Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online

said, ‘‘You’ll be happy to hear that George Rudenski is circling the wagons at Mako. People won’t blow their noses without calling to check with me first.’’
    ‘‘Good.’’
    ‘‘No, it’s a pain in the ass.’’
    ‘‘Is that why you wanted to get together, to tell me that?’’
    ‘‘Not at all. Though I do inform you that the hornet’s nest is now stirred up. You can put away your poking stick.’’
    ‘‘But it’s so shiny and sharp,’’ I said. ‘‘For example.
    How well did you know Franklin Brand?’’
    ‘‘Oy vay.’’ She leaned back. ‘‘Not well. He didn’t return phone calls. Did golf course deals.’’
    ‘‘Have you ever wondered if the anonymous caller works at Mako?’’
    ‘‘The gal who liked sucking on Brand’s spermsicle stick? No, I haven’t.’’ The sun shone on her freckles. ‘‘Want to go to Del Mar this weekend? They’re running the Oaks. Afterward we could get in eighteen at Torrey Pines.’’
    I laughed. ‘‘Harley, you know I don’t gamble, and the time you tried to teach me to play golf I hit you on the head with a putt. A weekend away sounds great, but pick a secondary target.’’
    ‘‘Vegas. You could catch a show.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Can’t help it. In the blood.’’
    Her father had been a high roller, and she spent her childhood in casino coffee shops and along the rail at Santa Anita. But I wondered if her yen for company meant she was having one of her periodic tussles with loneliness. I was about to ask, when a waiter came to the table with an ice bucket and two champagne flutes.
    ‘‘What’s this?’’ I said.
    Harley looked coy. ‘‘Time to kick off the wedding party.’’
    The waiter put the champagne bottle on the table. I saw the label.
    ‘‘You’re kidding.’’
    ‘‘You want something more upscale?’’ Harley said.
    ‘‘No, Dom Pérignon is fine.’’
    The waiter popped the cork and poured, and I wondered, as always, at Harley’s extravagance. Though we were good friends, this was still a lot to splash out. But she was impulsive and generous, and I knew she liked fine things.
    She hoisted her glass. ‘‘Here’s to true love.’’
    ‘‘Cheers.’’ I raised the glass and drank.
    I have a rube’s palate. The last champagne I’d drunk was at my cousin’s wedding in Oklahoma City, and I think it had an oil derrick on the label. But oh. This.
    This wasn’t champagne; it was an epiphany. I knew I should drink it, destroy the bottle, and bang my head against the table until I got amnesia, because otherwise this was all I’d want to drink, ever, and then I’d go bankrupt.
    "My God," I said.
    Harley raised her glass again. ‘‘And here’s to unconventional love affairs.’’
    I held the bubbles on my tongue, deciding how to reply. ‘‘If you’re talking about the age difference, I don’t consider it a big deal.’’
    ‘‘Me neither. We both like ’em young,’’ she said. ‘‘And different.’’
    I said, ‘‘And how are things?’’
    ‘‘Things are fine. Things are sublime. Choirs of angels sing me to sleep at night.’’ She brought her glass up, stopped. ‘‘Wait. Are we talking about my sex life?’’
    ‘‘Yes.’’
    ‘‘It’s status quo. Shit flambé.’’ She drank her champagne. ‘‘I have as much of Cassie as she can give me, and that’s just the way it is. It’s . . . what does Jesse call it?’’
    ‘‘An FFL.’’ Fucking Fact of Life.
    ‘‘You got it, sister.’’
    I didn’t know Cassie, Harley’s lover. I knew only what Harley told me: She played on the women’s tennis tour, and was fearful of coming out as a lesbian. From the light in Harley’s eyes when she spoke Cassie’s name, Harley was hooked.
    She said, ‘‘Talking of FFLs, how’s your boy handling Brand showing up?’’
    ‘‘He’s focused. And he’s not a boy, Harley.’’
    Her eyes quieted. ‘‘Sorry, you’re right. He’s twenty-seven, and older than most men are at