Dry January at the Book Club Meeting

Without wine bottles, Maura’s black lacquered coffee table looked decidedly naked.

She moved the charcuterie board and La Croix cans around to better use the space but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was unfinished. Like a formal table without bread plates.

“Maybe they’ll bring their books,” she muttered, tossing her own copy of The Honey-Do Murders onto the empty surface. The book skidded across the open space and stopped barely short of the table’s edge. Maura sighed. It would have to do.

It was Ina’s idea to make the January book club meetup alcohol-free. Dry January was a major trend, she insisted, firing a series of TikTok links into the group chat as proof. Elizabeth and Devon had been quick to agree so Maura felt compelled to click the thumbs up emoji.

Forced acquiescence was becoming familiar to Maura. Jacob graduated and joined his brother at Cornell. Her favorite coffee shop in the village had closed, replaced by a bank branch that served coffee. Her firm offered her early retirement again. And this time she took it, even though 51 felt pretty damn early. Meanwhile, Peter kept his job. He was the same age. In the same industry. No forced change for him.

Maura saw the headlights in her driveway as her friends pulled up. Team DEMI – Devon, Elizabeth, Maura and Ina – had met as anxious moms on the Belmont Village Elementary School pick up yard. Together, they’d navigated the child-rearing journey, until this past summer, when the youngest in their broods left for college. Now they met, as they had for years, at Maura’s for monthly book club. But instead of confessing they hadn’t finished the book and dishing about their busy lives, the four gathered, shared what little tidbits of information their offspring doled out, and drank wine. A lot of it. Maura had stopped buying individual bottles in October and now just kept a case in the pantry. If Peter noticed, he didn’t say. His life – the life of all the empty nester dads in Belmont – rolled on as it always had, maybe with a little extra time for golf on the weekends. Moms, meanwhile, stacked up the empties.

Ina entered first, hoisting two six packs of La Croix aloft as she crossed the threshold. “Happy Dry January, bitches!”

Devon followed, blushing at the profanity, taking everyone’s coats and carrying them off to the den. Elizabeth entered last, her parka already shed to reveal her sleeveless tangerine top and defined biceps that would make Michelle Obama proud. Maura bit back her jealousy. If she looked that good, she’d be sure to make an entrance, too.

No one brought their book. As the group settled onto the leather sectional, the blankness of the table needled Maura. She could hear her late mother’s critique in her head: Maura, darling, you know that just doesn’t look right, now does it? Maura remembered her mother’s dinner parties, all perfectly arranged. But then she had tools Maura couldn’t tap. Mom could put out candy (No.) or nuts (No!) or cigarettes (No!!!) It wasn’t healthier in the old days, but Maura was sure it was simpler.

“To us!” Ina toasted, raising her can high. The three followed suit, with various degrees of success in matching Ina’s energy.

“To you, Miss Lizzy, looking so Hot Girl Walking!” Ina continued. “You slay, girlfriend.”

Maura concentrated on keeping her eyeballs from rolling. Ever since Ina’s only daughter left for U Penn, Ina had poured her new free time into social media, becoming the group expert on basically every platform and its lingo. “Those arms are viral. Aren’t they just viral?” She waved her hands in a Vanna White gesture as if to showcase her friend.

“You really do look fantastic,” Devon said. “So powerful.”

“Dev, you can totally do this. It’s just discipline.” Elizabeth reached out and gave Devon’s long-sleeved sweater a tug. Devon quickly readjusted the wrist coverage. Then she changed the subject to Maura’s least favorite topic.

“Maura, how goes the job hunt?”

It had all seemed so possible back in June. Take the summer to launch Jacob. Put out feelers in September. Maura was sure she’d have a new job by Halloween. Then by Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. “Oh, you know it takes a while in January for hiring managers to sort through the backlog of emails,” she said airily. Her friends all nodded neutrally. What else was there to do?

They discussed the book. They trashed the male author for crafting a male protagonist who solves a crime spree not by any discernable clues, but by “listening to my gut” and “relying on instinct.”

“Why do men like to pretend they’re psychic?” Elizabeth plucked grapes from the stem but let them roll around on her plate, uneaten.

“As if they have some kind of instinctive ability to derive the truth from the bad guys just by looking them in the eye.” Ina put her empty La Croix down and started another.

Maura reached casually to slip coasters under both cans. “So true,” she said. “If men are so intuitive, why does mine need a Post It note to remember to take out the garbage?”

From her corner of the couch, Devon tossed her critique of the hero. “He just pulled the solution out of the air,” she said. “There wasn’t a shred of evidence to connect the murders, much less, uncover the conspiracy.”

And everyone piled on.

“It’s like the author woke up one day and discovered there’s dangerous stuff in most anyone’s garage workshop.”

“Oh, hey, furniture varnish is poisonous!”

“You mean I *shouldn’t* walk under this ladder?”

“Or leave flammables in a trash can?”

“Nail guns are not toys!”

Maura reached for a handful of kale chips. “And another thing: if his instincts are so spot-on, how come he never picked up on the idea that that half the wives in town were unhappy enough to band together to kill their husbands?”

“Mmmm, hmmm.” Devon seemed to nod and shake her head at the same time.

Ina stacked her cocktail napkin with cubed cheddar “And that part about finding the gel nail extension in the garage as a clue? As if any woman wouldn’t notice the nail when it came off. I mean, that’s $50 dollars on the epoxy floor.”

