Sharon sends Rusty to pick Brenda up from the airport. Brenda had tried to say it wasn't necessary for anyone to fetch her but didn't really resist that hard because the idea of someone being there, waiting for her, is kind of a nice one. It's something she'd taken for granted for a long time and now she knows she won't always have it - that having it now is conditional and tenuous. Rusty belongs to Sharon, not Brenda, and Brenda really only has Sharon on loan.
Rusty waves Brenda down from inside the car, pops the trunk and doesn't get out so Brenda hefts her own suitcase inside, nestling it among Rusty's backpack, a few text books, a pair of old sneakers, and what looks like nothing more than floating garbage.
There's an awkward moment when she goes to open the door and it's locked and he has to lean across the empty passenger seat to open the door.
"That gets stuck sometimes," he says.
"It's all right," Brenda says, getting in and setting her purse at her feet, closing the door. "Whew."
"How was your flight?" he asks, pulling out from the curb without looking and then slamming on the breaks. Brenda braces, her hand flying out to the dashboard. Rusty turns on his signal and pulls out again.
"Uh," she says, wondering if this is actually a punishment. "Good. Fine."
"Cool," Rusty says.
"How was your holiday?" she asks.
"It was interesting," he says. "I didnt grow up with normal Thanksgiving, you know with the big turkey and the gravy and the rolls and stuff."
"No?" she asks.
"No," he says. "Sharon's a pretty good cook."
"Pretty good," Brenda says, suppressing a smile. "Did you help?"
"Yeah, I did the stuffing and made the cranberry sauce. Out of real cranberries, not even the kind out of the can," he says.
"Sharon's not really a canned food person, I take it," Brenda says.
"Depends on what's inside, I think," Rusty says thoughtfully.
"And what did you think about her kids?" Brenda asks.
"Have you ever met them?"
"No," Brenda says. "I mean, I've known Sharon for years but we were not what you would call close. Or friendly."
"Lieutenant Provenza says that you hated each other's guts," Rusty says.
"It took some time to find common ground," Brenda says diplomatically.
"I've met Ricky before but Emily is nice. She's more like Sharon. Her personality, I mean. And her face, too, I guess. Ricky left this morning but Emily's here until tomorrow."
"Oh," Brenda says. She's slightly disappointed simply because she knows it wouldn't be right to intrude on what's left of Sharon's family time and tomorrow is Monday, everyone back to work so it means she won't see Sharon again until probably the weekend, unless they meet for lunch which is always really tricky. Maybe it's for the best, though, maybe the space is good. Brenda had made herself focus on her family during this trip, spending time with her brothers and her daddy. She'd consciously left her phone up in her bedroom or put it to silent when they went out. She didn't let herself text Rusty and certainly not Sharon. In fact, they'd exchanged exactly one text in the several days she'd been gone. Sharon had sent her a text wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving and Brenda had returned the sentiment. She's proud of herself, but that pride fades in the wake of her disappointment.
"I'm supposed to get you to come to dinner," Rusty says now. He glances at her as he exits off the freeway. "We have leftovers. We could feed a moderately sized village."
"Tonight?" she asks.
"Sharon said you'd say you were too tired and said to tell you that we have three kinds of pie."
"What kinds?" Brenda asks.
"Pumpkin, cherry, and a caramel apple," he says.
"Well in that case," Brenda says.
"Oh good." Rusty sounds relieved.
"You had me at pie," Brenda admits. It's already the afternoon but not quite dinner time so Rusty drops her off home, offering to double park to help her carry up her bag and tells him to go home.
"Come over whenever," he says. "Come now, if you want."
"Give me an hour or so," she says.
"Okay," he says. "But we're glad you're home."
Brenda's grandmother - her daddy's mama, that is - had been the grandparent that Brenda was closest to and one of the fondest memories Brenda has of her Grandma Charlene is sitting together on her old wraparound porch, cradled in her lap reading books or singing hymns or just being with each other. "Brenda Leigh and I are gonna go set for a spell," she used to say and they'd leave her grandfather and her rowdy brothers behind.
Her grandma always used to say that Brenda's heart was a garden and it was her responsibility to keep the flowers in and the weeds out. And even later in life, when Brenda was older and would turn to her grandma for advice, she'd say, "Well what does your garden think about it?"
