september
SPINACH SALAD WITH GRAPEFRUIT AND RED ONION
CHICKEN RILLETTES
CHICKEN LIVER PTÉ
SLICED BEEF TENDERLOIN WITH HORSERADISH MAYONNAISE
CREAM PUFFS
JAIME FELT LIKE SHE’D been standing at the kitchen counter forever. The travertine tile floors were beautiful, but probably not the most comfortable choice they could have made when they redid the kitchen. She picked up one foot and rested it on the other as she diced carrots. She’d already chopped cupfuls of garlic, onions, celery, and thyme.
“Is this a new kind of yoga?” Mark asked, coming into the kitchen. “One that involves standing on one leg while you chop vegetables?”
“Are the kids asleep?” Jaime asked. The nighttime routine was usually her job, but this was her only chance to cook without having little ones underfoot. Mark had stepped in and helped out. For once.
No, Jaime chided herself. He’s been much better about helping out lately.
“I seriously doubt it. However, they are in bed.”
“Faces washed, teeth brushed?”
Mark slapped himself on the forehead. “I knew I was forgetting something! No, I’m just kidding. I’m not completely incompetent, thank you very much. But I think whoever wrote Brown Bear, Brown Bear was a sadist.”
“Eric Carle.”
“Right. He was probably abused as a child, and to get back at his parents—and all parents everywhere—wrote the most mind-numbing collection of children’s books ever to be published.”
“I sort of like Brown Bear. You can get a rhythm going with it,” Jaime mused. “ ‘Brown bear, brown bear, what do you see?’ ”
Mark gave her a dark look.
“Hey, I’m a fan of anything that doesn’t have Elmo in it,” Jaime said.
“What are you making, anyway?” Mark asked, taking in the vast piles of minced vegetables.
“Chicken rillettes,” Jaime said.
“Right. And what exactly is that?”
“Potted chicken. That sounds weird, I guess. But basically, you braise a chicken, then shred it, and mix it up with butter, herbs, and a vegetable-infused broth, and then you put it in jars to sit for a few days,” Jaime explained.
“That sounds like a lot of work. The kids would probably be just as happy with hot dogs,” Mark said.
“This isn’t for the kids. It’s for the dinner party club.”
“Are we still doing that?”
“Yes. We just took the summer off, remember? Everyone’s coming over here on Saturday. I decided to shake things up. Instead of serving an entrée, I’m going to do all small plates,” Jaime said.
She had thought that her small plates idea would be elegant and impressive. However, she was already having second thoughts about it. It was actually easier to do one main dish than lots of little ones. But at least the rillettes could be prepared completely ahead of time. All she’d have to do on Saturday was decant the potted chicken into a pretty bowl and slice up some crusty French bread to serve with it.
She glanced up at Mark, to see what his reaction to her brilliant idea—minus the extra work—was. He was looking at her with a mixture of guilt and wariness.
“What?” she asked.
“This Saturday? As in three days from now?”
“Yes. Emily doesn’t have a tournament this weekend. I checked the calendar before I scheduled dinner,” Jaime said quickly.
“No, I know she doesn’t. But she’s going down to take a clinic in Boca this weekend. I was going to go with her,” Mark said.
“And you were going to tell me this when?” Jaime asked, feeling a flash of the old irritation.
Things had been going better recently between her and Mark. They’d taken Logan and Ava to the South Carolina coast for two weeks, and for the first time in a long time it had felt like Mark had been really present. They took the kids to the beach every day, where they splashed around in the ocean and hunted for shells, and ate fresh seafood and farm corn for dinner every night. It had been a magical time.
The only sour note came when Jaime hired a photographer to take a picture of the four of them at the beach. She envisioned Mark and Logan wearing white button-downs and khaki shorts, and she and Ava in matching Lilly Pulitzer dresses, their family looking like something out of a magazine. The perfect family on the perfect vacation.
“We can use it as our Christmas card photo,” Jaime enthused.
Mark had stared at her. “But Emily isn’t here. We can’t take a family photo without Emily.”
Jaime now closed her eyes, remembering the resulting argument. She hadn’t meant to exclude Emily—who had been invited on the trip, but chose instead to go to Spain with Libby. She’d just gotten carried away at the idea of a family portrait of the four of them. But even when she’d backed off the idea of using it as their Christmas card photo—which she’d done immediately, with a heartfelt apology—Mark had still refused to participate. Jaime ended up going alone to the photo shoot with the kids, but the photos hadn’t turned out well. She wasn’t even going to bother having them framed.
“I was going to tell you as soon as I’d opened up a nice bottle of wine and talked you into having a glass,” Mark admitted. “Is there any way we can postpone the dinner party club?”
Jaime shook her head. “No way. Everyone’s coming, and I’ve already spent a fortune on food.”
“Let me call Libby. Maybe she can take Emily,” Mark suggested.
