Death Before Facebook

took two sleeping pills before Cole could stop her. It was just as well—better, because two of them at once, their fears naked and distorted the way they got, could be too much for him to handle. The other day Neetsie had had a lump in her breast; today she would probably have a stomach ulcer, and no telling what Marguerite would invent. This was the way with his women—he was used to it. They coped by hypochondria.
    It was one way, he thought. Cole needed a way right now. He almost envied them. He had a sudden desperate need to see his daughter, to make sure she was coping. Besides, he had nothing else to do. He headed his car towards All Systems Go.
    It was beginning to dawn on him that his deal had fallen apart, that it was genuinely not going to happen. He wasn’t sure what to do next. First he had to disentangle himself from Butsy; he had to deal with the IRS; he had to get Marguerite and Neetsie through the next few weeks.
    But then what? There were only two companies he could think of who really needed his software that he hadn’t yet approached. He’d have to send his suit to the cleaners, shine his shoes, and go through the whole sad business of business again.
    Meanwhile, of course, he’d start on a new project, and if all else failed, there was always moving to California and getting a job as a programmer.
    But that was wildly impractical. Marguerite was too fragile for a move right now. And the house, in its current condition, would be worth practically nothing if they tried to sell it.
    Then there was leaving Neetsie. He just didn’t think he was up to that. He’d been the strong one for so long, but there were certain things even he couldn’t do.
    They had royalties coming in from a couple of old programs he’d licensed, and they had the house. They could muddle along for a while. They’d been living more or less this way for a long time, except for a couple of helpful infusions from Burke Hamerton’s company. A few more infusions wouldn’t be amiss, but he’d come up with something. He always did.
    Hell, the program was still valuable. The fact that his cretinous partner had fucked him meant nothing in terms of what he had to market.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
     
    TWO DAYS AND I haven’t heard from him. If he liked me, he’d have called by now.
    Skip, will you stop it? You’re a grown-up.
    Is anybody? Even Cindy Lou, with all her posturing. Do grown-ups have anything at all to do with male-female relationships?
    Probably not. We’re all boys and girls when it comes to that area.
    So Skip comforted herself. She found it shocking that she could be reduced to insecurity approaching sweaty palms by a man with whom she’d only had lunch. But she’d heard other people’s tales of romance gone awry and as far as she could tell, this was simply one area in which maturity never set in.
    Jimmy Dee, who was fifty, had recently said to her: “You’ve never seen me in love. It’s not a pretty sight.”
    Well, am I a woman or a mouse? If he’s not calling me I could call him.
    No way. If they like you, they call.
    Ah, but he has a second job. That bartender thing. How can he call me when he’s working
?
    That explained it all. It was amazing how much better she felt. As soon as he could, he would call her.
    But why wait? Why don’t I just go have a drink with him? Come to think of it, I could see
Tricia.
    Tricia hadn’t crossed her mind since Darryl mentioned her. She truly couldn’t believe she’d forgotten a thing like that.
    And suddenly she was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to see her old school pal.
    What was the name of the bar?
    She closed her eyes and sat still. It was almost meditating, an act she was quite sure she couldn’t be still enough to perform.
    It came to her: The Monkey Bar.
    She reached for the phone book and dialed the number. “Could I speak to Darryl Boucree?” From the background din, it had to be the noisiest joint in New Orleans.
    “Is this the lovely Margaret Langdon?”
    “How on earth did you know my real name?”
    “You forget who I work with.”
    “Tricia. Well, actually, I remembered. Is she on tonight?”
    “Uh-huh. Why?”
    “I thought I’d come down and see both of you.”
    “Get your butt over here.” He hung up without waiting for an answer. It wasn’t elegant, but it was unquestionably welcoming.
    She slipped into some leggings and a sweater, grateful that mode of dressing had been invented—so much like sweats, but so