FRAN BALANCED THE POTTED orchid in her left hand and rang Leland’s doorbell with her right. A few minutes passed before Leland came to the door—he moved slowly these days, which worried Fran—but when he saw her, he beamed.
“What a nice surprise,” Leland said. He was wearing a crisp white apron over his golf shirt and khaki shorts. His bulldog, Winston, sniffed in Fran’s direction, before sitting down with a deep sigh, as though the effort of walking to the door was too much to bear. “Come in, come in.”
“You look like you’re busy,” Fran said, hesitating. She bent over to pet Winston on his white head. In return, he snorted and slobbered into her hand. “I’m just here to drop off this orchid for you. They were having a sale on them today at the farmers’ market. Isn’t it pretty?”
“It is. Thank you,” Leland said, taking the orchid. “But you have to come in. I was just about to make lunch. No, no refusals, I insist.”
“Are you all ready for tonight?” Fran asked, as she followed Leland, Winston at his heels, back to the kitchen. Most of the interior was still painted the boring beige shade the builder had slapped on. But the kitchen was the one room Leland had put his imprint on. The kitchen walls were a sunny yellow, and all of the cabinets had been painted a crisp glossy white. A framed poster of Picasso’s Petite Fleurs hung on one wall. Winston hopped into his basket, circled three times, lay down, and was instantly asleep.
“I was just putting the finishing touches on my dessert,” Leland said, setting the orchid down in the middle of the oak pedestal table.
“It looks amazing,” Fran said, admiring the towering coconut layer cake rising up from a glass cake stand. “A real showstopper.”
“Baking has always been my favorite of the culinary arts. There’s something so magical about it. You mix together ordinary ingredients—butter, sugar, flour, and eggs—and somehow they transform into something special,” Leland said.
“I think you missed your calling. You could have been a master pastry chef,” Fran said. She perched on one of the tall wooden stools lined up in front of the island.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Leland asked.
Fran glanced at the clock. “It’s only eleven-thirty,” she said.
“So? If we were French, we’d have consumed a whole bottle before lunch even started,” Leland said.
“That’s true. And it is a Saturday,” Fran said. “What the hell, why not? I’m easily persuaded.”
Leland uncorked a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and poured them each a glass.
“Yum,” Fran said, taking a sip.
“It will go well with our lunch,” Leland said. He opened the refrigerator and began pulling out eggs, spinach, cold red potatoes, and, of course, bacon.
“You really don’t have to cook for me. You are hosting a dinner party tonight, after all,” Fran said. “Better yet, why don’t you sit down and let me cook lunch?”
“No, let me enjoy cooking for a beautiful lady. It happens all too rarely these days. Just keep me company,” Leland said. Brandishing a large chef’s knife, he began to dice the bacon. And it will give us a chance to talk.”
“Uh-oh,” Fran said. “Am I in trouble?”
“You? Never. It’s only that I’ve noticed you haven’t seemed yourself lately.”
“Really? How so?”
“You’ve seemed distracted. And your gardenias need watering. It’s not like you to neglect them,” Leland said.
“I guess I have been a little distracted,” Fran said. She twirled the wineglass in her hand. “When I’m at work, I’m thinking about the girls or what needs doing around the house. And when I’m at home, I’m thinking about work, I can’t seem to settle to anything.”
Fran didn’t add that the one constant in her otherwise scattered thoughts was Coop. Ever since the day she’d seen him in the wine store, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. She knew it was stupid to obsess—Coop clearly wasn’t interested in her, and besides, there was the not-insignificant detail that she was married. And yet, it was out of her control. She found her mind wandering throughout the day, imagining scenarios in which she and Coop might bump into each other. Feeling his lips grazing over her cheek as he kissed her in greeting. Picturing herself touching his arm lightly as they spoke.
If she was feeling particularly fanciful, these daydreams would spin into increasingly outlandish scenarios. Coop confessing his attraction to her. A hastily arranged assignation. And, once there, ripping each other’s clothes off …
No, Fran thought. Stop it. She wondered if she was having a midlife crisis, or if it could possibly be some sort of hormonal imbalance.
She and Coop had always flirted with each other. Why, after all these years, was her imagination getting carried away? And to such X-rated places? Had there always been an attraction between them that she was just now noticing? Or had it come about recently? Maybe it had to do with the decline of her marriage. These days, she and Will were like roommates—companionable and comfortable and utterly passionless. Fran had tolerated the situation for years, assuming it was where all couples ended up eventually, and that on balance, it was all right.
Except that now, suddenly, it wasn’t.
