Rainy Day Sisters (18 page)

Then he let go of her hand, even pushed it back a bit as if he were returning something she'd dropped. How much of that scenario had been in her own head? Lucy gave him a weak smile and turned to go.

Outside it was growing dark, the sky a deep indigo, the village mired in night save for a few streetlights.

“Do you need a torch?” Alex asked. “You're not in Boston anymore.”

“Am I in Oz?” Lucy teased, or tried to. She was still feeling shivery from that moment in the sitting room, and she hoped Alex couldn't notice in the dim light of his entry hall. She fumbled for her coat, pushed her arms through the sleeves, and struggled with the zip. “I'll be fine. Tarn House is just up there, anyway.” She pointed up the high street; she could see the train station and the pub in the distance.

“All right, then,” Alex said, and stepped back, well out of touching range, which Lucy took as a signal.

She walked down the garden path and opened the gate, which squeaked loudly in the stillness of the night; for once, there was no wind. She could feel Alex watching her, and she wondered when he would go back inside.

Juliet

JULIET GAZED AT HER
wardrobe full of jeans and fleeces and wondered what she should wear to the pub quiz tonight. She had all of four dresses: one for weddings, one for funerals, and two for any festive occasions, one summer, one winter. None of them were appropriate for a pub quiz.

Not, Juliet acknowledged, that she even knew what you were meant to wear. Presumably Lucy would wear something arty and outrageous, and Rachel would smarten up a bit, as she liked to do of an evening. Peter, Juliet could not imagine would wear anything but his usual jeans and holey Aran jumper. And as for her?

“Oh, why bother,” she muttered crossly, and grabbed one of her many fleeces. She didn't want to make an effort, or rather, be
seen
to make an effort, and yet she also felt a flicker of dissatisfaction at putting on her same old clothes. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

“It's just a bloody pub quiz,” she told herself as she yanked a brush through her hair. “Get over it already.”

She could hear Lucy humming in the bathroom; she'd been in a good mood ever since last night, when she'd come home quite late from the bra shopping expedition. Juliet had been up in bed, reading, when she'd heard Lucy come in, humming just as she was now, practically floating up the stairs. She hadn't left her bedroom to ask Lucy how it had gone, and Lucy hadn't come to talk to her, which didn't surprise Juliet and yet still left her just a little bit disappointed.

The next morning she'd taken the plate of sausages and mash she'd left for Lucy out of the warming oven and scraped it into the bin.

Now, with one last glance at her reflection, she left her bedroom and headed downstairs to wait for Lucy. The latest set of walkers had arrived that afternoon, a retired couple who were already tucked up in bed, exhausted from their day of walking from Ennerdale. Juliet settled the dogs and tidied the already-spotless kitchen, her stomach seething with butterflies.
It's just a pub quiz,
she told herself yet again, annoyed with how nervous she was. She was thirty-seven, for heaven's sake, and she was acting as if she were thirteen.

But she didn't do socializing, never had. Her childhood had been spent in isolation, being ignored by Fiona and with no other family that she knew of. After Fiona had become famous when Juliet was nine, life had improved somewhat, even if their relationship hadn't. Juliet had made a few friends in secondary school, boarding her final year with a friend's family. She'd attempted a normal life at university, derailed by her own folly in confronting her mother. In demanding answers.

And in the seventeen years since then, she'd chosen to live a quiet, solitary life. She'd told herself she preferred it. She
had
preferred it until Lucy had come barreling in, stirring up all these feelings, reminding her of how lonely she was.

“You look nice!”

Juliet turned to see Lucy coming down the stairs, grinning at her. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “I look like I normally do.”

“Which is nice,” Lucy answered. “Anyway, you look a little different. Your fleece is pink instead of gray or blue and you've left your hair down. I don't think I've ever seen it that way.”

Instinctively Juliet reached up to touch her hair, and then dropped her hand. “And you look like a yeti,” she said, glancing at Lucy's fuzzy blue sweater.

“A blue yeti,” she agreed. “I love this sweater.”

