Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

couldn’t be restful, being holed up in El Cerrito with this character.
    “Yeah.” She inclined her head toward her father. “Dad’s fine except when he drinks. It’s good being with him. I cook for him, and I forget Jason for a little while. Things were going so well I forgot what happens— you know.” She glanced at him again. “I shouldn’t have asked him to come tonight. He’s introspective, you know what I mean? Not much of a social animal.”
    Downright misanthropic, I would have said, but it wouldn’t have been polite. Besides it was my turn at the bar, and Adrienne had her hands full with her dad, trying to lead him to a corner where there weren’t so many assholes.
    I saw Rob talking to a dark-haired woman, very thin, in a black dress that showed her fashionable bod for what it was— a grape stake. She had shoulder-length hair parted on the side and falling in such perfect waves that jealousy was the only sane response. She wore gold hoop earrings and a slash of lipstick— if she had on more makeup than that, it was so skillfully applied no one was the wiser. There was nothing flashy about this woman, no ruby lips, azure eyes, the sort of thing poets go on about. Just a quiet perfection. But for some reason Rob looked desperate to get away from her.
    I walked over, thinking to rescue him. “Rebecca, this is Jason’s sister, Tressa Gornick.”
    I said I was sorry for her loss, or words to that effect.
    “It’s funny,” Rob said, “I was just telling Tressa that Jason never talked about his family much. I don’t think many of us knew he even had a sister.”
    “I’m from back East,” she said woodenly, her eye scanning the room.
    “Oh? Where?”
    She shrugged. Her voice was like ice. “I don’t really feel much like talking about that.”
    I understood Rob’s discomfort— the woman was clearly snubbing him, and was now snubbing me as well— yet there was a problem extricating oneself. “Nice talking to you,” in the face of obvious rudeness seemed like a putdown. But what else to do?
    Rob— ever the intrepid reporter— tried another gambit: “And your parents?”
    “Dead.” She didn’t look at either of us. Her tone was robotic.
    “Ah. Well. I'm sorry.”
    And miraculously we were saved. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a tall man approaching with a drink. “There you are,” she said, and we beat a hasty retreat.
    I said, “In shock, do you think?”
    “Who, me? Definitely.”
    “Morticia.” I wagged my chin at Jason’s sister.
    “Could be. Must be. Why come if you’re just going to insult your relative’s friends?”
    Guilt, I supposed. Family obligation. A promise perhaps. Plenty of reasons besides familial love. But it certainly seemed as if Tressa Gornick was mad at someone; I wondered if it was her brother.
    “Holy shit! There’s somebody I haven’t seen in years.”
    He was off again. I listened again to the band onstage, quite enjoying myself, but focus is a fragile thing and anyway there was lots to look at— faces, fashion statements, vignettes. My eye caught a woman leaning against a pillar, her hands behind her back, alone.
    So totally alone: this was what her pose said. It drew attention to itself by its very melodrama.
    Intrigued, I moved closer and thought I heard a whimper. Not wanting to intrude on her privacy, but curious, let’s face it, I stole another glance. Tears were wearing ruts in her makeup; her jaw was trembling as she struggled for control. She must have felt me looking at her, for her head turned and she caught me. She looked so miserable that I forgot my embarrassment; my heart went out to her, and I rummaged without thinking in my purse. Coming up with a tissue, I held it out.
    “Thanks,” she said, and I know she meant to smile, but a grimace was all she managed.
    “You must have known him well,” I said.
    She nodded. “We were lovers.”
    I was taken aback, both by the starkness of the statement— an extraordinary thing to say to a perfect stranger— and by its source. This woman was no Felicity Wainwright and no Vanda Ragusin. These two were wildly different, but their similarities were so obvious they’d been mentioned by everyone who knew Jason: he went out with gorgeous, bright, with-it ladies. He was famous for it.
    This girl was younger and less sure of herself, but nothing like as young and vibrant as Adrienne. In fact, if I had to say what she was missing, vibrancy would be the easiest word to use. She had