“Brains aren’t everything,” her mother said. This was counter to everything else her mother had ever said in her life. “But he might be smarter than you think.”
“Mom, he acts so dumb sometimes. He’d have to be absolutely brilliant to play dumb that well.”
Her mother raised one eyebrow. “Well, he pushed us into five spades and then doubled us, and the only reason we made the contract was that you threw away your eight of diamonds.”
“You’re saying he knows what he’s doing ? I thought he was overbidding.”
“Sarah,” her mother lectured her, “the first step to winning at bridge is to know your partner.”
“The other thing you don’t know about my partner is that whatever he may formerly have had of a brain, he’s fried with coke.” She saw the wheels turning in her mother’s head. “No, not like RC Cola,” she clarified. “Cocaine.”
Her mother frowned. “He doesn’t seem—what do you call it?—wasted.”
“He’s not high right now,” Sarah admitted. In fact, he hadn’t used in the four days Sarah had been in Birmingham.
“The lobe that plays bridge is still working,” her mother declared.
“Mom,” Sarah sighed, watching her mother pick happily at a Caesar salad. Her mother hadn’t pitched a boy this hard since Harvey Marvel, whose daddy owned the bank. Or maybe her mother wanted Quentin for herself. “Quentin is not canceling his next world tour to accompany you on your bridge tour.”
“He might.” Her mother winked. “Does he obey you?”
Sarah laughed out loud at the very idea. “Do you want him to obey?”
“I want him to follow the bidding conventions.”
Sarah said carefully, “Dad didn’t.”
“And if he had,” her mother said almost angrily, “I might have made Grand Life Master by now.”
Sarah changed the subject somewhat. “Quentin cooks, though.”
Now her mother was really interested. “Cooks what?”
“Breakfast. Indian food.”
“Can he make quiche?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “Do you want me to send you his résumé? I can make a good guess at it. Six years, prep cook at a restaurant. Six years, hospital orderly. Clearly he knows CPR. He probably knows the Heimlich maneuver, too, so if you choke on his cooking, you’re covered. Do you want me to ask him whether quiche is in his repertoire?”
Her mother shushed her escalating tone before whispering, “That’s not necessary, dear. It’s just that I’m not terribly fond of Indian cuisine. I once had an unfortunate experience with some curried potatoes.” She took another dainty bite and smiled sweetly.
“You know what I think?” Sarah asked. “I think you’re making excuses for a pair of intense green eyes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. I told you, I’m old.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin and folded it neatly. “Although I have to admit that it’s fun to be goaded again.”
“Goaded?” Sarah asked blankly. “About playing poker? I don’t think he was goading you. He’s a chauvinist. Or he was warning you that other men are chauvinists, as if you didn’t already know.”
“I’m telling you, he was goading me. There was a gleam in his eye.”
“I didn’t see any gleam.”
“I saw gleam,” he mother insisted. “What’s known in poker as a tell. I’ve played bridge for fifty-three years, and I know a gleam when I see one.”
“You’ve played bridge since you were negative three years old?”
Her mother looked puzzled. That didn’t happen often.
“Because you’re only fifty now, remember?” Sarah explained. “You’re no good at living the lie.”
Her mother’s eyebrow went up. “Speaking of living the lie,” she said, “I don’t approve of your look.”
Sarah frowned. “No kidding.”
Her mother held up one hand for silence. “I don’t approve of the look, but I have to say that it’s put together well. You pull it off. Now you may say, ‘Thank you, kind Mother.’ ”
“Right.”
“Use your birthday money to buy yourself more of these”—she paused purposefully—“garments. Or more of whatever chemicals cause your pretty brunette hair to turn those colors. Your Quentin seems to like the look very much.”
Sarah had had enough. She put down her fork and leaned forward in her seat. “Mom. Seriously, now. Please don’t press this and mention ‘my Quentin’ like he’s the one who got away every time we talk for the rest of our lives. I would be tempted. I am tempted. But he’s in love with that girl from the band.”
Her mother finally heard her. She gazed at Sarah sadly. “Does he make you happy?”
“Yes,” Sarah said without hesitation.
Her mother looked away. “Does he make you laugh?”
Sarah had thought since the funeral that everything would be okay if her mother could just drop the poker face for a moment and mourn. Now that tears shone in her mother’s eyes, Sarah wanted her mother’s mask back in place, because her heart was being torn out. She reached across the table and took her mother’s hand.
Glancing past her mother’s shoulder, toward the bar, she saw Quentin’s green eyes on her even at this distance. He might have been watching them the whole time. Out of deference, he swiveled on his barstool and turned back to the bartender.
The statue of Vulcan, clothed front view, watched from atop Red Mountain as Sarah entered the expressway and the lights of downtown fell away on either side of the BMW. “Are you sure you won’t drive?” she asked Quentin. “I almost got us lost on the way over here. Would you drive us back to your house?”
“I’ve had a drink,” he said, “and the last thing I need is a DUI with no license.”
Lame excuse. He might not be much of a drinker, but right now he was a far cry from DUI. She tried to conceal her frustration as she switched lanes and took the exit. She was afraid that if she pressed him further, he’d press her back, and she’d reveal her own roots. Quentin and Owen were from a small town south of Birmingham. Their high school football team had come down to kick her high school’s ass in the state playoffs one year.