october
ANTIPASTO
SAUSAGE AND MUSHROOM RISOTTO
ROASTED BEET AND BITTER GREEN SALAD
CHERRY-APRICOT COBBLER
JAIME FELT UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, sitting in the front seat of her silver SUV, hiding behind a pair of enormous sunglasses. Why was she trying to disguise herself? It wasn’t like Mark wouldn’t recognize her car if he spotted it.
“Mama, what are we doing?” Logan asked in his high, breathy voice.
“Why don’t you put your head back and close your eyes?” Jaime suggested. Ava was already napping, her plump cheeks sweetly slack, her well-loved stuffed frog, Hoppy, in her limp arms. But Logan was fighting sleep. He rubbed at his eyes and was starting to grow fretful.
“I want to go home,” he whined.
“We’ll go home soon,” Jaime said soothingly.
“But the car’s not moving,” Logan said. He wiggled in his seat, thrusting his chest forward, as though this action alone could get the car started.
“Shh, keep your voice down,” Jaime said, sotto voce. She didn’t know why she bothered. Once Ava was asleep, nothing woke her. A marching band could parade through her room, crashing cymbals and banging drums, and Ava would sleep right through it.
Suddenly she saw a black Lexus sedan pull out of the parking garage. Jaime slouched down in her seat, hoping Mark wouldn’t see her across the street, idling in the parking lot outside a strip mall that was home to a frozen yogurt shop, a barber, and a psychic who advertised tarot card readings. But Mark didn’t glance in her direction. Instead, he signaled and turned right, driving smoothly away.
Her heart racing, Jaime put her car into gear and drove slowly after him.
“Yay, we’re moving,” Logan called from the backseat.
It was easy to make him happy, Jaime thought. A cookie, a hug, a car headed home. He’d always been a sunny child. Ava was the one who was quick to tears, quick to pout. Mark had nicknamed her Drama when she was still a newborn and never seemed to stop fussing.
What would he say if he knew I was following him to find out where he goes in the afternoon? Jaime wondered. Drama would be the least of it. He’d probably accuse me of being paranoid, crazy even, to suspect that he might be cheating.
It was true, Jaime still didn’t have any hard evidence that Mark was being unfaithful. If anything, things between them had improved over the past few months.
And yet … and yet. Sometimes she’d look over at Mark when he was sending a text, his fingers flying over his phone, and she’d catch something in his unguarded expression. Excitement, maybe. Or anticipation. Who was he texting? Jaime wondered. Was it Sarah?
Jaime finally decided to tail Mark, and see just where he was really going when he claimed to be at the tennis club. She knew she might be wrong—she hoped she was wrong—but she had to find out for sure.
Jaime drove after Mark, staying far enough back that he wouldn’t spot her. She was actually too far back and almost missed it when he made first a left-hand turn, and then a quick right. Luckily, she managed to hang with him.
Mark took another left just past a car wash, and Jaime followed. The terrain out the window changed from commercial spaces to the green manicured lawns of gated communities. They were only a half-mile or so away from the tennis club now—it seemed that’s where Mark was headed, after all—but Jaime hung with him, just in case he took a sudden turn into one of the subdivisions. But no, he didn’t put on his turn signal until the drive of the tennis club came into view, and then he turned into the parking lot. Jaime turned, too, counting on a bank of palm trees to hide her from his view. She needn’t have worried. Mark got out of his car and retrieved his tennis bag from the trunk without looking in her direction once.
“Daddy?” Logan chirped from the backseat. He kicked his feet against the back of her seat. “There’s Daddy!”
“Shh,” Jaime said automatically, even though it didn’t really matter. There was no way Mark would be able to hear Logan.
“I want to see Daddy!” Logan announced.
Ava stirred behind him, her eyes blinking sleepily. “Daddy?” she said.
Worried that her children would somehow will Mark’s attention in their direction, Jaime was about to ditch the surveillance. But then a woman crossed the parking lot toward Mark, her back to Jaime’s SUV. Was this the woman her husband was having an affair with? Jaime wondered. But, no, almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, causing her heart to skitter nervously, Jaime saw the woman clearly. It was Libby.