“It happens. You just have to be careful,” Leland said. He transferred the bacon and what looked like minced shallots into a hot skillet, where the mixture began to sizzle at once.
Fran looked up, startled, wondering if he’d been reading her thoughts. Did he mean she had to be careful about Coop? Dear God, had she been so obvious? Then she remembered the last thing she’d said out loud was that she’d been distracted lately.
That’s an understatement, Fran thought.
“Careful, how?” Fran asked.
“You don’t want to spend so much time worrying about life that you miss out on it while it’s happening,” Leland said, stirring the bacon with a heat-proof spatula. He looked up from his work and smiled wryly. The network of lines on his face creased like a paper fan. “I sound like an old fart, don’t I?”
“Never,” Fran said. “And you’re absolutely right. I’ve been in my head too often lately. I need to be more present.”
She meant what she said. And yet, the fantasies about Coop—of kissing Coop, feeling his arms around her, the imagined lovemaking—were irresistible. She was too addicted to them to give them up. It was like jelly beans—as long as they were in reach, she was incapable of not eating them. The only solution was to never keep them in the house. But what did you do when the thing you were addicted to existed inside your own thoughts?
Leland used a slotted spoon to scoop the sizzling bacon and shallot mixture onto a plate lined with paper towels, and poured the bacon grease into a Pyrex measuring cup. Then he measured two tablespoons of the bacon fat back into the hot frying pan and dumped in the chopped cold red potatoes.
“That smells delicious,” Fran said. “And very fattening.”
“Nonsense. A little bacon grease never hurt anyone. And besides, you could use some fattening up. You look like you’ve lost weight.”
“I have,” Fran said proudly. “But on purpose. The last thing I want is to get fat again.”
“I’ve never understood why modern women are so obsessed with being thin. You all want to look like little boys, with no curves,” Leland said, stirring the potatoes as they browned to keep them from sticking to the bottom of the frying pan.
“Not quite,” Fran said. “We want to be stick thin, but with large breasts and round bums. That’s the ideal.”
“Your ideal is something that doesn’t occur in nature. At least not very often,” Leland said.
“And that’s what plastic surgery is for,” Fran said.
Leland shook his head and made a tutting sound. “In my day, women weren’t afraid to look like women. And men always prefer curves to bones.”
“Didn’t Scarlett O’Hara have a sixteen inch waist?” Fran teased.
Leland pointed his spatula at her. “I may be old, but Scarlett O’Hara was before my time, thank you very much,” he said.
Fran grinned back at him. She took another sip of her wine and felt herself relax for the first time in days. Leland finished browning the potatoes and moved them to a small serving dish. He salted and peppered the potatoes, and tossed them with a bit of white vinegar. He added more bacon grease to the pan—“More grease?” Fran exclaimed—and, ignoring her, dropped diced garlic into the fat. After the garlic had sautéed for less than a minute, Leland tossed several large handfuls of baby spinach into the pan. Once the spinach had wilted, he divided it between two plates and then spooned the potatoes over it. Fran’s mouth was starting to water.
“That looks fantastic,” she said.
“One last step,” Leland said. He added yet another tablespoon of fat to the pan—Fran was starting to lose track of just how much grease was going into this dish—and then cracked two eggs into it. He fried the eggs and slid one on to each plate, settling them on top of the potatoes. Moving slowly and carefully, he set one plate in front of Fran and one on the counter next to her, and got out silverware, napkins, a bottle of hot sauce, and the wine bottle.
“This looks like a truly decadent lunch,” Fran said.
“My mother used to make a version of it to use up leftover potatoes,” Leland said, settling on the stool next to Fran’s. “The spinach is my own addition, though. I thought it would make the dish healthier.”
“Right. Because the addition of spinach cancels out the four gallons of bacon grease,” Fran teased.
They each doused their eggs with hot sauce, and then, following Leland’s lead, Fran cut into her egg so that the hot yolk ran into the potatoes. She took a forkful, making sure to get a bit of each ingredient in the bite, and tasted it.
“Wow. These are seriously the best fried potatoes I’ve ever had,” she said, pointing to the dish with the tines of her fork. “How is it that something so simple can taste so good?”
“It’s the bacon. I told you, it makes everything taste better,” Leland said.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” Fran said, taking another, larger bite. She glanced at Winston, who was still asleep in his basket. “Does Winston always snore like that?”
“Yes. He snores louder than my wife used to,” Leland said.
As if he’d been listening, Winston let out a particularly loud, snarfling sigh.
Fran laughed. “Your wife did not snore like that.”
