the subject. “Is this really your first time getting a mani-pedi?”
    Libby nodded. She’d unwisely confided that fact to Gail when she’d sat down next to her.
    â€œThat’s so sweet,” Gail cooed. “Rick had his first pedicure last week. He found it very relaxing.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” Libby said. She couldn’t imagine Marvin doing something like that. “What did you mean about Marvin?” she asked, getting back to the topic at hand.
    Gail tittered. “Oh, you know.”
    â€œNo. I don’t. I don’t know at all.”
    Gail ducked her head, but not fast enough to hide the smirk on her face. “His being . . . involved . . . in what happened . . . and you seeing it. Being there. It just must be very upsetting. I know how upset I am. I can’t imagine what I would be feeling if I were you. I mean, I’d be on Prozac or something like that.”
    â€œSeeing what?” Libby demanded even though she knew exactly what Gail was referring to.
    Gail shifted in her seat and faced Libby. “What happened to Devi, of course.”
    Libby raised an eyebrow. “Devi? Who is Devi?”
    â€œI’m sorry.” Two red spots appeared on Gail’s cheeks. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I meant Jack Devlin. Devi is, excuse me, was his nickname. It’s what everyone who knew him called him.”
    â€œI knew him and I didn’t call him that. No one else I know did, either.”
    â€œWell, his good friends did.”
    â€œWhich you number yourself among?” Libby asked politely.
    Gail sniffed. “He had a lot of good friends and yes, I was among them.”
    â€œIt must have been interesting.”
    â€œWhat?” Gail asked.
    â€œBeing friends with him.”
    â€œIt was, but why do you care?”
    Libby gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t.