Mark leaned over to hug Emily, while Libby stood back, her arms crossed. Mark’s ex-wife was wearing a chocolate brown shawl draped artistically around her shoulders and her curly hair blew a bit in the wind. Once Mark and Emily broke apart, Libby rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and said something that caused Emily to skip off toward the tennis club. Mark and Libby trailed after her at a more sedate pace, chatting.
Jaime suddenly realized how very stupid she’d been. Mark wasn’t having an affair. All the times he claimed to be going to the tennis club, he had been telling the truth. He was just what he appeared to be—a man so devoted to the daughter from his first marriage and so intent on keeping her world intact that he was willing to spend time with his disliked ex-wife.
And rather than admiring him for his dedication, and loving him for being such an attentive father, Jaime had let herself sink into a fog of jealousy. She was jealous of the time he spent away from her, jealous of what she perceived as his favoritism for Em over Ava and Logan, and even jealous of Em’s pretty young tennis coach, even though Mark had never given her one reason—one real reason—to doubt him.
What kind of a person am I? Jaime thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself. I’ve been consumed with jealousy and pettiness. In fact, I’ve officially turned into the evil stepmother.
“That’s it. I’m done,” Jaime said out loud.
“Done?” Logan parroted from the backseat.
“That’s right. Mommy has been very, very silly. But she’s not going to be silly anymore,” Jaime said.
Both children giggled at this.
“Silly Mommy,” Ava said.
“Come on, let’s go home,” Jaime said. She put the car into drive and made a three-point turn. “Maybe we can make cookies.”
Logan cheered enthusiastically at this. Ava swung her chubby legs and hugged Hoppy to her chest.
“Can we make sugar cookies?” Logan asked.
“Let’s make chocolate chip,” Jaime suggested. “Those are Daddy’s favorite.”
IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY, Will thought as he made his way through the garage—too tired to do more than send a glance in the direction of Brutus, who had been languishing on the workbench, ignored for weeks—and headed into the house. He listened for a moment, wondering if he would, yet again, be walking into a gale-force family drama. Iris shouting at Fran and then storming off to her room, slamming her door behind her. Rory in tears because she’d failed another math test. Fran short-tempered with everyone and coldly distant to him. But amazingly, the house was quiet.
Will headed into the kitchen. Fran was there, sitting on one of the high stools, studying a cookbook. Will leaned in to kiss her; Fran turned her head, offering up her cheek. Will dutifully bussed her cheek, remembering back to the early days of their marriage, when he’d occasionally arrived home from work to find Fran waiting for him in their bedroom, dressed in sexy lingerie.
“How was your day?” Fran asked absently, still paging through the cookbook. Then, without waiting for his answer, she said, “We’re hosting the dinner party club this month, and I can’t decide what to make. What do you think about Indian food?”
“I love Indian, but not everyone else may,” Will said.
“Hmm, maybe you’re right. I can’t decide what to cook,” Fran said.
“How about Italian?” Will suggested. “That’s always a big hit. You could make meatballs or lasagna.”
“Yawn. I want to do something spectacular. Jaime’s tapas were a big hit. It’s going to be hard to follow,” Fran said.
“I thought the idea was for everyone to get together and share a good dinner,” Will said. Since dinner didn’t seem to be imminent, he retrieved a bag of pretzels from the pantry and tossed a handful into his mouth.
“You thought wrong. The idea is to win,” Fran said.
“Have you talked to Audrey?” Will asked, trying to keep his tone casual.
He had no idea what had transpired that night in the kitchen, but it was obvious Audrey and Fran had had a falling out. Whenever Will tried to probe into what exactly had happened between them, Fran just shook her head, pressed her lips together in a tight line, and said she didn’t want to talk about it.
“No,” Fran said. “I’m sure she won’t come, though. We’ll have to rename ourselves the Table for Six group.”
“Or invite someone else. Maybe Coop will want to bring a date,” Will suggested.
Fran looked up sharply at him. “Why? Is he seeing someone?”
“Not that I know of. But this is Coop we’re talking about,” Will said.
Fran bit her lip and inhaled deeply. She seemed to be working up to saying something.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Oh, God,” Will said, feigning horror. “That’s a statement rarely followed by good news.”