“Good idea,” Jaime said. She smiled at Mark. “Thanks.”
He kissed her cheek and then fished out his ever-present phone and hit a button.
“Hey, it’s me. I need to talk to you about Emily’s schedule this weekend,” Mark said into the phone.
He wandered off toward the living room, speaking in the calm, level voice he always used when talking to Libby or one of his more difficult law clients. Jaime turned her attention back to her rillettes. When the last of the chopping was done, she set her heavy, cherry-red Le Creuset Dutch oven on a burner and poured in a dollop of olive oil. Once the oil had heated she put a whole five-pound chicken inside, and rotating it every three to four minutes, browned the chicken on all sides. She scattered the chopped vegetables and herbs around the chicken, and after they had softened, added a cup of white wine. Once the alcohol had burned off, she finally added six cups of low-salt chicken broth, brought it to a boil, and then moved the chicken pot to the oven, so the chicken could braise for an hour.
By the time she was shutting the oven door, Mark had returned to the kitchen, looking grim.
“Is Libby taking Em?” Jaime asked.
“Yes, but she’s not happy about it,” Mark said. “She said it’s my weekend to have Em, and if I’m not going to honor our custody agreement, maybe it was time we revised it.”
“Are you serious?” Jaime asked. Mark nodded. “But you spend all sorts of time with Em. Libby can’t seriously question your commitment to that child.”
“She’s just steamed because she has to cancel a date she had planned for Saturday,” Mark said. He opened the refrigerator door and got out a bottle of beer.
“I’m surprised she was willing to do that,” Jaime said. In her experience, Libby rarely if ever inconvenienced herself.
“She wasn’t at first. I said that of course we wanted Em for the weekend as usual, and that she’s always welcome here, that this is her home. However, I wouldn’t be able to take her down to Boca.” Mark shook his head and twisted the top off his beer. “Libby said she didn’t want Em to miss the clinic—which, I agree, would not be ideal—and so she said she’d take her. She just wasn’t happy about it.”
Jaime blinked at her husband. It was so rare that anything came before Em’s tennis practice. She couldn’t help wondering if Libby’s reaction played a part.
“Thanks,” she said, giving him a hug. Mark squeezed her back and then released her.
“Don’t thank me too quickly,” he said.
“Uh-oh,” Jaime said. “What’s going on?”
“Libby wants to revisit the subject of homeschooling Emily.”
“I thought you’d decided against it?”
“We did, for this year. But if Em starts playing more national tournaments, we’ll eventually reach a point where homeschooling her will make more sense,” Mark said. He kissed Jaime’s forehead. “Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”
“Just do me a favor,” Jaime said.
“Anything.”
“Talk to me about it before you make any decisions. Okay?”
“Of course. I always do,” Mark said, patting her shoulder.
WILL WAS AT HIS workbench, putting the final touches on his newest Rammer combat bot, which he’d christened Brutus. Iggy had suffered an ignominious defeat at the last combat bot competition down in Boca in July and Will had brought him home in pieces in a cardboard box. Undeterred by the loss, Will had immediately commenced work on Brutus. This time he planned to give him a much heavier shell. He hadn’t had much of a chance to work on it over the summer, but there was a tournament in Miami next month, and he had every intention of winning. Or, at least, of not getting his ass seriously kicked.
“Hey, Dad,” Rory said. “What are you working on?”
“Just putting some finishing touches on Brutus. What do you think?” Will presented the robot with a game-show-hostess hand flourish.
“Very cool,” Rory said. “He’s sort of cute.”
“Cute? I don’t want him to be cute,” Will exclaimed. “I want him to look like a lean, mean, robot-killing machine.”
Rory giggled. “He looks sort of like R2-D2. Only flatter. Like R2-D2 would look if he got flattened in one of those car smooshers.”
Will scrutinized the robot. “Maybe he does a little,” he admitted. “Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be helping me with him.”
“I was going to, but Mom said I had to do my math homework,” Rory said, making a face.
“I guess it’s all about priorities. What’s more important, Brutus or your math? No, I’m just kidding. Obviously, homework comes first,” Will said hastily. He had seen the gleam of opportunity in Rory’s eyes. “And that’s the story I’m sticking with if you try to tell your mom that I said you could skip your homework.”
Rory slumped onto the stool next to his, and watched Will work.
“Did you know Iris has a boyfriend?” she asked after a few minutes. Will could tell that although she was feigning a casual air, Rory was thrilled to pass along this juicy gossip.
Will set down his screwdriver and looked at his younger daughter. “She does?”
Rory nodded and grinned. “His name is Xander.”
Surely Iris was too young for a boyfriend, Will thought. He thought back to when he was thirteen, and remembered that although couples might announce that they were “going out,” they rarely even spoke to each other at that age. At most, they might go to the movies with a group of other thirteen-year-olds.
