Ornaments of Death by Jane K. Cleland Page A

But I need to talk. Can you have lunch?”
    â€œOf course,” I said.
    We arranged to meet at twelve thirty at the Portsmouth Diner. I stared at the receiver for a moment before placing it in the cradle. She sounded both morose and agitated. Something was up.
    *   *   *
    Lia was in a booth toward the back when I arrived at the diner.
    â€œThank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.
    I slid onto the bench across from her. “You seem upset.”
    â€œI am.” She shook her head and sighed. “I’m a mess.”
    The waitress appeared. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a random decision. Lia ordered a Caesar salad, no meat.
    As soon as the waitress stepped away, Lia said, “I’m not on such solid ground as I thought I was. I’m so ashamed of myself.”
    â€œI don’t understand. Why?”
    She looked down and began twirling a gold bangle. On the one hand, she looked the same as always, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup subtle and elegant, her cherry red silk blouse fitted by an expert. On the other hand, I could see the tension along her jaw and neck, and when she raised her eyes again to mine, there was a sorrowfulness in them that I couldn’t miss. I recognized it. I’d felt it. It was the look of grief.
    â€œI know how I sound most of the time—at least lately. Cynical. Jaded. Bitter. I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou have nothing to apologize for, Lia. Anyone in your situation would feel horrible, and many of us would act way worse than you have.”
    She straightened her knife, moving it a micro-smidge, then lined up the spoon. “He’s moved a girl into his condo—the condo I’m paying for.”
    â€œYour ex?”
    â€œThe jerk.”
    â€œAwful. How do you know?”
    â€œMissy told me this morning.”
    â€œMissy?” I asked in disbelief.
    Lia snorted. “Everyone wants to be the first to deliver bad news. That way they get to watch.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound like Missy.”
    The waitress appeared with food. We didn’t speak until she left.
    â€œShe’s eighteen,” Lia said, stabbing a lettuce leaf with a fork. “Her name is Tiffany. He’ll live with her, but they’ll never marry because that would end my obligation to pay spousal support.”
    I nibbled at my sandwich, not tasting it. I didn’t know what to say.
    Lia’s story was up there with most women’s worst nightmares. Twenty years after her jock-hunky high school boyfriend ditched her for a girl he met on a field trip to the United Nations, he friended her on Facebook. A whirlwind romance ensued, with all her friends singing, “Fairy tales do come true … it can happen to you…” A month later, she married him, and learned the truth. He was a helluva good talker who couldn’t hold a job and had a disastrously wandering eye. I wished I could do more to help Lia recover from the wounds her pride and pocketbook had endured.
    She kept talking, expanding on her ex-husband’s flaws, her comments becoming more personal and snarkier. When she started in about his bald spot, I stopped listening. I kept my eyes on her face, watching her expression harden, feeling disloyal and guilty in wishing I were anywhere but listening to her repetitive and acerbic rant.
    She didn’t pause to eat.
    I lowered my sandwich onto my plate, my appetite gone. I hoped venting was good for her, suspecting, though, that it would only serve to stir up all the spiteful negativity that surged around her like a maelstrom.
    Finally, after ten minutes or more, she stopped. She dropped her fork and it clinked against the bowl. She slid toward the booth opening.
    â€œOh, God. I’m sorry, Josie. I don’t know why I asked you to meet me. I thought I needed to talk. I don’t. There’s nothing to say and nothing to do, and the more I talk the worse I feel. Forgive