Juliet watched as Lucy slipped her feet into totally unsuitable ballet flats—it had rained most of the day—and her velveteen blazer. She looked pretty and young and so natural, all things Juliet didn't think she'd ever felt. She'd been bitter about Lucy, resented the hell out of her, and right now she realized she felt a little jealous. She wanted to be as relaxed as Lucy was, able to make friends with ease and collect relationships like trinkets. What had happened with Alex Kincaid last night that had Lucy coming home at nine o'clock at night, humming under her breath?

“Ready?” she asked, opening the door, and Lucy nodded.

“Ready to rock this pub quiz. How hard do you think the questions are?”

“I have no idea,” Juliet said, and walked outside.

The Hangman's Noose was bustling with people, a fire burning cheerily in the inglenook fireplace, when Juliet entered with Lucy at her side, the warmth of the place seeming to both wrap around her and slap her in the face. Already she felt uncomfortable.

“Oy! Juliet! Lucy! Over here!” Rachel was waving at them from a table in the corner; she already had sheets of paper and stubby pencils laid out, along with a bottle of red wine. “I thought I'd get us a bottle,” she said as they made their way over. Juliet nodded to a few people she recognized; the smile on her face felt too tight, almost as if it hurt her skin. Lucy, she saw, had stopped to chat with Diana Rigby. A gale of laughter rose up from both of them and Juliet looked away.

“This is cozy,” she told Rachel as she sat on a stool, her knees brushing Rachel's under the table. “Where's Peter?”

“At the bar.” Rachel cocked her head towards the bar of polished mahogany that ran the length of one wall, Rob Telford, the owner, filling orders behind it. “He wanted a pint of bitter instead of a glass of red. Imagine that.”

Juliet picked up a pencil and twisted it between her fingers. “So how does this work, exactly?”

“Pretty simple. Rob asks the questions and we write down the answers. Then we exchange papers with another table and everyone marks the quizzes. Winner takes home a bottle. And hopefully we all enjoy ourselves.” Rachel's eyes glinted teasingly. “Think you can do that, Juliet?”

“I'll try,” Juliet replied without humor. She could see Peter making his way across the crowded pub, a pint in hand. Lucy was still talking to Diana.

“Hello, Peter,” Rachel called as he approached, then turned to yell at Lucy. “Get your skates on, lass, we're about to start!”

Clearly, Juliet thought, Rachel saw herself as the social organizer of the evening. She'd already registered the speculative, steely glint in her friend's eye and wondered uneasily what it meant.

“Hello, Juliet.” Peter's smile was as affable and easy as always as he crammed his big body onto one of the little three-legged stools; his knees barely fit under the table. And, Juliet realized, one was pressed against hers. She tried to shift a little bit, but as Lucy plopped herself down on the stool next to her, she realized there was no room to move. She could feel Peter's knee, and even some of his thigh, pressed against her own leg.

“How about a glass?” she asked a little too loudly, and Rachel poured her a large glass of wine as Rob came out from behind the bar to start the quiz.

“Areet, areet, you lot know the rules,” he called out, and received much good-natured ribbing and catcalling in response. It was nine o'clock and Juliet could tell that everyone had been having a merry time for a while already. She took a sip of her own wine, and then another, needing to feel just a little less conspicuous. A little less uncomfortable.

“I read the questions,” Rob continued. “You write down the answers. And if you hear someone's guess at a nearby table . . . well, talk quieter, you lot!” He glanced at a table of boisterous women whose laughter rose like a flock of crows every few minutes. “Think you can manage that?”

“Oh, aye, we'll manage areet,” one of them answered with a saucy wink, and Rob grinned.

Juliet felt as if she'd landed on an alien planet. She'd come to the pub before, but it had always been generally tame, with a few farmers leaning against the bar with their pints, a few tables with people conversing quietly. Nothing like this.

And yet Rachel and Lucy and even Peter seemed to be getting into the spirit of things, judging by the way the women laughed and Peter gave a small smile, his pint raised to his lips. He had on a button-down shirt that actually looked ironed, and a pair of chinos. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Peter in anything so fancy, except maybe at the Christmas Eve service at church.

“Right, first question,” Rob called, and the room, to Juliet's amazement, went silent. “How many years did the Hundred Years' War last?” This was met with a moment of taut silence, followed by sudden guffaws of laughter.