“They’re going to a party together on Friday night, but you and Mom aren’t supposed to know,” Rory continued.
“What? Why not?”
“Because Mom said Iris isn’t old enough to date,” Rory explained.
“Oh, right. Good,” Will said, glad that Fran was on top of the situation.
“Iris is going to tell you she’s sleeping over at Hannah’s house, but really, she’s going to meet Xander at the party,” Rory said.
Will wondered if the pain in his chest was from anxiety, or if he was actually having a heart attack.
“How exactly did you come by this information?”
“I listened at the door when she and Hannah were talking about it. You know, that whole glass to the door thing doesn’t really work. You can hear much better if you just put your ear right up against it. Anyway, I thought you should know. By the way, Xander’s a senior.”
Will now understood how it was possible to age ten years over the course of a few minutes. He had a feeling he was supposed to tell Rory off for eavesdropping on her sister, but decided this was not behavior he wanted to discourage.
“Do you know where the party is?”
“It was supposed to be at some kid’s house—somewhere where the parents were out of town—but then they decided to have it out at the sandbar instead, so they’d be less likely to get busted,” Rory said.
Will sighed and stood up. The sandbar was a strip of beach located in the middle of the Intracoastal Waterway and accessible only by boat. Clearly, Brutus was going to have to wait. Protecting his thirteen-year-old’s virtue from drunken senior boys partying at the sandbar took priority.
“Where are you going?” Rory asked.
“To talk to your mother about locking the two of you up until you reach the age of majority,” Will said wearily.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing yet. But you’ll be thirteen someday, too. Go do your math homework.”
It took Will a few minutes to find Fran. She was standing in their walk-in closet, which was jam-packed with clothes and shoes, along with winter coats, boxes of holiday decorations, rarely used sports equipment, and a mismatched set of luggage.
“What are you doing?” Will asked.
“Going through my clothes and throwing out what doesn’t fit anymore.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? What if you gain the weight back?” Will asked.
Fran gave him the sort of look that would shrivel the balls of a lesser man.
“I mean, it’s great that you’ve lost so much weight,” Will said quickly. “You look amazing. But maybe you should put the stuff you can’t wear anymore in storage. You know. Just in case.”
“Just in case I lose all control and start pigging out on jelly donuts and chili cheese fries?” Fran asked.
“That’s right,” Will said. Then, seeing that rather than placating Fran, his words seemed to make her angrier, he said, “Look, it’s nothing personal against you. It’s just that a lot of people who lose weight tend to put it back on eventually.”
“Did you want something? Because as much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I’m a little busy at the moment,” Fran said, grabbing an armful of jeans and khaki pants.
Will was momentarily diverted. “Why do you have so many pairs of jeans?”
“Because that’s what my life has become. Wearing scrubs to work and jeans to the grocery store,” Fran said wearily. “I don’t exactly have a lot of invitations to social events that require slinky cocktail dresses.”
“You could wear a cocktail dress to the grocery store. Maybe it would start a whole new trend,” Will said.
Fran smiled reluctantly. “Or I could get a BeDazzler and BeDazzle all of my scrubs with rhinestones.”
Will grinned back at her and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. They’d been in what felt like a holding pattern lately. Fran didn’t seem unhappy necessarily, but she was still distant and distracted. And quiet. She’d been unusually quiet. Her chatter had been the background noise of his life for so long that the silence unnerved Will.
“None of these fit anymore,” Fran said, dumping the assorted jeans and pants onto the bed with great satisfaction. “And besides, they’re mom jeans, which I will never wear ever again. From now on, I’m only going to wear sexy, cool jeans. So out they go.”
“We have to talk,” Will said.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to go crazy buying stuff.”
“This isn’t about clothes. It’s about Iris. And it’s pretty serious.”
This got his wife’s attention. She stopped sorting through clothes and looked up at him. “Oh, God. What did she do?”
“Nothing yet. But Rory just told me that Iris is going to a party on Friday night. At the sandbar. With a boy named Xander,” Will said.
“No, she’s not. She’s sleeping over at Hannah’s house on Friday.…” Fran began, then stopped. Her eyes narrowed as the pieces fell into place. “You have got to be kidding me. Is she seriously going to try to pull the whole I’m-only-pretending-to-sleep-over-at-a-friend’s-house-while-really-going-out-with-a-guy lie on us? I’m going to kill her. Then I’m going to ground her forever.”
“Can we ground her for something before she’s actually done it?” Will asked.
“Of course. Why couldn’t we?”
“I thought you had to commit a crime before you could be punished for it.”
“This isn’t the American judicial system. It’s a totalitarian dictatorship,” Fran said, putting her fists on her hips.
“Wait, who’s the head dictator? You or me?” Will asked.
“Who do you think?” She raised her voice. “Iris! Get in here!”
“What?” Iris called back.