Fran didn’t smile. She just looked at him with an expression that suddenly frightened Will.
“Are the girls okay? Where are they?” he asked anxiously.
Fran blinked. “Relax, they’re fine. Rory’s at soccer practice, and Iris is at Hannah’s house. I think they’re working on a project for school.”
Will nodded. “Good,” he said, although his stomach felt tight and sour. He had the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to hear whatever it was Fran planned to tell him.
“I think you know I haven’t been happy,” Fran said.
“You haven’t seemed like yourself lately,” Will said.
“I know. My temper always seems to be at the breaking point. I hear myself snapping at you and the girls, and I hate the way I sound,” Fran said.
“Maybe you need to take more time for yourself,” Will suggested.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, too,” Fran said.
Will nodded, the tension knot in his stomach finally starting to relax. “You should have a spa day. Or maybe you and”—he was about to say Audrey, but then remembered just in time about their falling out—“your friends could go away for a weekend. You could go to Sanibel or Miami Beach.”
“Actually, I was thinking of a more … significant change,” Fran said.
“What?” Will asked. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
His phone began to ring, and even though he was starting to get the feeling that this was a very important conversation, and one that he very much needed to stay engaged in, he glanced down at the caller ID out of habit. “It’s Iris.”
“You’d better answer it,” Fran said.
It was the unspoken parent code. Children could be ignored when they were safely at home, badgering you to buy them something or for more TV time. But calls from children when they were away were always taken.
“Hey, Iris,” Will said. There was a slight pause, and then a ragged intake of breath. Will tensed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Can you come get me?” Iris asked.
“Of course. I’ll come right now. Where are you?” he asked.
She was crying now, and Will could barely understand what she was saying. “I’m at the police station.”
AS SHE AND WILL drove to the police station, Fran felt numb.
“What did she say?” she asked again.
“I’ve already told you everything,” Will said.
“Tell me again.”
“She said she was at the police station and asked if we’d pick her up. I said yes. Then she hung up.”
He sounded too calm, Fran thought, but then wondered if he was feeling numb, too.
“But why is she at the police station?”
“I don’t know. Trust me, I’d tell you if I did,” Will said.
They lapsed into silence. Fran began to chew on a fingernail, a bad habit she’d had since childhood. Normally when she did this, Will would reach over and gently pull her hand down, reminding her to stop. But now he let her gnaw away, not saying a word.
When they got to the police station—the outside of which was painted in bright Caribbean pinks, blues, and greens, as though these colors would disguise the sobering business conducted within—Will pulled in to a spot in the mostly empty lot. He sat for a moment, perfectly still, while Fran fumbled with her handbag.
“Are you leaving me?” Will asked suddenly.
Fran’s stomach made a nauseated lurch. “I don’t think this is the best time to talk about it,” she said.
“No, I need to know now. Are you leaving me?” Will’s hands were still on the steering wheel, and the car was idling.
“I think …,” Fran started, then stopped, sucking in a deep breath to summon her strength. Her mouth felt very dry, and her throat was so tight, the words barely squeezed out.
“I think we should consider separating.”
Will sat silently, his hands not moving from the wheel. Fran glanced over at him, wondering what he was thinking. But Will seemed frozen, not even blinking.
Finally, not able to take the silence for one moment longer, Fran said, “Are you okay?”
Will finally turned toward her. His eyes were glittering with unshed tears. Will, who she’d never seen cry before, not even when his mother had died. For the first time, Fran felt the weight of what she’d done. And it was unbearable. She loved Will, even if she wasn’t in love with him anymore. She didn’t want to hurt him. And yet, she didn’t see any way that she could avoid it.
“This isn’t any kind of a life,” Fran whispered. “We never make love. We never even kiss. It’s like we’re roommates. Good friends, comfortable with each other, but that’s not a marriage.”
“I guess that’s the difference between us. When I tally up everything we have going for us—our life together, the girls, our house, everything—I think that outweighs all of the bad,” Will said.
“Can you honestly say you’re still in love with me?” Fran asked.
“Yes,” Will said instantly. Then, after a painful beat, he said, “But I take it you don’t love me.”
“Of course I love you,” Fran said. “I’ll always love you. But this, what we have together”—Fran made a circular gesture with one hand—“it’s not enough for me. Not nearly enough. We’ve talked about it before, but nothing ever changes.”