Brenda thinks of the garden walls of her heart now, as she climbs her stairs with her suitcase, face warm with the knowledge that she had been missed. She thinks of Sharon, pretty as a flower and how tempting it is to let her and Rusty all the way in. Even pretty things can grow like weeds though, can take over and strangle everything planted around it.
That woman always did prefer speaking in metaphors instead of just plain English, Brenda's mama complains. Her mama and her grandma had often butted heads, as Brenda recalls.
"Well what do you think I should do, mama?" Brenda asks huffily, pushing into the apartment. But if her mama answers, she doesn't hear it - she's too surprised by what she sees. Her place looks amazing. The floors gleam, everything is tidy, and Brenda can see at least three different bunches of flowers sitting in clear glass vases. A cheery bunch of sunflowers on her dining table, a small bunch of bright pink tulips on the coffee table and Brenda can see another arrangement on her nightstand through to the bedroom, purples and oranges and a pop of yellow though she can't make out the flowers from the front door.
She steps in, closes the door behind her. The kitchen is spotless and when she finally goes into the bedroom, her bed is made and there's even a square of Ghirardelli chocolate on her pillow - milk chocolate with caramel inside.
When she opens her refrigerator, there's a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, and a new carton of half and half inside.
Seems like she's no weed to me, her mama finally says.
"Seems like," Brenda agrees.
oooo
Sharon answers the door and she's got her hair clipped back and thick, black liquid liner on her eyes, winged out just a little bit and Brenda's heart leaps up into her throat, especially when Sharon smiles enough to show her white teeth.
"You're home!" she says. Brenda can only nod, her lips compressed into a tight line. "Come in, come in, you're probably starving. Of course you're starving, you're Brenda! How was the flight? How was your father? Was it cold? Do you get snow there?"
Sharon carries on the conversation well enough for the both of them and Brenda manages to get all the way to the kitchen just with nodding and shaking her head - hungry, yes, snow, no.
"Jesus, mom," says what is obviously the daughter because she looks a lot like Sharon. They're not as close as twins or sisters, but there's something in the shape of her mouth and their body type that is just the same. "Give her a chance to get a word in."
"This is Emily," Sharon says. "Emily, Brenda."
Brenda shakes her hand, manages to say, "Hello."
"We've heard all about you," Emily says. "Brenda this, Brenda that. It's nice to finally meet you!"
"She's being facetious," Sharon says but behind her, Rusty shakes his head.
"Complaining about my tardiness and my poor taste in clothing no doubt," Brenda says.
The table is set for four and Sharon ushers them all into seats before carrying over the food.
"Let me help," Rusty says, trying to stand again.
"No, it's fine," Sharon says. "Nothing fancy."
"It seems fancy," Brenda says - there's still turkey and stuffing and a bowl of gravy with a silver ladle in it - rolls and a green salad and half of a dish of yams with golden brown marshmallows on top. "This looks amazin'."
"What's amazing is that you get to eat any of it, what with how Ricky and Rusty were putting it away," Emily says. "Mom was adamant about saving enough to have you for dinner tonight."
Sharon looks a little embarrassed, rolls her eyes.
"Is that so?" Brenda asks, pleased.
"It's no big deal," Sharon says. "I just wasn't sure… what with your mother… I didn't know if you'd get a traditional meal, that's all." She whips her cloth napkin over her lap. It's hard to read her expression clearly but Brenda can see that Sharon is blushing just a little, right on her cheeks where the bottoms of her glasses sit.
They pass the food around, murmuring compliments and making excited noises.
"What did you do for the holiday, Brenda?" Emily asks.
"Oh, my family is from Atlanta," she says. "I went home."
"That must've been nice," Rusty says.
"It was," Brenda says. "My brother, C.J., deep fried the turkey and nearly caught the whole backyard on fire. That part is tradition, the almost dying, though the how always varies."
"I've never had deep fried turkey," Sharon says.
"It's good," Brenda says. "Too good, maybe, and it cooks in a lot less time."
"Ricky tried it once," Emily says.
"What?" Sharon asks.
"It was that year you went to Park City and dad was off in Vegas and we all just decided to forget about it," Emily says. "But I ended up driving to Ricky's Thanksgiving morning. He was living in that crappy house in San Diego, remember, with his friend Tyler and that other stupid stoner, I forget his name."
Brenda winks at Rusty because he always is uncomfortable when someone talks about substance abuse. He manages to give her a small smile and shove more mashed potatoes into his mouth.