“Right now!” Fran bellowed.
Iris appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression disgruntled.
“What?” Iris asked.
“Don’t what me, young lady,” Fran said.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Iris said, rolling her eyes heavenward.
Will decided this would be a good time to back up his wife.
“It means you should be more respectful when you speak to your mother,” he told his daughter. Iris sighed and tossed her hair, but remained silent.
“You said you’re sleeping over at Hannah’s on Friday night?” Fran asked.
Will, who was watching his daughter closely, thought he saw a flicker of apprehension pass over her face.
“That’s right,” Iris said.
“If I call Hannah’s mother and ask her if you’re sleeping over, she’ll know all about it?”
Now Iris definitely seemed on guard. “I don’t know. I don’t know if Hannah’s told her yet,” she said.
“Shouldn’t Hannah ask her mother for permission before inviting friends to spend the night?” Fran asked.
Iris shrugged. “Hannah’s mom is always cool about it.”
It was a misstep, Will thought. What Iris meant—without actually coming out and saying it—was that Hannah’s mother was cooler than Fran. This tactic didn’t work with Fran at the best of times, much less when she knew her thirteen-year-old daughter was trying to bamboozle her.
“Why don’t we have Hannah over here instead,” Fran said smoothly.
“No, that’s okay,” Iris said quickly, alarm flashing in her eyes.
“Why not?”
“Because …” Iris was clearly groping for a credible reason. “I already told Hannah I’d sleep over at her house. It would be weird to change the plans now.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call Hannah’s mom now while I’m thinking about it,” Fran said, picking up her cellphone.
“Mom! No!” Iris said, but Fran waved her off. Will looked on, half-amused at his wife’s feint and half-sick that his daughter was lying to them so brazenly.
“Kim, hi, it’s Fran. Good, how are you? I was calling to see if it’s all right with you if Hannah sleeps over here on Friday. Oh, really? You’re going to Tallahassee for the weekend? I see. No, another time. Thanks, Kim. Bye.”
Fran hit the off button on her phone and looked at her daughter with raised eyebrows. “Hannah’s mom said they’re going to Tallahassee for the weekend.”
“They are?” Iris asked. She shrugged. “I guess Hannah didn’t know that.”
“That seems unlikely, considering they’re going to be there because Hannah’s choral group is giving a performance,” Fran said. She crossed her arms and looked levelly at her older daughter. “Are you going to tell the truth now, or are we going to keep this game going?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iris said. She was still trying to pull off her favorite sullen teenager act, but there was an edge of hysteria to her voice now that undermined the effect. “It was just a mix-up. Hannah probably meant next Friday.”
“Oh, really? Is there a party at the sandbar next Friday, too?” Fran asked.
Iris’s eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open. Will was glad to see this. It meant his daughter wasn’t as accomplished a liar as he had started to fear.
“How did you know about that?” Iris gasped.
“It’s my job to know these things,” Fran said coolly.
“Our job,” Will said. He was mildly irritated that Fran wasn’t giving him credit for being the one to find out what Iris was up to. Okay, so Rory really deserved the credit for that, but whatever.
“I can’t go to the party?” Iris asked. Her voice was thin and high. Tears weren’t far off.
“Of course not. Consider yourself grounded for the indefinite future,” Fran said.
“For what? I haven’t done anything yet!” Iris said.
“You lied to us,” Will said.
“That’s only because I knew you’d never let me go to the party if I told you about it!”
Fran let out a bark of laughter. “Of course you’re not going to that party.”
“Why not? All of my friends are going!” Iris said. She stamped her foot, which, Will thought, made her look like she was six years old again and demanding to know why she couldn’t keep a miniature pony in the backyard.
“I highly doubt that, unless they’re all planning on sneaking out, too,” Fran said. “No parent in their right mind would let their freshman daughter go to a beer party at the sandbar with a bunch of senior guys.”
“This is so unfair,” Iris moaned. “Why can’t you trust me?”
“We’d be more likely to trust you if you didn’t lie to us,” Will said. “Just a thought.”
“You’re grounded for one month. No going out, no having friends over, and no cellphone,” Fran said.
“God, you’re ruining my life!” Iris said. She stormed off, and a minute later, her bedroom door slammed shut.
Will sighed and looked at his wife. “Are you going after her or should I?”
Fran shook her head. “No, let her sit and stew in her room.” She turned her attention back to the pile of clothes on her bed. “This may be the last peace and quiet we’ll get for the next month. I swear, grounding her and taking away her phone is going to be more of a punishment for me than her.”
Will stepped up behind her, and wrapped his arms around Fran. She relaxed against him for a moment.
“Just think. Only four more years until she goes to college,” Will said.
Fran groaned and covered her face with her hands. Will laughed and kissed the top of her head.
