The Secret Letters by Abby Bardi Read Free Book Online

he’s a nice guy, we had a good conversation, no big deal.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œNothing. Food, wine. The restaurant business.”
    â€œYou don’t know anything about the restaurant business.”
    â€œWhatever, Julie.”
    â€œJust stay away from him. That’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œReally, he’s not your type.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I get it.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, like that settled it.
    ***
    When I got home that night, I took the break-up postcard out of my shirt pocket and stuck it on the fridge with a Natty Boh magnet (bad beer, but an okay magnet). I stared at the flat, red mountain pictured on the card. In front of it were some cactuses with their arms sticking up into the sky. It felt like, if I really focused, the wind would start blowing and J. would climb down from the dark mountainside and stand against the red layers of cloud like a superhero.
    Without really thinking about it, I fell into the habit of talking to the postcard. I said hello to it when I came home and goodbye when I left, and soon I was telling J. about my day, how my pork shoulder special was a huge hit, and one of the runners dropped a whole tray of oysters I’d just shucked on the dining room floor, and I was going to try black-rice risotto again, though I wasn’t happy with it last time.
    I was just telling J. about my big plans for a Thai seafood bisque when I heard Pam’s ringtone. I figured she was calling to chew me out for not coming over to help her yet, but when I picked up, she said, “I just totaled my car.”
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œI wasn’t in it. It was parked—”
    â€œBlind curve?”
    â€œBingo.”
    â€œHit and run?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œProbably Ed again.” Ed was a drunk guy who lived up the street.
    â€œMaybe, but I’ll never prove it. He’s probably got his pickup in the body shop already.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œWell, here’s the thing. I was thinking—”
    I suddenly realized where she was headed: our mother’s car. “No way.”
    â€œIt’s just sitting in the driveway.”
    â€œDon’t even think about it.”
    â€œIt would only be for a day or two.”
    â€œNorma will kill you.”
    â€œShe won’t know about it.”
    â€œShe’ll know. Go rent a car.”
    â€œI hate to do that before the insurance claim is processed. It’s so hard to get reimbursed.”
    â€œAlls I can tell you is, if you drive the Grand Dame, you’re taking your life in your hands.”
    â€œI know, I know,” she said.
    I knew she was going to do it anyway.
    ***
    As I was driving up Main Street, a tow truck carrying a squished yellow car passed by. I parked safely across the street from our house—where any sane person would have parked her new Mustang—went into the house, and let the dogs cover my jeans with paw prints. I found Pam tethered to the wall phone in the kitchen. She saw me and rolled her eyes, then mimed a yapping mouth with her free hand. Norma. I tried to figure out what they were talking about, but mostly she just kept saying, “Okay, okay.”
    â€œWhat did she want?” I asked when she hung up.
    â€œShe says I’m not packing fast enough.”
    â€œDid you point out to her that you have a full-time job and she doesn’t?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    I just laughed.
    â€œShe made an appointment with Ralph Sawyer,” she said. Ralph was an attorney who had dated Mom in high school. He handled her divorce from my father—I mean, Bill Barlow. He was kind of a celebrity: his commercials played on daytime TV with a little song that rhymed “Sawyer” and “lawyer.” “He’s reading the will. We all have to be there.”
    â€œIs she going to schedule it so I won’t have to take time