“Men. They think they’re finding clues. But they’re actually clueless.”

“Yeah!”

“Yes, girl.”

“Seriously.”

And then silence settled over the room. Maura looked into the black abyss of her coffee table. This was usually when they opened Bottle No. 2. Or 3. When alcohol made it easy to have plenty of conversation while saying nothing.

Maura’s mind raced. What could she do to fill the void? What would her mother do in this situation? Cards? Charades?

“Adam has joined CrossFit.”

Elizabeth’s statement about her successful, serial entrepreneurial husband landed in the conversation lull like an errant snowball.

“I never see him anymore,” she continued. “He’s always at the gym. When he’s not, he’s texting with his team or watching at YouTube video or, I don’t know…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off.

“But you must see him at the gym. I mean, you look like a YouTuber yourself,” said Ina.

“Different gyms. Apparently, I can’t go to his ‘box’ because it’s for CrossFit only.”

“That’s crazy!”

Elizabeth shrugged her sculpted shoulders. And then they shook at little, like she might be swallowing a sob.

Maura put a hand on her friend’s forearm. She was about to mumble a platitude when Ina spoke.

“I’m worried about Abby.”

Even Elizabeth looked up at that. For months Ina had done nothing but report her daughter’s successes: Abby got an A! Abby got a Kappa bid! Abby’s TikTok went viral!

But now Ina held her phone limply in her hand and confessed the flip side of the story: Abby looked like she was losing weight. Abby had stopped posting about college life and was just creating puzzling boiler plate content. Abby wouldn’t respond to Ina’s texts. Abby looked funny.

“Funny, how?” Maura resisted the urge to check her own child’s social media images.

Ina shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it. But there’s something off here.” She opened her phone to Abby’s Instagram. The moms who had known Abby since the girl organized her kindergarten class to line dance to the lunch room, peered into the phone. Maura had to agree – there was something in the images that seemed unfocused. 

“Maybe it’s the lighting,” she offered. Ina shook her head. “I could see it when she was home during her winter break.”

“It’s SmokeCloak,” said Devon. Maura thought she sounded oddly flat in her pronouncement. The three turned to her. “It’s foundation – the latest thing in make-up. It conceals, well, everything. Even up close.” Devon took a breath. “Like at Book Club.” She dipped her cocktail napkin into her plain seltzer. Her first swipe reveals the bruise on her wrist. The second on her collarbone. The final: dark circles under her eyes. She finished and looked at Ina. “I’ve seen girls who are covering everything from acne to scars from cutting and knuckle irritation from bulimia, I don’t know what Abby’s got under her concealer, but Ina, if you think something is off…”

Ina was already out of her seat and firing up her mobile. She spoke quickly and urgently into the phone as she sprinted to the kitchen.

In the living room, the horror of Devon’s revelation set in. Maura and Elizabeth stared at their friend. “Oh my God, Dev,” Maura whispered. “How long has…I mean, when did this…”

“It happened a few times when we first got married, before we moved to Belmont, when money was tight,” Devon said. “Max and I were in counseling for a year. I used to tell him how proud I was of the way he overcame his demons.” She tugged again at her sleeve to cover her wrist. “Then there was the startup. He put everything into it. Then the VC money dried up. And the kids picked private colleges and the house value is underwater.” She gave her friends a level look. “His demon is back. And it looks like me.”

Elizabeth shifted to sit close to Devon. “Come home with me tonight.”

Maura leaned forward. “Peter is still at his firm – he has contacts. We can get you a good lawyer.”

Devon dropped her head. “I can’t leave.”

Her friends protested and Devon held up her hand, the bruise on her wrist peeking out. “You can get me out of physical danger. But I’ll be financially ruined. Every cent in my life is tied to him. I have nothing that doesn’t funnel through him. Everything is joint. Everything is binding. Even if I leave, I’m still in his financial orbit.” She paused. “And he’ll be even angrier.”

“We can help you,” said Maura.

“You’re down to one income,” Devon reminded her. “And Elizabeth’s man is AWOL with his gym buddies.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “We’re not without resources.”

Devon swallowed hard. “It’s possible that we are.”

“Doesn’t Max own a nail gun?”

It was Ina, striding back from the kitchen, tucking her phone into her back pocket.

“Ina, did you reach Abby?”

“No, but David is packing and we’ll drive up there tonight. Surprise her before she can cover up whatever is going on,” Ina said briskly. “But before I leave, let’s get this plan in motion.”

“What plan?”

Ina raised her foot and gave Maura’s coffee table a slight kick. The Honey-Do Murders bumped back from the edge into center position.

All four women stared at the book. And then they looked up and stared at each other, as if seeing entirely new life forms emerging from the forest mist.

Devon raised her eyebrows. And her head tilted side to side slightly. “He does have a nail gun.” All eyes turned to her. She lifted her chin. “And also a ladder.”

A murmur went around the leather sectional.

“He has a lot we could work with.”

“A lot no one would consider weaponizable.”

“At least no man.”

“So true.”

Around the coffee table, there were four sober nods.

“We should set a date,” said Elizabeth.

“Agreed, get this on the calendar,” said Ina, looking over at Devon who was still for a moment, and then raised her clenched fist, her sleeve dropping down to reveal her battle scars.

Maura stood and went to Devon, clasping her friend’s fist in her own. Ina and Elizabeth joined the huddle. And Maura spoke.

“Next meetup is February 1^st,” she said. “Bring wine.”

­–END–