More Than Allies by Sandra Scofield Page B

she changed into pajamas. “He said, ‘Gretchen, you are looking wan.’ I laughed, of course, so he laughed too, but he felt sorry for me, you could see it in his eyes.” She slid under the covers. “Do you think everyone knows what an ass I’ve made of myself, fucking Phoebe Alex’s husband?”
    â€œI never thought actors were prudes.” Maggie envied Gretchen her job, which had opened up the very day Polly called in her cards after twenty years of volunteering at the theatre.
    â€œI suppose they’re not,” Gretchen said, lying back and staring straight up at the ceiling. Maggie remembered that there were fluorescent dots up there, a rendering of a summer’s night sky. She didn’t think Gretchen was ready for the dark yet, though.
    â€œI was at Blake’s.”
    â€œI thought you might spend the night,” Maggie said, though she was glad Gretchen had come home. It felt very sisterly to lie in bed and talk until sleep overcame them. They had done so hundreds of times over the years. They’d lain right here and sobbed half the night before Gretchen married dreadful Mark and went off to Alaska for two years.
    She would tell Gretchen about Mo’s letter and they would talk until she figured out what she felt about it.
    â€œWe weren’t at the apartment. He’s moved everything out. We went to the new house.”
    â€œNo!” The new house was Phoebe Alex’s house, and she would be in it any day now, arriving in Lupine from six months on location in Mexico.
    â€œHe took me around to show me all the rooms, the deck in the moonlight, the kitchen. It has an island with a granite top. A pink sink.” Gretchen turned over onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. “He didn’t have a bed yet. We were on some quilts on the floor. Then, while I was dressing, he lay there staring at me. ‘What?’ I asked him. He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t he say he’s sorry? He thinks he’s said everything. Phoebe is his wife. Phoebe needs him. He’s a stage manager for chrissake! What does she need him for? They’re not in graduate school anymore. She’s a movie star.”
    â€œAn actress, anyway,” Maggie said, bored. She’d heard this a lot lately.
    â€œShe’s going to be a star, all right. This movie has all the chemistry, I hear. And not from him. I hear some of the actors talking. She’s got nude scenes. Imagine that—being naked with a man all over you while a crew watches. God.”
    â€œMaybe he does love her.”
    Gretchen fell onto her back again. “Do you ever think how many times we’ve been here, talking about our lives?”
    â€œI remember speculating what would happen if a boy put his penis in and it got caught.” Maggie hoped she had successfully changed the subject. “I remember asking you if you were sure about Mark.”
    â€œDon’t rub it in,” Gretchen said, but not crossly. Whatever bad feelings she had about Unalakleet were old and forgotten. Since then she had sewn polarlite vests for Patagonia, in California. She’d been a waitress in Aspen. She’d come home to her mother, her childhood bed, her best friend.
    â€œI remember asking you what your brother was like. Before I ever met him.” It was pointless, but Maggie realized suddenly that what she wanted to do was tell Gretchen everything she already knew: how she rode the bus to Texas and fell in love with Mo. How everything came together in her life when Jay was born. “He wrote me an amazing letter,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
    â€œI can’t believe he hasn’t told her,” Gretchen said, as if Maggie hadn’t spoken at all. “They go ahead as if everything is the same as it ever was. Is that possible? Have I been dreaming? He’s put a birdfeeder on the deck. Their furniture arrives