Page 113 of Dearest Beast
Rebecca squinted at the other woman. “What do you mean?”
“We want know what’s going on with you,” Hannah said between bites.
“Nothing’s going on with me,” Rebecca said automatically. “Except that matters have returned to as they were.” Obviously.
Isabelle set down her cup. “You might recall that neither of us is a fool. Especially when we put our heads, and more importantly, our information together. Concerning you and a certain man.”
Oy. She’d not believed she was obvious in her letters, though who knew what Sol had said to Isabelle’s husband. Double oy. Well, if she was to be forced relay the entire sordid tale, at least she’d only need to do it once.
Though how to start… Squeezing her hands together, she stared at the teacup. Gold roses with a line of gold beads, set off by a line of navy. God, why did he or Lopez or whoever have to choose something that was so plainly designed to remind her of him?
And why did she like it so much?
Strong. She needed to be strong. Like she always was. That washer role. She swallowed, raising her gaze once more to the assembled group.
“I engaged—” She knitted her fingers hard enough that her knuckles turned white. “When I was at the Berab home, healing from my injuries, Roger Berab and I…”
“Shtupped?” Isabelle asked, slightly tripping over the Yiddish.
Thank goodness Rebecca had not been sipping tea, or she’d have spit it all over the room. “Isabelle,” she hissed.
Oy. This is what happens when a charming Sephardi princess marries an Ashkenazi custodian.
“Did I not pronounce it correctly?” her devious friend asked, her expression deceptively coy.
“No, that was perfect,” Hannah assured her.
“It was, wasn’t it?” Isabelle said, preening a touch. She cleared her throat. “But back to the topic at hand.” She peered at Rebecca once more. “Such is true, then, you and Roger Berab… ?”
“Engaged in a temporary liaison, which has now concluded, and thus we shall never need to speak of it ever again,” Rebecca clarified between gritted teeth as she glanced around the room, seeking affirmation.
“Why?” Isabelle asked, apparently not ready to acquiesce.
“Why what?” Rebecca returned.
“Why should we never speak of it again?” her friend asked. “Was it not satisfying?” the woman continued with a—fucking—waggle of her dark eyebrows.
And Rebecca near died upon the spot.
Her friend was lucky that she loved her.
That, and despite her diminutive stature, she could take any of them in a fight.
“Oy vey iz mir, Isabelle.” Rebecca huffed. “This is not an appropriate topic to discuss.”
“Truly?” Her friend gave her a rather sardonic expression. “I have it on good authority you discuss such matters with a great deal of frequency,” she stated, then took another sip of tea. “Presumably with much less discomfort.”
“This is different, and you know it,” was all Rebecca could retort, folding her arms across her chest, reminding herself a little bit of Fannie now, but she was beyond caring.
“How?” Isabelle argued. “Because you have to trust us, instead of others trusting you?”
“That’s not fair,” Rebecca returned, scooting forward in her chair. “You know I—”
“Have been shtupping Roger Berab,” Hannah finished.
Rebecca’s cheeks scalded. “As I said before, it has concluded. I’ve returned to my life, and his life will continue, most likely with a new wife. If not in the next few weeks, presumably shortly thereafter.”
There was silence.