COOP STOOD IN THE shower, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water streaming down over his body. The shoot had gone well, but two months on a crowded boat that carried both the ship’s crew and a full camera crew meant they’d all had to rough it. Showers had been a luxury. When he’d scrubbed what felt like a layer of grit off his body, he finally turned the taps off and briskly toweled himself dry.
Coop shaved carefully, while Bear looked on. He was lying on the bath mat, his furry head resting on his paws. The unmistakable odor of unwashed dog wafted up from him.
“Don’t think you’ve escaped. Tomorrow is bath day for you,” Coop told him.
Bear—who knew the word bath—slunk out of the bathroom, glancing back with a worried expression.
“Coward,” Coop called after him.
It was Table for Seven night. Two months ago, after he’d fulfilled his hosting obligation, Coop had had every intention of dropping out of the dinner party club. It was, he’d decided, a hassle he didn’t need in his life. That went for Audrey, too. She had serious issues, and Coop had never had a masochistic streak when it came to women.
But then he’d gone away for two months. And despite the many distractions—the gorgeous aquamarine water, the frequent sightings of schools of dolphins, a sexy brunette photographer named Giselle—thoughts of Audrey kept drifting into his mind, no matter how firmly he tried to push her away. He even considered calling her, but cell reception on the ship was spotty. He would have had to place the call from the ship’s bridge with the ship’s crew listening in.
He’d gotten back in town that morning and had planned to call Audrey as soon as he’d gotten settled in. But then he checked his email and saw that tonight was dinner party night. Even better, he’d thought. It was always easier to rekindle a romance in person than over the phone. He’d called Jaime and double-checked that he wasn’t too late to RSVP, and she assured him that he was more than welcome.
Coop dressed casually in khaki shorts and a white button-down shirt that showed off his tan.
“How do I look?” he asked Bear, who, caught between his desire to be near Coop and his terror of baths, had compromised by sitting at the bathroom door. “Will she be impressed?”
Bear’s ears pricked up, and he began to pant. Coop took this as a sign of approval.
On his way over to the Wexlers’ house, Coop stopped at the liquor store to buy a few bottles of Spanish wine. Jaime had said they were having tapas, so it seemed in keeping with the theme of the evening.
“Hello,” Jaime said, when she opened the door to Coop. He kissed her cheek in greeting, and she accepted the wine. “Come on in. Everyone’s in the living room.”
Showtime, Coop thought.
“How was your trip? Fran was just telling us that you’ve been out to sea for two months,” Jaime said.
“That’s right. We docked in the Bahamas this morning and I took a flight into Fort Lauderdale,” Coop said.
“What were you shooting?” Jaime asked.
“Dolphins, mostly. The documentary is about the complexity of their social networks. But we got some great shark footage, too,” Coop said.
“That sounds very exciting,” Jaime said, leading him into the tasteful beige living room.
The whole group was there. Fran and Will, Mark, Leland. But Coop’s eyes sought out Audrey, who was sitting on the sofa next to Leland, looking radiant in an orange wrap dress. She looked up at Coop, and he could see the same apprehension and excitement he was feeling mirrored in her face. He smiled at her, trying to silently communicate how happy he was to see her.
“Coop! I thought I heard your voice.” Fran was at his side, smiling up at him. He leaned forward and kissed her, and then shook hands in turn with Will and Mark, who were standing with her. Then he turned, ready to greet Leland, and, finally, Audrey, when he realized he was suddenly face-to-face with Kenny. Short, balding Kenny with the big ears.
“Kenny Stabler,” Kenny said, sticking out his hand for a firmer than necessary handshake. “We met before at one of these shindigs. You’re Coop, right?”
“Right,” Coop said. He withdrew his hand.
“Your surprise appearance has been all anyone here can talk about,” Kenny said with a smile.
“Not me. I’m more excited about the pâté Jaime has promised us,” Will said, thumping Coop on the shoulder.
“We weren’t expecting you back in time,” Fran said. “I thought you weren’t due until sometime next week.”
“We got in a few days earlier than planned,” Coop said. He tried to look calm and collected, and not give away how annoyed he was at Kenny’s presence. Was he here as Audrey’s date again? And if so, how the hell had that happened?
“You’ll have to come over and see the girls. Rory’s grown about a foot since you left,” Fran said.
“And Iris has started lying to us and sneaking around with boys. It’s a phase we’re particularly enjoying,” Will added.
“I’ll come over and see them tomorrow,” Coop said.
“Hi, Coop.”
Coop turned to see Audrey standing beside him.
“Hi,” he said, hesitating for a few beats too long before he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She smelled like clean hair and expensive perfume.
“How was your trip?” she asked.
“Good. Long, but good,” he said.
Kenny stepped next to Audrey and slid his arm around her, his hand at her waist. Coop registered this, his eyes flickering down and then back up to Audrey’s face. She looked uneasy, he thought, and Coop wondered if she was embarrassed by Kenny. Or maybe it was having past and present lovers meet. This, the thought of Kenny sleeping with Audrey, instantly made Coop feel queasy.