Will absorbed this blow, flinching as though her words were physically painful.
“Is there someone else?” he asked.
Fran thought of Coop, of the way she could barely breathe when he was close by. She had no idea if he felt the same way—in fact, she seriously doubted whether any feelings he might have for her were as strong as hers for him—but in an odd way, Coop didn’t really matter. He wasn’t the issue. It was the promise of Coop, or of someone else. Someone that Fran could love completely and without reservation. Someone who, when he touched her, would make her want to fall into his arms, all languid eyes and jellied limbs.
“No,” she said. “There’s no one else.”
“Are you moving out?” Will asked.
Fran suddenly felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of this conversation. In all the times she’d pictured them discussing the dissolution of their marriage, she’d never thought it would take place in a car. Parked in front of the police station. With Iris waiting inside for them.
“I don’t know. I mean … we don’t have to make a decision about that right away,” Fran said. “I was thinking we should wait until after the holidays. I don’t want to spoil Christmas for the girls.”
Will stared into space. “So, what? We’re supposed to pretend everything’s fine until then?”
“We have a lot of experience with pretending everything’s fine, don’t we?” Fran said, her lips twisting in a bitter smile.
“No, actually. I really thought we were happy,” Will said quietly.
The smile vanished from Fran’s face. There was nothing, not one single thing, humorous about this situation.
“I’ll sleep on the couch for now,” she offered. “And we’ll take some time to figure out how everything else is going to work.”
“No, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Will said.
“I don’t mind.”
“Yes, you do. Your back will start to bother you,” Will said. He hesitated. “What are we telling people?”
“Nothing, yet,” Fran said. “I don’t want the girls to hear it from someone else first.”
Will nodded. “I suppose we should cancel the dinner party.”
“What? Why?” Fran asked.
He finally turned to stare at her. “You want to go ahead with it?”
Yes, Fran thought. Yes, I want to go through with it.
She’d only seen Coop the one time since he’d gotten back in town. Part of her—the sensible part, she assumed—had hoped that his absence from her life these past few months would make it easier to get over the fantasies she’d been having about him. But if anything, it had been just the opposite.
“I think we should. It will be fun,” Fran said.
Will looked incredulous. “Fun?” he repeated.
“It could be,” Fran said, feeling defensive.
“You don’t think we might be just a little distracted by whatever is going on with Iris?” Will gestured to the police station. “Not to mention the fact that our marriage is apparently falling apart?”
“I’ve already invited everyone over.”
“So uninvite them.”
“No,” Fran said. She shook her head. “Then we’ll have to say why, and the entire thing will be a huge drama, and I don’t want to do that.”
Will sighed. His face—usually so youthful—suddenly looked years older. “Fine, I don’t want to fight about it. Do what you want, as usual. Let’s go in and get Iris,” he said.
Will and Fran walked into the police station together, both of them silent. The building was new and everything was clean and shiny in an industrial way. At the front desk—the reception area, Fran thought, before realizing that this was ridiculous, it was a police station, not a hotel—a uniformed officer took their names and told them to take a seat in the empty waiting area. The room was decorated with maroon chairs made out of the sort of indestructible plastic that would probably survive a nuclear holocaust, and fake ficus trees in basket planters. Posters on the wall warned against DUIs and listed the warning signs of drug addiction.
“It’s so quiet,” Fran said.
“I guess six o’clock isn’t the rush hour for criminals,” Will said.
They lapsed into silence again. After they’d been waiting for about ten minutes, another officer—also in uniform—came out to the waiting room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Parrish?” she asked.
Fran’s heart gave a sickening lurch, as she and Will stood. It reminded her suddenly of the time when she was pregnant with Rory, and the ultrasound tech had become concerned that the baby might have a heart defect. She’d been referred to a fetal medical specialist for a type II ultrasound. And even though everything had turned out fine, and Rory was born healthy with a beautiful, strong heartbeat, the wait to find out what the specialist was going to say had been excruciating. She and Will had sat in a waiting room not unlike the one they were in now, clutching hands, united in their terror.
“Come right this way,” the officer said, after introducing herself as Selena Rodriguez.