"Anyway, Tyler had the whole set up, so we bought a turkey but I don't think we left in long enough because it was all pink in the middle. Or maybe it was still frozen? I don't know, we ended up throwing it out and ordering pizza."
It looks like, to Brenda, that Emily has never eaten pizza in her life. She's so slender, and all muscle, no fat. Sharon is softer, more curves. When she leans forward, Brenda can see cleavage, even though the skin there has started to wrinkle and lose elasticity.
"Well," Sharon says now. "Isn't that just what happens when we don't spend holidays together."
"Oh, don't let her fool you with those mom guilt trips," Emily says to Rusty now. "She worked most holidays anyway."
This is not the kind of relationship Brenda had with her own mother. They didn't banter like this, hurling passive aggressive insults through beautiful smiles. Maybe it's a southern thing but Brenda always showed her parents respect even if it meant lying through her teeth to keep up the charade.
You think lyin' to me and your daddy about who knows what all your life is better than this? Her mother's voice is incredulous.
Brenda smiles blandly at the group and tries not to flinch in her chair.
By the time dessert is served, things have settled down again. Emily is chatty and extroverted and is that strange mix of eclectic style and condescension that happens when you're from both Los Angeles and New York. It's not bad - she's young and pretty and while Brenda isn't exactly sure how any of it works in the world of ballet, she seems to be successful, anyway. Let her live her dream life. Why not? Sharon bites her tongue more than a few times, Brenda knows that look on her face all too well. Once she catches Brenda's attention and rolls her eyes. Youth is wasted on the young, she seems to say.
"Do you want all three?" Sharon asks, when Brenda comes to help her with dessert. It's just the two of them in the kitchen. Emily and Rusty are in front of the television, playing on his game console. They seem both to be racing each other and shooting as many people as possible and every time Rusty swears loudly, Sharon flinches but doesn't bother to correct him.
"I don't need three pieces of pie, for heaven's sake!" she says.
"But do you want three," Sharon says, pulling the cling wrap off of the first pie, what looks to be the pumpkin.
"No," Brenda says. "Maybe two. I could take or leave pumpkin."
"Pumpkin is my favorite," Sharon says, thoughtfully, unwrapping the cherry pie. "It's what makes it really feel like Thanksgiving."
"We used to have pumpkin and pecan, though I think pecan is kind of a southern thing," Brenda says.
"I've had it, but I don't bother to make it because neither of the kids like it very much." Sharon smirks. "It was Jack's favorite, another reason I never made it."
"Spiteful," Brenda says. "I like it."
Sharon gives her two slices, a narrow one of the cherry and a bigger wedge of the caramel apple, though how she knows that's Brenda's preference is anyone's guess. Sharon makes Rusty pause the game so they can come serve themselves and then they take it back to the living room and leave Sharon and Brenda to eat alone at the table. Sharon takes just a dollop of cool whip on top of her pie but Brenda prefers real whipped cream or nothing at all.
The pie is good - obviously homemade - the cherry pie has a lattice crust that Brenda picks apart with the tines of her fork, eating each small square that comes free bite by tiny bite.
"What's the matter?" Sharon asks. "If you say you don't like my pie, I swear to god, I'll-"
"No," Brenda interrupts. "It's not that. I've been thinking about how to bring it up. My divorce went through, that's all."
"When?" Sharon asks, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate. She does this, gives Brenda her full attention when they're talking about something important.
"Last week."
"Why didn't you say something?" Sharon asks, keeping her voice low.
"I didn't want to make a big deal right before the holidays." She shrugs. "It doesn't matter."
"We should celebrate," Sharon says. "This weekend."
"I dunno," Brenda says. She thought she'd feel more relieved or excited or anything at all but it's just more nothing like it always is when it comes to Fritz.
"We're going," Sharon says firmly. "We'll go out-out."
"What the hell does out-out mean?"
"To a bar," Sharon says. "Somewhere loud and dark and we'll take a cab so no one has to drive."
"I am too old for that!" Brenda says pointedly. "So I know you are."
"Don't be catty," Sharon says. "It'll finally give you an excuse to wear that black dress."
"Which one?" she asks.
Sharon looks a little guilty; picks up her fork and uses the side to cut herself a bite sized piece of pie.
"No! You said you returned that!"