“Hi, Leland,” Coop said, turning away from the sight of the happy couple to shake the older man’s hand.
“Good to see you back,” Leland said. “Franny was worried you’d been lost at sea.”
“I think Fran watches too many movies. And old episodes of Gilligan’s Island,” Coop said.
“Hey, can I help it if The Perfect Storm seriously freaked me out?” Fran called from across the room.
“Are you still obsessed with bacon?” Coop asked Leland.
Leland chuckled. “You haven’t been gone that long, my boy.”
“Really? It feels like I’ve been gone forever,” Coop said. He couldn’t help a rueful glance in Audrey’s direction. Kenny still had his arm around her. The only small comfort Coop could take was that Audrey wasn’t leaning toward Kenny or murmuring in his ear.
Leland followed Coop’s gaze and looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you,” he said quietly.
“No?” Coop asked, so startled at this comment he forgot to deny any interest in the budding relationship between Audrey and Kenny. He wondered how Leland had figured out that he and Audrey were—or, at least, had been—involved. Did everyone at the dinner party club know? Did Kenny?
Leland shook his head slightly. “Definitely not,” he said.
“Here’s your drink,” Jaime said, appearing at Coop’s elbow. She handed him the vodka and tonic he’d requested.
“Thanks,” Coop said. He wanted to pursue his conversation with Leland, but knew it was impossible while everyone was there. He had to content himself with nodding his thanks at Leland, who was still looking thoughtful.
“I WANT TO HEAR more about your trip, Coop,” Fran said, once they were all seated around the Wexlers’ dining room table, eating a spinach salad studded with sweet chunks of grapefruit.
Fran was feeling a little light-headed, both from the wine and proximity to Coop. She’d forgotten how physically imposing he was. Even the hair on his arms—bleached blond from hours spent in the sun—fascinated her. She wanted to run her hands down his arm, to feel the texture of his skin against her fingertips.
“Big deal, Coop swam around with some sharks. That’s nothing compared to what I faced down this summer,” Will said.
“Which is what?” Jaime asked.
“Disney World,” Will said grimly. “Apparently, in August, all of Europe heads to Florida and makes a beeline for Disney World.”
“So? What do you have against Europeans?” Audrey asked, smiling at him.
“Nothing, right up until they make me have to wait an hour to ride Space Mountain,” Will said. He smirked. “Speaking of which, I have the best vacation photo ever of Fran riding Space Mountain.”
“Please tell me you didn’t bring that with you!” Fran exclaimed.
“I wish I had. It’s great,” Will said.
“You were able to take a picture of her? How? Isn’t that the ride that’s really dark?” Jaime asked.
“They take the photo while you’re on the ride, and then sell it to you on your way out,” Will explained. “And as soon as I saw the one of Fran, I knew I had to have it. She has her eyes shut and is screaming in terror.”
“For good reason,” Fran said.
“You’re afraid of roller coasters?” Mark asked Fran, looking incredulous.
“It’s a normal thing to be afraid of,” Fran said defensively.
“They make those rides for little kids.”
“They go really fast and turn you upside down. The whole thing is terrifying,” Fran said.
“Actually, Space Mountain doesn’t turn upside down,” Will said.
“Are you sure? I could have sworn I was upside down at one point. It was when I started screaming,” Fran said.
“Positive,” he said. “And you were screaming before the ride even began. You started when they were just checking your seat belt.”
“I can’t help it if I have a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation,” Fran said.
“I don’t blame you. I hate roller coasters, too,” Jaime said, standing to collect the salad plates.
“Do you need help?” Fran asked, standing.
“Sure, you can help me bring out the tapas. You all got my email, right? Instead of making a main course, I made several small plates,” Jaime said.
“Show-off,” Fran teased her.
“I’ll help, too,” Audrey said. She looked around at the men. “Don’t all hurry to get up and help us out.”
“Cooking and cleaning is women’s work,” Will said, grinning at her.
“Watch out, Will,” Kenny said. “Audrey will stab you with her stiletto. Those things she walks around on are lethal weapons.”
“I HAVE SOMETHING TO tell you guys,” Fran said, keeping her voice low, once the three women were alone in the kitchen.
“What?” Jaime asked.
“I’m leaving Will,” Fran said. A burst of nervous excitement cascaded through her. It was the first time she’d said the words out loud.
Audrey had been stacking salad plates in the sink. Jaime was taking the chicken rillettes out of the refrigerator and peeling back the plastic wrap that covered the serving dish. But at Fran’s words, both friends turned and stared at her with matching, dropped-jaw expressions.
“What?” Audrey asked.
“Fran,” Jaime said, reaching out and touching Fran’s shoulder.