She led them to a room with a long table flanked by more indestructible plastic chairs and a long mirrored window along one wall.
“Oh, my God,” Fran said, recognizing the setup from the police detective shows she watched. “Is this an interrogation room?”
Officer Rodriguez smiled. She was short and plump, with kind eyes and pretty long, dark hair. “It’s just a convenient place for us to talk,” she said.
Fran nodded. She and Will sat down on one side of the table, their backs to what Fran assumed was a one-way mirror, and Officer Rodriguez sat across from them, placing a folder on the table in front of her.
“What has Iris done?” Fran asked.
Will elbowed her gently. “What has she been accused of doing?” he corrected her.
Fran flushed. Of course she shouldn’t talk as though her daughter’s guilt was a foregone conclusion. She’d seen practically every episode of Law & Order.
“Iris was pulled over on US-1 for speeding,” Officer Rodriguez said.
“Wait, what?” Fran asked. “Iris was driving?”
The policewoman nodded. “The officer asked to see her license, but she said she didn’t have one.”
“That’s because she’s thirteen,” Fran said.
“She finally admitted that, which is why she was brought down to the station.”
Fran’s mouth gaped in a horrified O. She glanced at Will. He seemed composed, but she could tell by how pale he’d turned that he was equally stricken.
“Whose car was she driving?” Fran asked.
“It belongs to a boy named Alexander Hitchens,” the officer said.
Xander, Fran thought furiously. Iris’s so-called boyfriend, who I still haven’t met.
“What happens now?” Will asked.
“Iris broke several laws. She was underage, operating a car without a valid license, speeding. The underage charge alone is a second-degree misdemeanor, which can carry a five-hundred-dollar fine and up to a sixty-day jail sentence.”
Fran gasped, as a vision of Iris dressed in an orange coverall with the jail cell doors sliding shut behind her swam up in her thoughts. “What?”
“But that’s very unlikely. It’s more likely that you’ll be able to work out a plea agreement with the state attorney. Iris will probably end up having to do some community service hours.”
Fran rubbed a hand over her face. She wished Will would put his arm around her, but he sat as still as a statue.
“I’ll go get Iris,” Officer Rodriguez said, standing. “She’s pretty shaken up.”
“She better be,” Fran said, crossing her arms over her chest, as though that would keep her fury from erupting.
“Thank you,” Will said.
Once they were alone, Will looked at Fran. “You need to calm down,” he said.
“We are in a police station. Picking up our daughter. Because she was driving some older boy’s car. Even though she doesn’t have a driver’s license,” Fran said, biting the words out.
“I know where we are.”
“She could have been killed. She could have killed someone else.”
“I know,” Will said again. “But I still don’t think you should lose your temper.”
“If there has ever been a time and a place to lose my temper, this is it,” Fran said.
“We have to take Iris home and deal with her there. In private,” Will said.
“I already know how we’re going to deal with it. She’s grounded forever. No cellphone, no Facebook, no sleepovers, no contact with friends,” Fran raged. “And she’s going to pay back every last cent of the fine.”
“No contact with friends? How are you going to manage that? She’ll see her friends at school,” Will said.
“No more school, then,” Fran said.
Will’s eyebrows went up. “So, what, you’re going to homeschool her?”
“If that’s what it takes,” Fran said.
“I see. And what about your job?”
Fran opened her mouth, about to say that she’d quit if she had to, if that’s what it took to keep their daughter on the straight and narrow, when suddenly she remembered—she was about to become a single mother. She’d said she wanted a trial separation, but she and Will both knew what that really meant. Divorce. She stared at her husband. He looked back at her, sad resignation stamped on his face.
The door opened and Iris walked in, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around herself, with Officer Rodriguez right behind her. Iris’s cheeks were red and splotchy, and her thick black eyeliner was smudged. She looked younger than her thirteen years and even more vulnerable. When she saw her parents, her face crumpled.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Iris wailed.
Will and Fran both stood, the legs of their chairs scraping against the industrial tile. Fran’s anger drained away. Will was right—there would be a time for Iris to face the consequences, which would be swift and tough. But for right now, Fran was just thankful that her daughter was safe. She opened her arms, and Iris stepped into her embrace, and sobbed unrestrainedly on her mother’s shoulder. A moment later, Fran could feel Will’s arms going around them both.