“A hundred years, mate,” someone called, “or can't you count?”

Rachel leaned forward, and Lucy and Peter followed, so Juliet, somewhat reluctantly, did as well, and all four of them sat at the table, their heads touching. “So it's obviously not a hundred years,” Rachel stated in a low voice. “Anyone do history A level?”

This was met with more silence. “A hundred and one?” Lucy ventured. “It's got to be close to a hundred, for it to be called that.”

“Good point,” Rachel answered, and then pressed a finger to her lips. “Nicholas Fairley runs the Hartley Historical Society,” she whispered. “And he's sitting right behind us.”

Instinctively Juliet glanced round, only to have Rachel hiss at her not to be so obvious. “But that's cheating,” she objected, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

“That's all part of a pub quiz, Juliet.” She shook her head. “Damn, he's already written something down. All right, we'll go with a hundred and one.”

“Next question,” Rob bellowed, and a respectful hush followed. “What is the capital city of Australia?”

“Oh, that's easy,” Juliet exclaimed. “Canberra.”

“Pipe
down
!” Rachel hissed as the people at several tables near them began writing frantically. “You want the whole room to know?” She started to write. “You're sure, though?”

“Yes. I was thinking of emigrating there, a while back.” Everyone looked at her and Juliet took another sip of wine.

“When was that?” Rachel asked.

Juliet shrugged. “A long time ago, before I moved up here.”

“Sometimes I think we might as well be in Australia,” Lucy said, and Rachel guffawed at that.

“At least there aren't any poisonous snakes here.”

“There's adders up Ennerdale way,” Peter ventured, and Rachel gave him a look.

“Did I really need to know that, Peter?” she demanded. “Adders. God help us.”

“Next question!” Rob bellowed, and they moved on.

As the questions rolled on—
What is the motto of the British Special Forces? Who composed the opera
Peer Gynt
?
—Juliet felt herself relax. Maybe it was the better part of Rachel's bottle of red she'd drunk, or maybe it was the good-natured joking that flew around her, making her smile even if she couldn't quite take part in it.

By the time they were exchanging quizzes to mark, followed by lots of teasing about cheating and giving half marks for good guesses, Juliet was feeling loose-limbed and a little bit sleepy.

“You areet, Juliet?” Peter asked, his eyebrows raised. She smiled at him. She felt almost dreamy.

“Oh, I'm fine.”

“You're drunk,” Rachel stated, holding up the empty bottle of wine. “I've only had one glass! You owe me, Juliet Bagshaw.”

“Fine,” Juliet answered with a shrug, and Rachel let out a laugh.

“Now I know how to get you to relax. I should have twigged it ages ago.”

Juliet drew herself up, annoyed now that she could sense everyone was laughing at her. “I'm not drunk,” she told Rachel shortly. “I've only had a couple of glasses of wine.”

“More like four,” Rachel answered, but she dropped it since they were announcing the winners of the quiz. Their table missed winning by two. “Still, it was a good showing,” she said as she rose from the table. “I've got to get home and make sure Lily's done her homework. Same time next week? We'll have to come up with a name for our team.”

“The Cumbrian Quizzers?” Lucy suggested, and Rachel rolled her eyes. “The Seaside Smarties?” she tried again, and Juliet interjected, her voice slurring only slightly:

“How about the Village Idiots?”

“You ought to get her home,” Rachel told Lucy. “If you can.”

“I'll walk you both,” Peter offered. “It's on my way.”

Juliet simply sat and watched; she felt so very tired, but also as if the evening were slipping away from her. She didn't want to go home.

“Come on, then,” Lucy said, and reached for her hand. Juliet shook her off.

“You all seem to think I'm falling-down drunk,” she snapped. “I'm fine.” And she showed them just how fine she was by walking very slowly, very carefully out of the pub.

The evening's rain had dropped to a misting drizzle and the cool, damp air brought some clarity—not sobriety, since she wasn't actually drunk. Lucy and Peter walked on either side of her, and Juliet wondered if they were afraid she was going to fall down.
Honestly.
This was what happened when she tried to relax and enjoy herself.