“It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay. This is what I want,” Fran said.
“What’s going on? Is Will … is he …,” Audrey began, but couldn’t seem to complete the thought.
Fran shook her head. “He’s not cheating on me. At least, not that I know of. But, no, I seriously doubt it. Infidelity is not in Will’s nature.”
“Then why?” Audrey asked.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I’m just not happy. Will’s not happy, either. He spends all of his time in the garage, completely checked out of life.”
“Have you talked to a marriage therapist?” Audrey asked.
“No. We have in the past, but it was a waste of time and money. The truth is, we’re just not in love with each other anymore,” Fran said. Her initial burst of excitement faded at the bleak reality. “We lay in bed every night, side by side, like we’re brother and sister. I can’t remember the last time we kissed, much less the last time we made love. It’s not like we fight all that often, but it’s not like there’s anything else there. We just stagnate.”
“You’re friends, though, right? I always thought Will was your best friend,” Audrey said.
Fran felt sadness wash over her. “Maybe at one time. But it’s been so long, it’s hard to remember. Now he’s just the guy who sits in the garage, ignoring everything that’s going on in our lives.”
“But a separation? That’s a really big step,” Jaime said.
“I know, trust me,” Fran said. She paused to take a sip of her wine, and then leaned back against the counter. “And I know it seems sudden to you two. But trust me, I’ve been thinking about it for months. About how we can’t keep going on like this. Without passion, without any spark between us. We both deserve more.”
“But why can’t you rekindle that spark with Will?” Audrey asked. “Spend time together, go out on dates, meet him at the front door wearing Saran wrap.”
Both Jaime and Fran laughed.
“I’ve never seen how wearing Saran wrap is supposed to be sexy,” Fran said.
“It seems like it would be hot,” Jaime said. “Not sexy-hot, but just hot.”
“And hard to get out of,” Fran added.
“I’m serious. Maybe if you try harder—if you both try harder—you can get back what you once had,” Audrey said.
“I have tried. We’ve tried. But how can I make myself feel something for him that I don’t? Whatever we once had, it’s just … gone,” Fran said, shaking her head.
“So, you’re giving up?” Audrey shook her head. “Just like that, you’re giving up?”
“It’s not a matter of giving up.”
“You just announced you’re leaving your husband of, what? Seventeen years?” Audrey continued.
“Sixteen next July.”
“Fine. Sixteen years. You’re leaving a sixteen-year marriage because you’re unhappy. Do you have any idea how selfish that sounds?”
Fran blinked. She’d expected surprise, shock even, at her announcement. But not anger. “Marriages end, Audrey. People fall out of love. It happens all the time.”
It probably would have happened to you and Ryan, if he hadn’t died so young, she wanted to add, but managed to stop herself.
“What about Iris and Rory? Have you thought about how this will affect your daughters?” Audrey demanded. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were narrowed into two angry slits. Fran almost took a step back from her. She had never seen Audrey this angry, and certainly never at her.
Jaime, who had been listening in what seemed to be shocked silence, said, “I think what Audrey is saying is that this is a big decision. It’s not something you should rush into.”
Fran crossed her arms, as though this would repel her friends’ disapproval. “Do you seriously think this is some sort of a whim? Of course I’ve thought about it. I haven’t thought about anything else for months. I know that the girls will be upset for a little while. But I think it will be better for them to eventually see that it’s important to have passionate, loving relationships in life. That when it comes to love, they shouldn’t settle.”
“Bullshit,” Audrey said.
“Excuse me?” Fran asked, staring at her.
“I said, bullshit. Kids don’t care if their parents are happy or not. All they care about is if they’re together.”
Fran suddenly remembered this very sentiment stated in a conversation they’d had, months earlier, when they’d been talking about Allison Hart and her divorce—which, Fran had recently learned, had been finalized over the summer. Fran also remembered how disgusted she had been with Allison—with her affair, with how she had frittered away her family’s stability. Is that how everyone is going to view me? she wondered.
“I don’t know. I think that if the parents are fighting a lot, and there’s a lot of tension in the house, the kids might actually be relieved to not have to live with that anymore,” Jaime said.
“I thought you said that when your parents divorced you would have preferred they stay together than be happy,” Audrey said.
Audrey had always had an annoyingly good memory.
“Did I say that?” Jaime asked, her brow creasing. “I guess so. But I was a kid then. With a kid’s perspective. If Will and Fran are in turmoil …” She trailed off with a wave of one hand.
“But Will and Fran aren’t fighting. Are you?” Audrey asked, cutting her eyes at Fran.
Fran shook her head. “No.”
“No,” Audrey repeated. “Fran’s just going to tear her family apart because she’s bored.”
Fran’s shock at Audrey’s anger fell away, quickly replaced by a white-hot fury that pressed in her chest and burned at her throat.