“You both must hate me,” Iris said, her words thick with tears.
“Shh,” Fran said, stroking Iris’s hair. “It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
AUDREY SAT AT HER desk, going over the monthly payroll. Her mind kept wandering, though. It touched on Coop, skated over to Kenny—who had unsurprisingly begun to make noise about wanting to take their relationship to a new, physical level, which was something she didn’t think she could go through with—and finally landed on Fran, which caused her anger to simmer up again, black and foreboding.
How dare she, Audrey thought for the thousandth time since the night of the Wexlers’ dinner party. How dare Fran tell her she’d been deluded about the state of her marriage. Yes, Ryan had a problem with alcohol. But Audrey was sure they would have worked through it. Unlike Fran, she would never have given up on her husband.
It was all just an attempt to deflect Fran’s own marital deficiencies, Audrey decided. Fran was looking for any excuse to justify ditching a perfectly good marriage, just because boredom had set in. How selfish can you be? she thought scornfully. Fran was going to upset everyone around her, especially her daughters, all because she didn’t still get weak in the knees when Will walked in the room.
“Grow up,” Audrey muttered out loud.
“Excuse me?” Lisa asked.
Audrey looked up, startled. She hadn’t noticed Lisa passing by her office. And now the young woman was looking surprised and a little hurt.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean you,” Audrey said. “I was talking to myself.”
“That’s not a good sign.” Lisa grinned. She had clear ivory skin, spattered with freckles, shiny dark hair, and bright green-blue eyes. The fact that she didn’t live a particularly healthy lifestyle—she ate junk, never exercised, and freely admitted that she fell asleep with her makeup on more often than not—didn’t matter. Her glowing appearance was good marketing for the spa. “Why do you need to grow up? You’re the most grown up person I know.”
Audrey flapped a hand at her. “Not me. I was thinking about someone I know.”
“Who? That hot guy who had the pedicure to impress you?” Lisa asked.
Audrey blinked, taken aback. “What?”
“You know. James Bond.”
“James Bond?”
“Yes. The guy who looks like the actor who plays James Bond,” Lisa said.
“Are you talking about Sean Connery?” Audrey asked, bewildered.
“Is that his name?”
“That’s the name of the actor. He’s Scottish, I think. In his seventies, I would guess,” Audrey said.
It was Lisa’s turn to blink in confusion. “Huh? I’m talking about the guy who plays James Bond in the movies.”
It suddenly occurred to Audrey that Lisa was young enough—and, yes, it had to be admitted, dim enough—not to realize that the James Bond movie franchise was forty years old.
“Okay, which actor are you talking about? I have no idea who plays James Bond these days,” Audrey said.
“His name is Craig something. No, wait—it’s Daniel Craig.”
“I know who you’re talking about. You think Coop looks like Daniel Craig?” Audrey asked, oddly buoyed by the idea. She could see the resemblance. Not in their features necessarily—Coop’s features weren’t as chiseled, and his eyes didn’t droop at the corners, but now that she thought about it, they did have the same sort of roughly hewn sex appeal.
I slept with someone who looks like James Bond. Audrey was pleased at the thought. Okay, not the real James Bond. But the actor who plays him.
Then Audrey remembered. She wasn’t seeing Coop anymore. She was dating Kenny. Short Kenny with the protruding ears. Kenny, whose touch made her shrink away.
Lisa nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, totally,” she said. “He was hot in, like, a raw way. Do you know what I mean?”
Do I know what you mean? Audrey thought. Yes. I know exactly what you mean. She tried to banish the stomach quiver that thoughts of Coop always set off.
“I really need to finish the payroll,” Audrey said.
“Okay,” Lisa said good-naturedly and strode out of the office, a bounce in her step. Audrey could picture her, ten years from now, with a brawny, big-shouldered husband and four cheerful children, all of them excellent soccer players and solid C students.