"I did! I returned it to my closet," Sharon says and eats her forkful. Brenda frowns at her, scrunching up her face. "I got it for you and I never even got to see you in it!"
"For cryin' out loud," Brenda says. "People are going to start thinking that you like me, Captain."
Sharon lets out a little relieved, uneasy laugh. "Heaven forbid."
"Thank you for my apartment, by the way," Brenda adds.
"Thank you," Sharon exclaims. "Rusty doesn't mind the couch but I either had to sleep with Emily or brave the air mattress but when we pulled it out of storage, it had a leak."
Brenda is impressed that Sharon would give up her own bed for her daughter, though what kind of daughter would let her mama even do that?
"What's so bad about sharing?" Brenda asks. "What size mattress do you have?"
"Queen but Emily is an active sleeper and a sleep talker and I'd never get any rest. Going to your place was like having my own hotel room."
"You certainly left it better than you found it," Brenda says.
"A girl deserves fresh flowers now and again. Rusty went to the flower market with me and helped me pick them out."
"He's a good egg," Brenda says, looking over at him fondly.
"So are you," Sharon says, firmly. And she smiles at Brenda in the same way Brenda has seen her smile at Rusty - like Brenda is damaged and Sharon isn't quite sure how to fix her.
oooo
Brenda makes it home before Sharon on Friday but just barely. She's still in her suit skirt and blouse, though she's managed to kick her shoes off into the closet. She feels tired and cold and is already sick of the holidays. Christmas is getting so close and Brenda hasn't made a single plan. She'd ordered most of the presents for her family online and had them shipped to Georgia - her going for Thanksgiving had gotten her out of Christmas but now the big day is only a few weeks away and she's starting to feel kind of sad.
Charlie had offered to come out and Brenda had said yes, had even promised to buy her the plane ticket, but Charlie had to convince her parents first, so even that was up in the air.
Sharon has finally learned to knock instead of ringing the horrid doorbell. Brenda yells, "Come in!"
She does, poking her head in first and then coming all the way in. She's in boots today, black ones that go all the way up to her knee and give her a good inch and a half of additional height. Tight black pants tucked into the boots and a slinky purple blouse.
"You've already been home to change!" Brenda complains eyeing Sharon's bare arms, the way the blouse dips down in the back showing a vee of pale skin.
"Perk of being the boss," she says. "I see you haven't changed."
"I literally just walked in the door," she says. "Why are we doin' this on a Friday, why can't we do this tomorrow?"
"Because I already told Rusty that his study group could come over tonight," Sharon says. "And I already made dinner reservations."
"I thought we were goin' to a bar," Brenda says.
"I'm feeding you first, I'm not a total witch," Sharon says. Brenda snorts, thinking of the little doodle that had evolved on the whiteboard in major crimes and Sharon glares because she's thinking of it too. "You're horrible."
"So?" Brenda says. "Anyway, I'm not wearing that dress if you're in pants."
Sharon sighs, rubs her forehead and says, "I banged my shin and it's bruised and not cute."
"Are you okay?" Brenda snipes. "Did you break your leg? Osteoporosis?"
"If you're going to be a bitch all night, I can go," Sharon says.
Brenda bites the inside of her lip. "Sorry," she says. The nicer she is to Sharon, the nicer Sharon is in return and it sends Brenda into a weird tailspin of misplaced desire and so she's been lashing out instead but that isn't fair. They've come so far and Brenda knows she needs Sharon, needs the friendship. It's the one thing she has that's just for herself.
"Apology accepted," Sharon says. "Let's feed you, though. Quickly."
"Where are we going?" Brenda asks. "Can I wear jeans? Do I have to dress up?"
"You always feel better in a dress, Brenda, and that black one is beautiful so just put it on and I swear you won't be out of place. Put on the MAC lipstick, the Russian Red, and those nude heels and let's go."
"Why do you know so much about my stuff?" Brenda asks.
"Because you are not the only observant person in the world," Sharon says.
"You snooped when you were staying here," Brenda says.
Sharon shrugs, not at all apologetic. "It's funny because you have all the components here to be a very fashionable person and yet always with the florals and the pastels."
"If you're going to be a bitch-"
"Sorry," Sharon says. "Fair. Sorry."
Brenda does feel good in the dress because it fits so well and because when Sharon sees her in it, her face lights up and she says, "Yes!"
"Am I some sort of doll for you?" Brenda asks, fluffing out her hair just the same.