“She did! It was awful, used to drive me crazy. But you want to know the funny thing? After she died, I found I couldn’t sleep without her. The room was too quiet. I did some research on what dog breeds had snoring problems and English bulldogs were at the top of the list. So I got Winston here,” Leland said. His face creased with concern. “Fran, are you all right?”
Fran nodded and smiled, dabbing at the hot tears that had started leaking out of her eyes.
“That’s a beautiful story,” she said, sniffling.
“I don’t know about that. If my wife were here, she’d be furious I was telling people that she snored,” Leland said, chuckling and shaking his head.
Fran touched his arm. “Somehow I don’t think she would be angry at all,” she said.
“TO THE THIRD MEETING of the Table for Seven Dinner Party Club,” Leland said, raising his glass.
“Cheers,” the others chorused, also raising their glasses and clinking them together.
“Everything looks absolutely lovely, Leland,” Fran said.
“Yes, it does,” Audrey said admiringly. Leland had set a classically elegant table—a starched white tablecloth, silver candlesticks, a crystal bowl filled with pink peonies. The chilled vichyssoise, served in shallow china bowls, was a pretty pale green.
Audrey risked a covert glance at Coop, who was sitting just to her right and looking particularly sexy tonight—tanned and relaxed, and wearing a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She had to admit—even if it was just to herself—that he’d been in her thoughts ever since he’d come into the spa. Coop had been chatting across the table with Will and was smiling at something Will had said. Suddenly his pale eyes cut toward Audrey, and her heart lurched in response. Audrey quickly looked away and back at Fran, who was saying, “Inquiring minds want to know, Leland—what exactly is S and M chicken?”
“I wondered about that, too,” Jaime said, smiling.
“What’s this about S and M chicken?” Mark asked, raising his eyebrows. He leaned toward Audrey and murmured flirtatiously, “These dinner parties are finally getting interesting.”
Audrey smiled politely. She’d never taken to Mark. He always reminded her of the male love interest in a Jane Austen novel, the sort who is superficially charming and handsome, but turns out to be a cad in the end, leaving the heroine free to fall in love with the boring, more honorable gentleman.
“It’s a recipe I borrowed from Julia Child,” Leland said. “Although I took some liberty with the name.”
“How do you make it?” Fran asked.
“To quote Ms. Child, you start with a ‘fine, fresh chicken.’ You slather it with butter, making sure to get some of the butter up under the skin. Then you stuff a lemon and some herbs up inside the chicken, and tie its legs closed,” Leland said. He winked at Jaime. “The recipe sounded so naughty, I decided to rename it S and M Chicken.”
Everyone laughed. Spoons were lifted and the soup tasted—excellent, Audrey thought, cool and refreshing, the perfect first course. Crusty bread nestled in a napkin-lined basket was passed around next.
“Coop, you are officially Rory’s hero,” Will said. “She was thrilled with the snapper she caught.”
“So was I. I made a beurre blanc sauce to go with it. It was delicious,” Fran said.
“You took Rory fishing?” Audrey asked Coop. She tried to picture this and was surprised that she easily could. Coop seemed like the kind of guy who’d get along well with kids.
Coop shrugged. “It was the least I could do. She is my goddaughter, after all.”
“No, she isn’t,” Fran said.
“She isn’t?” Coop asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
“No. Iris is your goddaughter,” Fran said, starting to laugh.
“You really should keep that straight,” Audrey said.
“I knew it was one of the two. And I invited them both to go fishing, but Iris wasn’t interested,” Coop said.
“Iris isn’t interested in anything other than going to the mall and texting her friends. When I try to talk to her, she just grunts at me,” Fran said. She took a sip of wine. “Ah, the joys of living with a teenage daughter.”
“It was nice of you to take Rory out,” Audrey said, feeling almost shy as she glanced at Coop under lowered lashes.
Coop shrugged and smiled. “It was my pleasure, even if she isn’t my goddaughter.”
“Actually, Rory’s my goddaughter,” Audrey said, taking another spoonful of soup.
“Really? If Iris is my goddaughter and Rory is your goddaughter, does that mean you and I are related?” Coop asked.
“No,” Audrey said, smiling at him. “It doesn’t work that way.”
Mark, who was sitting to Audrey’s left, tapped her arm to get her attention. “Have you been seeing anyone, Audrey?” he asked.
Audrey cringed. She didn’t have to look to know that Coop’s eyes were still on her. Why on earth was Jaime’s annoying husband asking her such a personal question at a dinner party? Thankfully, Jaime came to the rescue.
“Mark! You’re not supposed to ask single people that question,” Jaime said.
Mark looked at his wife blankly. “Why not?”