Audrey attempted to refocus on the payroll. But for some reason, her thoughts kept wandering back to the last Easter before Ryan died. They weren’t particularly religious, so Easter had never been more than a chocolate bunny sort of holiday for them. They’d been invited to a party at a childless friend’s house, where an Easter egg hunt had been planned. Only instead of finding chocolate-filled eggs, they’d searched for miniature bottles of vodka and gin and individual-sized packets of aspirin. The party had been one of those social occasions where everyone was drinking too much. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Ryan had appeared stark naked, except for a pair of fake fur bunny ears.
“Say hello to Peter Rabbit,” he’d said, his speech slurring slightly. He then proceeded to hop around, a carrot stuck out of his mouth like a stogie, while the women scattered out of the way, lest he attempt to hop up against them.
Audrey had tried to pretend that it had all been planned, and that she was in on the joke. She’d laughed loudly and played along, as though it were all hilarious. But it wasn’t funny. Not at all. It had been mortifying, and she’d been furious with Ryan, who passed out that night in the middle of the resulting argument.
Yes, his drinking had been getting out of hand. Would their marriage have survived? Audrey wondered, suddenly doubting her earlier conviction that it would have. How many nights, weeks, months would Audrey have been content to fall asleep by herself, never sure of when Ryan would roll home from the neighborhood bar? He’d acted as though it was all very British—“I’m stopping by the pub,” he’d say, in an affected English accent—but that didn’t make it less dysfunctional.
Audrey shook her head, trying to dislodge these depressing thoughts. What was the point? What difference did it make now?
Focus on the payroll, she told herself, shaking her head again, as though that would dislodge the unpleasant thoughts swirling around inside. Payroll now. Breaking up with Kenny later, because obviously there was no way she was ever going to sleep with him. And after that … well, she’d deal with that when she had to.
WHEN WILL ANSWERED THE door, he looked pale and wan, as though he’d recently been sick.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” Coop asked as Will stood aside so he could enter the house. “Have you been on a diet?”
Will shook his head. “No.” He looked down at himself. “I guess I have lost a little weight,” he said. He sounded strained. In the distance, Coop could hear the sound of dishes clinking and someone laughing.
Coop stared at Will. “You okay, man?”
“Sure,” Will said. He hesitated, and then looked back over his shoulder. “Things have just been a little rough around here lately. We’ve had some trouble with Iris. And, well … Fran and I are having some issues, too.” He closed the door.
“Should I go?” Coop asked, sticking a thumb out and pointing back toward the door. “Maybe this isn’t a good time for you to be hosting the dinner party club.”
“No, no. You have to stay. Fran’s been cooking all day. In fact, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything,” Will said.
Coop wondered if he should press Will further. But in all the years they’d been friends, they never really talked about weighty, emotional issues. It wasn’t what men did. They talked boats and sports, would even discuss politics occasionally. But you never asked one of your friends how his marriage was going. It just wasn’t done.
While Coop deliberated whether he should break with tradition and ask Will for more details on what was going on, Will turned, and, waving Coop to follow him, said, “Come on back. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”
They headed toward the kitchen and as they approached, the voices and cooking smells became more pronounced. Coop braced himself for facing Audrey and Kenny. But neither was there. Fran, Jaime, Mark, and Leland looked up at his entrance.
“Coop! I didn’t even hear the doorbell,” Fran said, beaming at him.
He kissed her on the cheek. She looked like she’d lost more weight, too, but—unlike Will—it suited her. Her skin was glowing and her eyes, as they met his, were bright and laughing.
Coop greeted everyone, also kissing Jaime, and shaking hands with Mark and Leland.
“The men outnumber the women two to one tonight,” Leland said. He was perched on one of the kitchen stools, looking especially spry. A gardenia was stuck in the buttonhole of his blue blazer.
“Those are never the sort of odds I like,” Coop said.
Leland laughed. “That makes two of us.”
“Where’s Audrey?” Coop asked, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.
“She’s not coming,” Fran said. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“Is she out of town?” Coop asked.
Fran and Jaime exchanged a meaningful look.
“Audrey’s decided to drop out of the dinner party club,” Jaime said delicately.
“What?” Coop goggled at her. “Was it because of me?”
Fran and Jaime stared at him with twin expressions of confusion.
“Why? What did you do?” Fran asked.
“Nothing,” Coop said quickly. “I just … I thought from the way you said it. Never mind.”