"When we worked together," Sharon says, "I used to daydream about fixing your wardrobe and now I get to!"
"My wardrobe is fine," Brenda says.
"Your wardrobe is you and that's very good but when you were going for Chief of Police, I wanted you to be more femme fatale, that's all."
"You bought me a lace dress," Brenda says.
"Never mind about it," Sharon says, picking up her purse.
"What coat would you like me to wear, boss?" Brenda asks. "The gold one just came back from the cleaners."
"What about the beige one?"
"Just went to the cleaners," Brenda says, pulling the gold one out of the little closet and slipping it on. Sharon doesn't complain.
The restaurant is nice but not overwhelmingly fancy and they're seated at a small table in the corner next to a gas fireplace. Brenda really is hungry and grumpy because of it so she eats two rolls out of the basket in the middle and Sharon orders wine for them both and once the bottle comes, Sharon raises her glass and says, "To your independence."
Brenda clinks her glass against Sharon's but can't help but feel that her independence is what led her to this point - a twice divorced workaholic who lives in a crummy one bedroom apartment and has one friend.
She feels her bottom lip wobble.
Sharon's warm smile shifts into concern and she sets her glass down. "Are you all right?"
"I think I might be a failure," Brenda blurts.
Of course the waitress chooses now to return, reaching into the deep pocket of her black apron and pulling out a pen, greeting them with a big, if disingenuous smile. "Are you ladies ready?"
"I think we need a minute," Sharon says.
"I can go over the specials again if you'd like," she offers.
Sharon turns at levels her with a hard look. "Go away."
"All right," the girl says, the smile dropping. She turns and flees.
"That wasn't necessary," Brenda chides. "We're never going to see her again."
"Brenda, you are not a failure!" Sharon says. "You're one of the most successful people I know!"
"Professionally," Brenda says. "And even then, this isn't… where I thought I would be."
"Big deal," Sharon says. "No one is. You can make plans, you can prepare but that's it."
"I'm not askin' for a pep talk," Brenda says. And she certainly doesn't need a lecture. But it would be nice if Sharon just commiserated with her for a few minutes. Leaned in and gave her a soft, sad smile and said, "I know how you feel."
Sharon purses her lips and then sighs. "Do you miss him?"
"No," she says. "I mean, there are things I miss about that life but I don't miss bein' his wife."
"Why on earth did you marry him in the first place?" she demands.
"When we were dating he was always the one driving the ship. What do I know about relationships, right?" She chuckles but it sounds uneasy, even to herself, because what does she know? If it was between keeping a relationship together for more than a few years or dying, she'd be six feet under for sure. "He wanted to move in together, so we did. He wanted to get a bigger place, so we moved. He wanted to get married and I never could find a good enough reason not to do any of these things."
"Not wanting to is a good enough reason," Sharon says. "That was a very smart thing you said to me once."
"Oh, I give great advice, I just don't ever follow it," Brenda says. "Anyway, Fritz was all right and my parents loved him and he put up with me and it just seemed like what I was supposed to do. But I always felt… like you know when you find a really cute shoe and they only have it a half size too small but you buy it anyway?"
"Not quite right," Sharon murmurs.
"And you think you can live with it and you do for awhile until one day you wake up and you realize that you can't, anymore," Brenda says. "And that your whole life has been a shoe that is just a little bit too small."
There's a candle lit between them, a small white one in a glass holder and it flickers and Brenda can see the light move across Sharon's hands.
A man approaches their table. He's in a suit and tie and non-slip shoes and Brenda can tell right away that he's the manager and that the poor waitress is too scared to come back.
"How is everything this evening?" he inquires politely. Tensing slightly to see if the woman with the glasses will hiss at him as well.
"So lovely," Sharon says with a beaming smile, so pure and wide that Brenda has to look away. "I think we're ready to order! Are you ready, honey?"
"Ready," Brenda agrees with a nod. She makes a mental note to overtip and order something off the specials menu and just be as sweet as pie so the poor girl knows it wasn't anything she did wrong. She'd just walked up to a table expecting to talk to Sharon and Brenda and had met Darth Raydor instead. Brenda had told Rusty that Lieutenant Tao had given Sharon that nickname behind her back when she'd first worked with Major Crimes and Rusty's eyes had gotten so wide.
"That's amazing," he'd whispered.