“I didn’t say I was bored. I said I was unhappy. There’s a big difference,” Fran said, spitting out the words. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by your reaction. You’ve always overly romanticized marriage.”
“No, I haven’t!” Audrey’s arms were crossed now, too, her body language mirroring Fran’s.
Jaime stood off to the side, glancing nervously at the swinging doors that led off to the dining room, clearly worried that they might be overheard. Fran glanced in that direction, too, but thought they were safe—the men’s lively voices and laughter were muffled through the doors. If she couldn’t hear what they were saying, they certainly couldn’t hear her.
“You always talk about marriage as though it’s some sort of fairy tale. And they lived happily ever after. But they don’t always. And I would think you, of all people, would know that,” Fran said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Audrey demanded.
Fran shook her head. “Do you seriously not remember what it was like when you were married to Ryan? Or have you deluded yourself into thinking that you had a happy marriage?”
Audrey flinched as though Fran had slapped her, and the blood drained from her face.
“You don’t know anything about my marriage,” Audrey whispered.
“I know that Ryan was an alcoholic. I know that it was normal for him to start drinking at lunchtime and not stop for the rest of the day. I know that there were nights when he didn’t roll in until two or three in the morning, and you had no idea where he was,” Fran said.
Even in her anger, Fran knew she was crossing a line. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“You’ve never even admitted that the reason he probably died that night was because he’d been drinking. People don’t just drive into overpasses. At least sober people don’t,” Fran continued.
“Fran,” Jaime murmured. She touched Fran’s arm. “That’s enough.”
“Yes. That’s enough. I know my husband better than you did. I know what his faults were. Just because I don’t talk about it, doesn’t mean I didn’t know what was going on. But, unlike you, I would never have thrown away my marriage. I would have fought for it. Fought for him,” Audrey said. She gave Fran a long, level stare. Fran felt something between them break away. A fault line cracking open.
The doors to the kitchen swung open, and Mark and Kenny came in.
“You’re taking a long time. We thought you might need some help,” Mark said.
Mark seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, but Kenny’s eyes sought out Audrey and he frowned with concern.
Audrey turned to Jaime. She was still very pale and her red lips were set in a thin line, but when she spoke, her voice was composed. “Thank you for having us over, Jaime, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave early.”
“Leave? But we haven’t had dinner yet,” Mark said. He slung an arm around Jaime’s shoulders. “Jaime’s been slaving over the food for days. You have to try the roulettes.”
“Rillettes,” Jaime murmured.
“Right. Rillettes. You have to try the rillettes,” Mark said.
“No,” Audrey said abruptly. She looked at Kenny. “I’m sorry, I have a terrible headache. Would you mind taking me home?”
Fran stood back, her arms crossed, her head still buzzing with anger, as Audrey and Kenny made a quick departure—Audrey collecting her bag from the living room, Kenny returning to the dining room through the swinging doors to make their excuses to Coop, Leland, and Will. Jaime turned and looked at her reproachfully.
“Maybe you should go after her,” Jaime said softly.
“No,” Fran said. She shook her head in defeat. “Just let her go.”
“What’s going on?” Will asked, pushing through the swinging doors with Coop in his wake. “Kenny just came in and said that he and Audrey are leaving. What’s that about?”
Fran looked at her husband’s round, boyish face. His cheeks were flushed—a by-product of the wine, Fran knew, drinking always made him turn red—but his eyes were bright and inquisitive as he looked at her for more information. She gave him a warning look, one that was meant to communicate, Not now, I’ll tell you later. Will nodded, and she knew he’d understood. They’d always been able to have complete conversations like this, without a word ever being spoken. Maybe all married couples did, after years of practice negotiating the minefields of children and in-laws.
Fran’s throat suddenly felt thick and sore, and tears stung at her eyes as she pictured herself in the life she’d have post-Will. Living alone in a small, neat house, spending her evenings reading quietly, cooking meals for one. She thought she’d be okay with the solitude, and having the girls with her half-time, and even the inevitable fallout among their friends, like what had just happened with Audrey. But she realized—maybe for the first time, really realized—that it would mean giving up the intimacy of a husband. Someone she could exchange one look with and communicate an entire conversation.
But then she looked at Coop—who, if possible, was looking even more sexy than usual; he had lost weight on his trip, and was lean and darkly tanned—and she felt a rush of excitement when his pale eyes met hers. She’d never have that stomach-swirling feeling again with Will, or turn jelly-legged when he kissed her. How could she go through life never feeling that again? Even if Coop wasn’t her future—and even in her most lust-filled fantasies, Fran knew he probably wouldn’t be—there was at least the chance of something else. With someone else. The chance of a life that was exciting and full of passion. Something other than the vanilla pudding life she was now living.
Will tilted his head to one side. “You okay, Franny?” he asked.
Fran nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, hoping she sounded more brisk and in control. “Let’s eat.”