The Accidental Book Club by Jennifer Scott

it that pain stabbed her sides, but she’d also been in awe of him. Of what he could do. Surely that was a gift. It felt like a gift to her, anyway.
    The phone rang, jarring her out of her thoughts.
    She got up, absentmindedly carrying the book with her, and set it on the table next to the phone.
    “Hello?”
    “Jean, it’s Curt again.”
    Her heart sank. The last time Curt had called, it had been bad news. And he didn’t sound any better this time. “Yes?” she asked timidly.
    “It’s Bailey.”
    “Bailey?” This took Jean aback. She was expecting it to be about Laura. “What happened? Is she okay?”
    A pause, a deep breath. “Depends on what you mean by okay. Physically, she’s fine, yes.”
    Jean waited for more, but he didn’t elaborate. What did that mean,
physically, she’s fine
? “Good,” she said, unsure what else to say. Unsure what else would make him keep talking, or even if she wanted him to. Seemed like the only time Curt talked to her these days he was saying something that almost hurt her to hear.
    “She’s a pain in the ass,” he finally added. “Out of control. I don’t know what to do with her, and I can’t . . . I just can’t handle her anymore. She needs her mother, but we all know what happened there.”
    Jean sank into the chair next to the phone. Wayne had called it her “necessary chair,” after the argument they’d had over whether to buy it.
Where in Sam Hill’s name are you going to put it?
he’d asked.
In the telephone nook,
she’d responded, proud of herself for naming the little alcove in the hallway where the telephone jack was.
What the heck for?
he’d pressed.
To sit on while using the phone,
she’d replied as if he were dumb.
If you’re going to have a telephone nook, it’s necessary to have a chair to sit on
. Of course, not once had anyone ever sat on it. They’d simply carried the phone to whatever chair or bed or bench in the house they wanted to sit on. Now, finally, Jean was sitting in the necessary chair, and no one was there to notice it.
    “Have you taken her to see someone?”
    “See someone? No, listen, that’s not why I’m calling.”
    “Okay?”
    “I’m calling because I need to ask a favor.”
    “Okay?” she repeated.
    “I need you to take her.”
    “Take who?”
    “Bailey.”
    “Take her where?”
    His voice grew impatient. “To your house. I need her to stay with you for a while. I can’t control her, and it’s starting to interfere with my work and just until Laura is back up on her feet and we can figure out what to do, can you take her? Can she live with you?”
    Jean’s mind swam. Take Bailey? Here? She hadn’t had a child in this house in so long. She glanced across the alcove at the flower oil painting Wayne had bought at an estate sale years ago. It was all browns and deep reds and ochre, and it was lumpy and ugly. Something that screamed,
Old person lives here.
    “Well . . . maybe you should take her to a therapist of some kind,” she stammered. “I’m not sure what I can . . .”
    “I can take her to a therapist, but I can’t be here twenty-four-seven to make sure she’s not destroying my house. I have to work sometime or I’ll lose my job, and then where will she be? A therapist can’t help you if you’re starving.”
    “Destroying your house . . . ?” Again, Jean glanced around her house, getting up from the necessary chair and walking into the kitchen, feeling like she was floating. Most things in her house hadn’t been moved in years, except to dust under. Her kitchen was country themed with gingham and rattan and dark wood. Her dining room table could seat fourteen and was flanked by perfectly placed porcelain trinkets—her Made in Occupied Japan collection. Wayne’s bar . . . She had never touched any of the aged bourbons or the crystal decanters. He’d been so proud of his bar. He’d loved playing bartender during their gatherings. They were dusty and fragile now.
    Curt