Brenda orders the salmon on special and Sharon gets a strip steak. They get little green salads to start with and the food is good, fresh, overpriced but this is Los Angeles.
When they're full, idly contemplating the dessert menu, Brenda says, "There are good things in my life, I'm sorry I got so maudlin."
"Exactly," Sharon says. "Like me, for instance."
Brenda nods, fisting her napkin in her lap. "Like you," she agrees.
oooo
After dinner, they go to the Gallery Bar - also Sharon's idea. Brenda's never been but when they get there, some of her anxiety melts away because it's inside the Biltmore Hotel and the building is extravagant and beautiful. Marble floors, huge columns, and when they edge their way up to the bar, it's a dark, polished granite. Brenda can see why Sharon likes it, despite it being popular and somewhat notorious to Los Angeles. It's high class enough that it's not too loud, no one pushes against her or jostles her or shouts over her to get the attention of the bartender, but it's still full, buzzing with energy and atmosphere. And there are angels carved into the bar, cherubic faces watching over everyone. Brenda has noticed Sharon's fondness for them - her keychain, little figurines all over her condo. There's probably one in her office, too, though Brenda stays out of there.
Just outside the bar is a huge Christmas tree and Brenda wants to look at it, wants to stand close and let the white light wash over her, but there will be time enough for that on the way out, she thinks. There's an empty stool and a place to stand, so they snag it and briefly argue over who gets to sit.
"Take it, you're divorced," Sharon says.
"So are you!" Brenda complains.
"Not twice," Sharon says and for that, Brenda does take the seat, leaving her coat draped over the back of it and hanging her purse from the hook under the bar, where she can feel it with her knees.
"This is amazin'," Brenda says. "I had no idea."
"Yeah, I really like it," Sharon says, reaching over and pulling a menu over for them to look at. "It reminds me that not everything in Los Angeles is traffic and murder."
"Just most things," Brenda says. "Wine is fine for me."
"No way," Sharon says. "This place is all about martinis."
"Oh," Brenda says. "I don't know… what should I have?"
Sharon raises her hand delicately into the air at the bartender who nods at her in some complicated series of gestures that Sharon seems to understand. She turns back to Brenda and says, "Do you trust me?"
"Of course," Brenda says.
Sharon hums slightly, almost too low for Brenda to hear. The bartender comes over though he hardly looks old enough to drive a car. He smiles at them both and leans in.
"How are you two doing this evening?" he says.
"Oh, fine," Sharon says. "Just fine."
"Good," Brenda says.
"My name is Josh, I'll be your bartender for the evening and if you want two seats together, the couple at the end just closed their tab."
"Really?" Sharon says.
"Tell me what you want and I'll meet you down there with drinks," he says with a wink. Oh God, he's a baby, Brenda thinks but a beautiful one. But Sharon is not so easily charmed, though she does play along.
"An Old Fashioned and a Black Dahlia, please," she says. Brenda hops off the stool and gathers her things and heads down to the other end of the bar. Sharon stays behind to hand over a credit card and by the time she comes up behind Brenda, the couple leaving slips off of their stools and Brenda and Sharon claim them easily. When their young bartender sets the two drinks down with a flourish, Sharon thanks him.
"Keep it open or close it out?" he asks.
"Open for now," she says.
"Which one is for me?" Brenda asks.
"The complicated one," Sharon says. "A complicated cocktail for a complicated woman."
The complicated drink is a dark concoction in a martini glass and when she drinks it, a small sip, she tastes the fruit first but then underneath that, a hint of chocolate, like a tootsie roll or the chocolate she used to find behind the little cardboard doors of her advent calendar every December growing up. It's not bad - strong, but not bad at all.
"What's in yours?" she asks.
"Whiskey," Sharon says. "This was my father's drink of choice."
"Do you miss him?" Brenda asks.
"I loved him," Sharon says. "I'll always miss him but he was very old and… what I miss is how he was a long time ago."
"Do you still, uh," Brenda says, pausing to sip her drink. "Do you still think about what he'd say to you during certain situations?"
A little line appears between Sharon's eyebrows. "How do you mean?"
"I just mean if he were here with you, do you know what he might say?" Brenda hedges.
"I've never really thought about it like that," Sharon says, running her finger across the glossy bar top. "I could anticipate what he might think about certain things, I suppose."
"But you don't hear his voice," Brenda says.
"No, I don't hear his…" Sharon looks at her. "Oh."