“Because it’s rude and intrusive. And you’re putting Audrey on the spot,” Jaime said. “Audrey, ignore Mark. Or, if you want to distract him, ask him about tennis.”
“I want to hear if you’re dating anyone,” Coop murmured, leaning in so close, Audrey could feel the warm swoosh of his breath in her ear.
Good grief. Am I actually getting goose bumps? she thought. This is ridiculous. I’m like a schoolgirl with a crush on the inappropriate bad boy. This must stop. Now.
“No, I’m not dating anyone,” Audrey said calmly. “I’m running a business. That doesn’t leave much time for romance. I have been thinking of getting a dog, though.”
This caused an amused rumble of laughter.
“The girls have always wanted a dog. They swear up and down that I won’t have to lift a finger, and that they’ll do everything. Walk it, clean up after it. But I know better. They’ll lose interest within two weeks, and I’ll be the one standing outside in the pouring rain, huddled under an umbrella, trying to convince the dog to pee,” Fran said.
“Fran is more devious than she looks,” Will said, smiling at his wife. “She got the girls a betta fish and told them that if they looked after it, we’d talk about getting a dog.”
“What happened?” Jaime asked.
“I don’t think three days passed before the pair of them lost all interest in the fish. And, just as I predicted, I was the one who had to feed him and clean his bowl and do pretty much everything,” Fran said.
“You make it sound like you slaved over that fish,” Will said, laughing. “Didn’t he die after a week?”
“Yes. Clearly the pet store sold us a geriatric fish. It was very cynical and wrong of them,” Fran said darkly. “And, anyway, I’ve never had the greatest track record keeping fish alive.”
“I think it’s good for children to grow up with pets. I had a chocolate Lab named Hershey when I was a kid, and I loved him to pieces. I just want to wait until Ava and Logan are a little older before we get a dog,” Jaime said.
“I didn’t know you were interested in getting a dog. Emily’s been asking for one for ages, but her mother’s allergic. Or claims she is, although I always suspected that my ex-wife just doesn’t like animals,” Mark said.
“What sort of a person doesn’t like animals?” Leland asked.
“Exactly. I did say my ex-wife,” Mark said. Then, turning back to Jaime, he said, “Maybe we should look into getting her one to keep at our house.”
Jaime buttered a roll. Without looking up, she said, “Like I said, I think we should wait until the kids are a little bit older.”
“Why wait? You just said that it’s good for kids to grow up with pets,” Mark said.
“It’s a big decision. I don’t want to rush into it right now,” Jaime said.
“I just think—” Mark began.
“Can we talk about this later please?” Jaime asked, her tone sharp.
Audrey wished she hadn’t brought up the topic of dogs. She had only been trying to deflect Mark’s intrusive question about the status of her love life. It was turning out to be one of those prickly sort of nights. She remembered them from her married days. Tempers frayed, conflict threatening to flare up out of nowhere, and over nothing.
Coop lightly touched her shoulder. “Looks like you’ve started a fight,” he said.
“No, she hasn’t,” Jaime said. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little cranky tonight. Ava was up half the night.”
“Why? Is she sick?” Fran asked.
“No. I don’t know what’s going on with her. She’s been getting up three, four, even five times a night. I keep waking up to the sound of heavy breathing and then when I open my eyes, her face will be an inch away from mine,” Jaime said. “Sure, go ahead and laugh, but it keeps scaring the hell out of me. And then I can’t fall back asleep, because I’m waiting for her to come in again.”
“Luckily, I manage to sleep through this,” Mark said.
“That’s because she never does it to you! She always comes to my side of the bed,” Jaime said.
Mark smiled what Audrey knew he probably thought to be his most charming smile. “I struck a deal with Ava. If she lets Daddy sleep, I’ll buy her a pony when she’s older.”
“I once had a divorce case come before me where the couple had drawn up a premarital contract ahead of time about pretty much every aspect of their marriage in great detail—who would do what around the house, even who would get up with the kids at night,” Leland said.
“What? Who would put that in a premarital contract?” Fran exclaimed.
“And who got the job of getting up with the kids? Because that’s the worst,” Will said. “Fran always made me do it. I didn’t get a full night’s sleep for five years straight.”
“You are such a liar!” Fran said. She turned to Jaime. “I swear, men have a genetic ability to sleep through middle-of-the-night summons from their children.”
“Under the terms of the premarital contract, the wife was supposed to take care of all child-related tasks, unless she’d secured an agreement from the husband ahead of time to cover for her,” Leland said.
“That’s not misogynistic or anything,” Fran said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, yes. The contract was the husband’s idea. He struck me as being a bit controlling. It’s not a surprise his wife eventually had enough and filed for divorce,” Leland said. “The contract also covered what sort of religious upbringing the children would have, how often they’d visit their in-laws, even how many times a week they’d have sex.”
