Tart by Jody Gehrman Page A

point, but Esther’s the sort of woman you remember. She’s six feet tall, close to seventy years old, and she dresses like a twenty-two-year-old fashion slave from L.A.—tight jeans, platform shoes, suede jackets trimmed with mounds of fur. The two of them look up from their salads; they smile at Mare, but when they see me trailing a couple steps behind, their faces go blank and they pretend to be engrossed in conversation.
    â€œDid you see that?” I whisper.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThose women you said hi to—they hate me.”
    Mare laughs. “Claudia. You’re a little paranoid today….”
    â€œNo, seriously. I spilled coffee on the little one weeks ago. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Every time I see her on campus, she gives me serious stink-eye.”
    â€œMonica?” Mare sighs. “She’s not an easy one to figure out. We’ve both been here ten years, and I still haven’t got a clue about what makes her tick. I hear she’s going through a divorce, so she’s probably not in the best mood.”
    â€œIs she faculty?”
    â€œYeah—haven’t you met her yet? She’s in our department. She teaches Asian theater and that sort of thing. She’s really into Noh and Kabuki and—I don’t know—shadow puppets, or something.”
    There are distant alarm bells going off in my brain. Monica…where have I heard that name? “So she’s, um, getting divorced?”
    â€œThat’s what I heard.”
    I can feel the beginnings of nausea in the pit of my stomach. “What’s her last name?”
    â€œParker,” she says before biting into her sandwich.
    â€œPar-ker?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œOf course,” I whisper, and the blood goes out of my face.
    She looks up, still chewing. “What’s wrong? You’re all white. Are you sick?”
    â€œOh, nothing. Or maybe—I don’t know—actually, I do feel a little sick,” I say, wrapping my sandwich back up.
    â€œI thought you were starving.”
    â€œI was, but…” My neck and face are starting to perspire. “Maybe something I had for breakfast didn’t go down right.”
    Or maybe it’s someone I went down on three weeks ago. Jesus, Claudia.
    Just then Monica and Esther get up to leave. Over Mare’s shoulder, I watch Monica in her pale-yellow, raw-silk pantsuit; she’s very pretty, in a petite, dark, hyperpolished sort of way. Very Nordstrom’s. She looks like the kind of woman who sorts her underwear into neat, color-coded stacks. She catches me watching her and shoots me a quick but withering glare, followed immediately by Esther glancing in my direction with pursed lips. She puts one hand on Monica’s back protectively and guides her toward the stairs as if she’s some sort of invalid.
    â€œListen, Mare,” I say, “I’m going to head back to my office. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
    â€œHoney,” she says—she’s the only woman I’ve ever met besides waitresses in the Deep South who can pull this off, “you really do look ill. Maybe you should go home. Are you okay to drive?”
    â€œI’ve got another class to teach. No, I’ll be okay.”
    â€œYou might have that flu that’s going around.”
    â€œI doubt it,” I say. “It’s just PMS or something.”
    I walk unsteadily back to my office, gripping my sandwich with a shaking hand.
    Parker. Goddammit, Clay.
    This is the second time he’s done this. When we met he was deliberately evasive about being married; now he’s failed to give me vital information about his wife—namely, that I work with her. I can picture him sitting there on his stool at the Owl Club.
    â€œThat’s right. First day at school.” He was wearing such a smug little smile.
    â€œHow did you know?” I asked, my skin even then prickling slightly with