"It's nothin' never mind," she says. "This drink is pretty good."
"I like to believe that the people we love never really leave us," Sharon says. "That we are all products of the love we have received from other people."
You know what, honey, I like her, Brenda's mother says.
"I'll bet," Brenda says. Sharon nods, pleased.
Sharon is a handsy drunk, Brenda has noticed. Not in a lewd or obnoxious way, but Sharon is always so regal, so self-contained and when she gets a few drinks in her, all of a sudden, there's all this contact. She laughs at a story about an interrogation that Brenda tells her and leans in a little, puts her hand on Brenda's knee. And later, when they're trying to decide whether they want another round or to just go home, Sharon reaches out and tucks a lock of blonde hair behind Brenda's ear. She does it so casually that for a moment Brenda is even sure it happened at all.
"Maybe one more, we are celebrating after all-" But Sharon stops, reaches into her purse and pulls out a ringing phone.
She answers it, a finger in her other ear.
"Yoohoo!" Brenda says, waving the bartender down. He comes over and she grins at him. "We need a cup of coffee, a glass of water, and the check. Quick as a bunny, please, thank you so much."
"You got it," he says.
"Can you say the address again?" Sharon says.
"Gimme the phone," Brenda says. Sharon looks up, shakes her head but Brenda extends her hand. "Yes, hand it over."
Sharon gives her a look, an arched brow, but lets her take the phone, just drunk enough to be pliable when Brenda issues orders.
"Hello, who am I speaking with?" Brenda asks.
"Chief? Is that you?"
"Lieutenant Provenza," Brenda says. "How lovely to hear your voice. Never mind about the address of the crime scene, you're gonna need to send someone to collect your Captain. We're at the Biltmore Hotel."
"Oh, uh, sure," he says. "I'll send Sykes. It's gonna take her at least twenty minutes to get to you."
"Well that's okay," Brenda says. "I'll put a cup of coffee in her. Tell her we'll meet her outside."
"If you say so, Chief," Provenza says and hangs up.
"Are you ordering around my squad?" Sharon demands.
"Just helpful suggestions and don't get cross with me, I know you're no good to drive!" Brenda says.
"Oh you do, do you?"
"Yes, because you've completely foregone personal space and you only do that when you've been drinkin'," Brenda says, gesturing to their legs where Sharon has scooted so close to her that they're knee to knee and Sharon's right shin is up against Brenda's left. The smooth leather of Sharon's boot slides against the skin of Brenda's leg as Sharon pulls away.
"Sorry," she says.
"Don't be," Brenda says. "It's not all bad."
Josh the bartender comes back with the water and the coffee and the black book that holds their check and Sharon's credit card. Sharon drinks half the cup of coffee black, scrunching up her face at the bitter brew.
"I have to pee," Sharon says.
"Go on, we have plenty of time," Brenda says.
Brenda signs Sharon's name, making the letters extra loopy with a flourish and reaches into her own wallet to pull out some cash for the tip. Over thirty dollars for two drinks is highway robbery, but then, it had been worth it. Sitting at a grand bar, flirting with a young bartender, their legs tangled up, Sharon's fingers in her hair.
Brenda takes a sip of the ice water and is just wiping her lipstick off the rim when a man sits down at Sharon's barstool.
"Hi," he says.
"Hello," Brenda says. "You're in my friend's seat."
The man is handsome, probably in his fifties. He's wearing a navy blue suit and a silvery gray tie and is very tan. He smiles at her and his teeth are so white that it almost hurts to look at. He looks like a news anchor or someone who spends too much time on a yacht.
"I was hoping I'd get a chance to talk to you," he says. "But I promise to move when she comes back."
"You could move now," Brenda says in a light tone. She hadn't thought a thing about Sharon excusing herself - had been so wrapped up in closing their tab and thinking about Sharon's finger grazing the back of Brenda's earlobe as she tucked her hair away that she'd forgotten what happens to women sitting alone in bars.
"My name is Anthony but my friends just call me Tony," he says.
"That is a fascinating story," Brenda says. "Nice to meet you Anthony, we were just leaving."
She hopes that Sharon had taken her purse with her to the bathroom but Brenda looks and can still see it hanging on the hook - the man's knees in the way. She curses internally. She'll have to reach across his lap to get it. Sober Sharon wouldn't have left that there, she thinks. Ah well, she'll have to spurn him the old fashioned way and get him to tuck tail and run away to nurse his bruised ego.
