The Fortune Quilt by Lani Diane Rich Page A

then dump them on the coffee table. It’s nine o’clock on a Thursday night. Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?
    I think about going to the Sheraton, locating my mother and telling her to get the hell out. She has no right to come back. Not now. It’s too late.
    Then the realization hits me like a dope slap to the side of the head; they’re not divorced.
    He’s going to take her back, I think, but then scrub the thought. Dad and I argued about the divorce exactly once, and it was the most bitter—the only bitter—argument we’d ever had. He was such a good Catholic that he didn’t even think seventeen years of abandonment was a good enough reason to drop the dead weight.
    Only it wasn’t about being Catholic, and we both knew it. It was the Mary-shaped hole.
    And now she’s here. Is he really going to forgive her? Take her back?
    I realize I’m pacing the room, my hands clenching and unclenching. That’s crazy behavior. One more minute alone in this living room and I’ll be muttering to myself about the government.
    I grab my purse and keys.
     
    ***
     
    I call Christopher on my cell phone. Lindsay is in Tempe visiting her mom, so it’s just him meeting me at Flamingo Cove, a huge pool hall in which beer is served by girls wearing fishnet stockings and not much else. But the tables are pink and the beer is cheap. Everything in life is a tradeoff.
    “You really do suck at this game,” Christopher says as he lines up his shot. He’s stripes, I’m solids, and I’ve only sunk one ball. He’s going for the eight ball.
    He’s right. I do suck. But I’ve had two beers and I feel pretty good. Considering.
    “So, you gonna tell me what’s going on?” he says. He shoots. He scores. I’m racking.
    “No,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to be distracted.”
    “Does getting your ass kicked in pool distract you?” he asks, a wry grin on his face. “Because if that’s the case, I’m definitely your guy.”
    “Heh, you’re funny,” I say, racking the balls. I may not be able to shoot worth a damn, but I rack like a pro. When I finish, I look up to find Christopher’s focus on me, his face suddenly serious.
    “Just tell me one thing,” he says, his eyes dark and unreadable. “This isn’t about Seth, is it?”
    I shake my head no. Christopher nods, but there’s tension in his face.
    “Winner breaks,” I say.
    “Is it someone else?” he asks, his eyes fixed on me.
    I laugh. “It’s sweeps, Christopher. I have no time for men during sweeps. You know that. Now, break.”
    He lays his cue down on the table and walks over to stand next to me. “You gonna answer my question or not? Is it a guy?”
    I stare at him, irritation mixing with affection. While the overprotective-brother routine can sometimes be a bit much, it’s comforting, knowing I’ve got a big strong guy like Christopher ready to beat the crap out of any guy should I say the word. Not that I ever would. It’s just nice to know.
    “No,” I say. “There’s no guy. Trust me, if I was having sex on anything approaching a regular basis, I’d be in a much better mood.”
    Christopher nods, looks down at the pool table, but doesn’t move to pick up his cue. I watch him, and for the first time I really notice that he seems almost nervous.
    Christopher’s never nervous. Something’s not right.
    “Christopher?” I say slowly. “You okay?”
    “Yeah. No. I’m fine,” he says. He runs his hand over his face and shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. “I’m fine.”
    Something’s going on. It occurs to me that maybe something has happened with him and Lindsay. Maybe they are sleeping together. Oh—and she’s at her mom’s. What if…?
    “Did you and Lindsay have a fight?” I ask suddenly, my imagination having connected dots that apparently aren’t there, as Christopher looks at me like I’m totally nuts.
    “No,” he says. “Why would we fight?”
    “I dunno.” I take a sip of my beer,