The Last September: A Novel

I followed him back to the kitchen where he put together a plate of prime rib just like Deirdre’s, laying a sprig of rosemary and drizzling reduction sauce over the mashed potatoes. “Her boyfriend broke up with her,” Charlie said.

Back at the table, I took my seat between them. Charlie poured me a glass of red wine, though he knew I preferred white. Getting another bottle would have meant leaving me alone with Deirdre, but that didn’t occur to me until much later, combing through every possible detail.

She sat back in her chair a little, sipping her own glass of wine. Right then I felt bad for her, and a little guilty for banishing her from our table. Staring at me, her blue eyes glazed with tears.

“I’m really sorry about your boyfriend,” I said. She probably didn’t need reminding about all the times she’d complained about him. “How long were you together?”

“Three years,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

“You probably did. I’m sorry. That’s so hard.”

She turned away from me, looking down at her untouched plate of food. Charlie rested his arm on the back of my chair, not around me exactly. But still. Making a statement. I took a bite of the meal and a sip of the wine. Complimented the food.

“Thanks,” Charlie said. He lifted his arm from the back of my chair and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I remember thinking that it was a little mean of him, to be solicitous toward me while Deirdre nursed a broken heart.

“He’s an idiot,” I told her. “You’re so beautiful.”

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears, too choked up to answer.

Deirdre’s face—strained and devastated—stayed with me all the next day. I thought about how she’d tried to be my friend and I’d shooed her away like a mere employee. After class, heading home, I passed the Amherst Day Spa. Out on the sidewalk they’d propped a green easel chalkboard, advertising a soothing peppermint pedicure for fifty dollars. The air felt crisp, a chill gathering. I had about a hundred dollars left on my last emergency credit card.

On my way to the restaurant, sun beat down on the back of my head, incongruously accompanied by a chilly wind. I felt lightheaded with my financially irresponsible good deed. It seemed like something Charlie would do. At home, I collected Sarah from Maddie and headed over to the restaurant early, around four thirty. Eventually Charlie planned on opening for lunch, but for now only did dinner service, which started at six. The dining room clanked peacefully with the sounds of silverware being laid, goblets being polished. Deirdre stood behind the hostess podium talking on the phone, wearing a black sheath dress, her long hair loose. She was one of those rare people made more beautiful by distress; clearly she’d been crying again, and it brought color to her cheeks, and darkened her eyes. I could see the sheet in front of her, empty, as she went ahead and penciled in the table for two. As she spoke, she glanced up at me and the sadness in her eyes became something blander, as if I were obstructing something she meant to look at, just behind me. I shifted slightly to the left, the gift certificate in my hand. Deirdre hung up and looked at me, waiting, as if she expected me to tell her how many people were in my party. I slipped the gift certificate onto the reservation book. She stared down at it, uncertain.

“It’s a pedicure,” I said. “I thought you could treat yourself.”