Blood Red

“I got old,” she says wryly.

“If you’re old, then I’m ancient.”

Nancy, who used to be Nancy Morrison, graduated Mundy’s Landing High two years ahead of Rowan and steadily dated her brother Danny. He went on to marry his college sweetheart and lives in California, while Nancy married—-and later messily divorced—-Danny’s former best friend, Chris-tian Vandergraaf. Rowan wasn’t living here when that particular small--town drama unfolded, but Nancy had long since filled her in. She talks a lot and spares very few details.

She particularly enjoys bringing up their shared high school past, which she remembers far more fondly than Rowan. Nancy was a class officer and honor student whose glory days unfolded beneath this very roof, while Rowan was the quintessential party girl whose memories of that era are often shrouded in a haze of forbidden substances.

“So where’s Jake tonight?” Nancy wants to know.

“He’s having dinner with a -couple of sales reps in Albany but he’s going to try to make the second half of the game.” Rowan presses a hand to her mouth as a yawn escapes her. “Sorry. Long week.”

“Tell me about it.” Nancy launches into a drawn--out personal drama involving a plumber, a flea--ridden dog, a cold sore, and a Christmas gift that’s been backordered until February.

Nancy, whose only child plays on the team with Mick, is one of those irritating -people who, if you’re tired, will tell you she’s more tired; if you’re busy, she’s busier; if you’ve had bad news, she’s had worse. Sometimes Rowan nips her monologues in the bud, but tonight, she lets her talk. The tirade blends with the chatter of the gathering crowd around them and the cheerleaders’ chants and the squeaking of basketball shoes on the polished hardwoods as the team warms up.

Then Nancy interrupts herself to whisper, “Look at Diane Westerly pretending she has no clue who’s sitting behind her.”

Rowan looks. “What do you mean?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Wrong. Who’s sitting behind her?”

“Lynda Carlotta!” When that fails to get a reaction, Nancy adds, “You didn’t hear?”

“Obviously not.” Rowan rubs her burning shoulder blade, not really caring whether she hears now, or not.

“Diane’s having an affair with Jim Carlotta.”

Affair.

The word brings Rowan right back to Monday, and the box filled with burnt cookies, and Rick Walker.

“How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows. Everyone except Lynda, anyway.” Nancy shakes her brunette head. “I can’t believe she’d do something like that.”

“Like not knowing about her husband’s affair?”

“What? No, I’m talking about Diane! She’s the horrible one, not Lynda. I mean, they’re friends.”

“What about Jim? They’re married.”

“He’s horrible, too,” Nancy agrees in an offhanded way that somehow implies the cheating husband isn’t quite as blameworthy as the backstabbing woman.

Or maybe Rowan is reading too much into the conversation. Maybe she’s identifying with Diane Westerly, a perpetually frazzled stay--at--home mother of four, imagining how she might have, in a brief, wayward moment, found herself in the arms of a man whose kids have long shared sandboxes and cafeteria tables and carpools with her own.

As Nancy talks on, Rowan surreptitiously pulls her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and sneaks a peek at her Facebook account. There’s one new notification: Rick Walker has accepted your friend request.

She jumps to her feet, heart racing.

“Where are you going, Ro? The game’s about to start.”

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