“I don’t practice family law, but that sort of contract wouldn’t be legally enforceable,” Mark said.
“How many times a week were they obligated to have sex?” Will asked.
“That’s the part he would be interested in,” Fran remarked.
“If I remember correctly, it was three,” Leland said, smiling.
“Wow,” Will said reverently. “Three times a week? Maybe we should make one of those agreements, honey.”
“Mark just said it wasn’t enforceable,” Fran said.
“Will, you’re making Fran blush,” Coop teased.
Audrey looked at Fran, who was sitting at the head of the table opposite Leland. Coop was right; Fran’s cheeks were flushed. Actually, Fran was looking unusually pretty tonight, Audrey thought. She was wearing a red halter sundress that showed off her cleavage, and it looked as though she’d taken more care with her hair and makeup than usual.
“Can we please change the subject?” Fran asked. She reached for her wineglass, but ended up knocking it over instead. A dark red stain spread over the white tablecloth.
“Oh, no!” Fran said, staring at the stain in horror.
“Don’t worry,” Leland said. “It’s just a tablecloth.”
“But I’ve ruined it!”
“It’s not ruined,” Audrey said, rising quickly from her seat. “Leland, do you have any hydrogen peroxide?”
“There should be some in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom,” Leland said.
“I’ll get it,” Coop said, also standing.
Audrey hurried to the kitchen, where she poured about eight ounces of liquid dish-washing soap into a glass measuring cup. She took the soap and a handful of paper towels back to the dining room, just as Coop returned with a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He handed it to Audrey.
“Thanks,” she said. She added a cup of hydrogen peroxide to the glass cup, dipped a paper towel into the mixture, and then used it to dab the stain.
“Will that work?” Fran asked. She looked near tears. Her eyes were shining and she had flushed an even darker shade of scarlet.
“Every time. See? It’s already coming out,” Audrey said.
Everyone leaned forward to see. The stain was disappearing, leaving behind white, if wet, fabric.
“It’s like magic,” Will marveled.
“I’ve never heard of using hydrogen peroxide on wine stains before,” Jaime said. “Where did you learn that trick?”
“I read it years ago in one of those housekeeping columns they have in the paper, and ended up clipping the column. Ryan was forever spilling glasses of red wine. He always got klutzy when he was …” Audrey stopped and swallowed. “Well, anyway. I managed to save a beautiful ivory linen tablecloth that had once belonged to my grandmother with this trick.”
Even though the crisis had passed, Fran had her lips pressed tightly together and was blinking rapidly. Audrey squeezed Fran’s shoulder gently as she returned to her seat, and tried to think of something to say that would make Fran feel better.
“Franny, do you know what I was thinking about the other day? That time that you, Will, and I went down to South Beach, and we convinced those tourists that Will was one of the Thompson Twins,” Coop said.
Fran laughed, the tension in her face disappearing. “Oh, my God, I’d forgotten all about that. That was hilarious. Remember, they asked for his autograph?”
“Wait, what? The Thompson Twins?” Jaime asked.
“That eighties band,” Fran explained.
“I couldn’t believe they fell for it. Never mind that I was way too young to have been in that band—they must all be about twenty years older than I am—but I’m also not British,” Will said.
“But then, right in the middle of the conversation, you realized that you were supposed to be English and started speaking with that awful fake accent,” Coop said.
“Hey! It was not awful,” Will said, affronted.
“Yes, it was. You actually said, ‘Pip, pip, cheerio,’ at one point,” Fran said, giggling.
Audrey smiled and took a sip of wine. The mood around the table lightened considerably, as Will demonstrated his accent—Coop and Fran were right, it was truly terrible—and everyone laughed as Fran recounted how the tourists had asked for Will’s autograph. She snuck a sideways glance at Coop, who was grinning, his teeth white against his darkly tanned skin. He had missed a spot shaving at his left jaw, leaving behind a small patch of blond hair, about the size of a dime. Coop’s eyes flickered in her direction, and Audrey felt her heart give another involuntary jump. The laughter and talk grew louder and more uproarious around them.
“I’ll go get the main course,” Leland said, rising slowly.
Audrey glanced up at him. Leland looked happy, but tired. She wondered if hosting the dinner party had been too much for him. “Let me help you,” Audrey said quickly, rising from her seat.
But even as she accompanied Leland into the kitchen, she could have sworn that she could still feel Coop’s eyes on her. She experienced an odd mixture of exhilaration and terror at how pleased she was at the thought.