"Your friend isn't even back yet," he says. "What's your name?"
"Brenda," she says. "I'm a 49-year-old twice divorced workaholic who still talks to her dead mother."
He chuckles. "I like a challenge."
"Sir, you seem like a nice enough guy, but I'm not interested," she says.
"Not interested in what? Making friends? Meeting new and interesting people?" he says. "We're just talking."
She snaps, points at him. "That is exactly what I'm not interested in. Talking." She stands up and puts her purse on her shoulder, drapes her coat over her arm. "Now please move so I can get my friend's things."
This is when she misses her LAPD badge. She has a D.A. Investigator's badge but it's not the same. People recognize the badge of a cop, it has gravitas. But hers looks more like sheriff's badge and she just can't bring herself to shove it into someone's face. If she could reach Sharon's badge, she'd fish it out and jam it down this guy's throat.
She feels a hand touch her back, low and then it slides up to sit between her shoulder blades.
"God, it's a beautiful dress."
Oh thank the lord. Sharon.
"You would know, you picked it out," Brenda says. "You ready to go?"
"I am," Sharon says. For a moment, Brenda is trapped by her warm smile, the hand on the bare skin of her back, the way Sharon holds her gaze. Then it flickers away for a moment. "Who the hell is this?"
"This is Anthony and he's the man holding your purse hostage," Brenda says.
"I was just talking to Brenda," Anthony says reaching under the bar for the purse and holding it out. Sharon reaches out and takes it but he doesn't immediately let go.
"Sharon what's the goin' rate on aggravated assault of a police officer?" Brenda asks.
"Up to a year in county jail and two thousand dollars in fines," Sharon says. Anthony drops the purse and Brenda smiles at Sharon.
"May I?"
"Be my guest," Sharon says. Brenda steps into her, bringing them face to face. It puts her back to the man but she has nothing to fear now that Sharon's here with her. Brenda reaches her hand into Sharon's purse, feeling around for the badge. Sharon hums, leans in a little and whispers, "Do you trust me, Brenda Leigh?" right into her ear. Her hot breath, sweet with alcohol, makes Brenda shiver. It's the second time Sharon has asked her this tonight and Brenda knows her answer isn't going to change even if Sharon asks her a hundred more times.
"Mmm," she says, a positive note. She's trusted Sharon Raydor for a long time, now.
Sharon turns her head slightly and nuzzles into Brenda's neck, her lips just ghosting over Brenda's jaw while the hand on her back slides slowly down the length of her spine and settles quite low, right at the base of the zipper of the dress, right where her back swells into something more.
Brenda's fingers clench hard around the badge. It's tempting to stay there, to tilt her head and open up the length of her neck, to rock forward on the balls of their feet so their bodies press together from chest to hips but instead she exhales slowly and turns back to face Anthony, the badge in her hand.
He slips his hands into his pockets. "My mistake. Have a good night."
"Nothing scares off a man like two women who clearly don't need what he has to offer," Sharon says, slipping her purse onto her shoulder and prying the badge out of Brenda's hand. "Come on, we have got to go."
Brenda is a few steps behind Sharon because it takes a moment for her to get her feet going again and when she makes it out the big front doors of the hotel, past the huge Christmas tree in the lobby, an unmarked police car is pulling up. Sharon leans over and the passenger window rolls down. She says something but Brenda can't make it out. She stops to give Sharon some space and to put on her coat against the chilly night air.
Sharon stands up and says, "You'll have to roll out with us, I suppose."
"No," she says. "That's all right. I can drive your car home."
"Are you sure?" Sharon asks. "You're okay? You're sure?"
Brenda feels very sober. Very hyper aware of everything that has just happened, of the brisk breeze ruffling the hem of her coat and the ends of Sharon's hair.
"I'm sure," Brenda says. "But call me when you get home so I know you're okay and for goodness' sake, be careful."
"It might be really early," she says.
"I don't care," Brenda says.
Sharon nods. "Okay. I'll call you."
Then she leans in and presses her lips to Brenda's cheek, turns on her heel and gets into the car which promptly drives away.
Brenda is left standing there, her fingers against her cheek until her mother's voice says so gently, Time to go home, Brenda Leigh.
So Brenda crosses her arms against the cold and heads for Sharon's car.