Page 27 of The Space Between

Vicki sits up and reaches her hand out gracefully to take a bottle. "I do love a gentleman," she says with a huge, toothy grin.And Jeanie knows this isn't a put-on: Vicki does go in big for men who treat her like a queen. "Thank you ever so much."

"Can't tell if you're even old enough to drink, sweetheart, but I figure if your mom here is okay with it, then there's a cold one here for you, too." He hands Jeanie the bottle, and while she isn't thirsty for beer, she still takes it politely and says thank you.

When the old man is satisfied with the level of flirtation he's gotten back from Vicki, he turns and waddles away triumphantly. His friends are looking at him with envy.

Jeanie glances at Vicki, who is preoccupied with her drink and her cigarette. "He called you my mother, and you didn't even bat an eye. I would have thought that might get under your skin—like it did last time.”

Vicki gives a throaty chuckle. "Nah. He's not wrong; I could be your mother. And besides, to a man that age, I'm still as young and sexy as a Pan Am stewardess."

Someone tosses a beach ball into the pool and a whoop of joy goes up amongst the older folks.

Jeanie watches as one of the women tosses it in the air like a volleyball and spikes it at a tall man wearing a fishing hat. "You're right," she says with a wry smile, knowing that she's about to get pinched on the thigh by Vicki. “Plus they probably all have cataracts."

CHAPTER 12

Jo

"Tellme everything you feel like you can tell me," Frankie says. She and Jo are on a late evening walk in the middle of July, and they're strolling through the humidity at a snail's pace. Frankie hands her cigarette to Jo, but for once, Jo waves it away.

"It's too hot to smoke," she says resignedly. "I'm not in the mood."

Frankie shrugs. "Suit yourself. Now tell me what's been going on."

Jo takes a long, deep breath. "Bill has been talking to Desert Sage, which is where Margaret has lived for the past thirteen or fourteen years. It's been kind of overwhelming for him. I think he blames himself."

"Wait. Back up." Frankie stops walking and Jo does the same. "We haven't really talked since the Fourth, so give me a play-by-play."

It's so hot that even walking feels like too much work. Instead, they sit on a patch of green grass at the edge of someone's yard and tuck their legs up beneath themselves criss-cross style. Jo pulls a few blades of grass and lays them across her bare knee.

"So they called and told me Margaret was dead, and you saw what happened when I went outside to tell Bill." They're silent for a moment, both picturing Jo's husband as he crumpled to his knees next to the barbecue. A nearly inhuman wail had emanated from him that had stopped even the children's raucous playing.

"Yeah," Frankie says. She's stubbed out the cigarette at this point, and she joins Jo in plucking blades of grass. "I saw. And I understand that he was upset, given the circumstances, but how could he possibly feel that any of it is his fault?"

Jo screws up her face for a moment and then relaxes it. "I always felt like he regretted putting her into a facility. Not that it wasn't necessary," she adds hurriedly, "but he regretted that he wasn't the thing that could 'fix' her, so to speak. And we were paying quite a bit of money out of our own pockets each month to keep her safe, so I think he's also mad that this happened in the first place. Like, how can a place that you're paying to watch over someone every minute of the day have turned their backs long enough for this to happen?"

"It is tragic," Frankie agrees.

A man comes out of the house behind them and the women scramble to get up because they realize they’re sitting in the yard of a neighbor they don’t even know.

“We’re sorry!” Jo says, brushing the grass off her legs as she stands.

“Ladies,” the man says, lifting a hand to stop them. “You’re fine. I’m not a huge fan of other people’s dogs using my grass as they please, but I don’t mind beautiful women taking a rest here.”

Frankie laughs and brushes the hair away from her face in a manner that’s almost coquettish. “Thank you. It’s just so hot, and we were out walking, and it looked so inviting.”

“Sit, sit,” he says, waving a hand as he gets into the driver’s seat of a brand new, cherry red 1964 Mustang convertible. “My wife is inside if you get thirsty and need a glass of water.”

Jo laughs as he starts the car and backs down the driveway. “Thank you,” she calls out to him, sinking back down onto the grass.

“Have a good evening, ladies,” the man says, giving them a small salute as he puts the car in drive and presses the gas lightly.

“So,” Frankie says, sitting down again. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand: Bill is upset he paid these people a lot of money to watch over his ex-wife, and they didn’t do a good enough job.”

Jo hems and haws. “Well…kind of. I think partially, at least. Sure, there’s a part of him that feels like they didn’t do what they were supposed to do, and then I think there’s a part of him that…”

“What?”

“Well, I’m worried that I’m projecting my own feelings onto him, but maybe he’s a little relieved? Maybe we both are. I don’t know—would that be wrong?”