“Fran and Audrey had a falling out,” Jaime explained.
“Jaime,” Fran said sharply.
Jaime glanced up, startled. Her expression quickly turned sheepish. “I didn’t say why,” she said.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” Coop said.
Mark put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “That’s because they’re talking in women code.”
“We are not,” Jaime said, but she smiled at him and leaned back against his shoulder.
Coop desperately wanted to know more—Why wasn’t Audrey coming? Was she that desperate to avoid him? And was she still dating Kenny?—but Fran and Jaime seemed to have entered into a silent pact not to talk about Audrey. Instead, Jaime launched into a discussion of falling house prices while Fran turned and began the risotto, which momentarily distracted him. Coop had always been partial to risotto.
“What are you putting in it?” he asked, as Fran diced up an onion with a large kitchen knife.
“Didn’t you get the email I sent out with the menu?”
“Um, maybe,” Coop said.
“That was convincing,” Fran said. “It’s sausage and mushroom risotto.” She showed him a white bowl, containing the already cooked sausage and mushrooms. The mixture was scented with thyme and oregano.
“It smells fantastic,” Coop said.
“Thanks,” Fran said.
She finished with the onions, and moved on, diced four plump cloves of garlic. She melted a stick of butter in a large pot, and dumped the diced onion and garlic in to sizzle in the butter, stirring the mixture with a rubber spatula. She looked up at Coop under lowered eyelashes.
“Are you watching me?” Fran asked.
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to make risotto,” Coop said. “I order it whenever I’m out and it’s on the menu.”
“I know,” Fran said. This time, there was a teasing lilt to her voice and she tilted her head to one side. She looked at him meaningfully. “That’s why I’m making it.”
What was up with her lately? Coop wondered uneasily. He glanced at Will, wondering if he, too, was noticing his wife’s behavior. But Will, still looking morose, was chatting with Jaime, or, rather, listening to Jaime while she talked at him about the trials of finding a good nursery school.
“Maybe I should go see what …,” Coop began, having no idea how he was going to finish the sentence. Listen to Mark bore on about his daughter’s latest tennis triumph? Ask Leland for dating advice? But Fran stopped him.
“No, don’t go. I’m about to start pouring the rice in, and then I basically have to stand here and stir for the next twenty-five minutes,” she said.
“That long? Wow. You’re really committed to your risotto,” Coop said.
“That’s how you make it,” Fran said, adding Madeira wine and chicken broth to the pot. They began to simmer, and she added the Arborio rice, stirring the mixture vigorously. “Stay and keep me company while I stir.”
“Okay,” Coop said. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms, and watched Fran stir the risotto in a brisk, clockwise motion. He wondered if every cook stirred in one direction, or if some changed directions. Maybe it was one of those personality indicators, like having a preference for the toilet paper hanging over rather than under the roll.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Fran asked.
“Not at the moment,” Coop said.
“And why’s that?” Fran asked. “I know it’s not for lack of interested women. You always have quite the following.” She ladled some hot broth, which was simmering in a sauce pan on the stove, and added it to the risotto.
“I don’t know about that,” Coop said.
This time, the look Fran gave Coop was not at all flirtatious. In fact, it was the same old Fran he had known for years looking at him with exasperated disbelief. “What’s this? Since when did you start acting humble?”
“I’ve changed my ways,” Coop said. “I pretty much had to after my ex-girlfriends ganged up on me and accused me of being cocky. It was ugly.”
“It must have been if it turned you modest,” Fran teased him. She was stirring the risotto so vigorously, her cheeks had flushed again and a loose curl bounced against her temple.
“Have you heard from Audrey recently?”
Fran’s smile faded, and her face closed off. “No.”
“I thought you two were good friends?” Coop said.
Fran shrugged. Coop wondered if Audrey had told Fran something about him—about what had happened between them—and Fran was reluctant to divulge any confidences to him.
“Is she okay?” he asked quietly.
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Fran asked, looking at him, her expression a mixture of defiance and confusion.
“No reason. Never mind. I’m going to head to the rest-room,” Coop said, and then, when he returned to the kitchen, he joined Will and Jaime’s mind-numbingly dull conversation about pre-primary schools. Luckily, it was short-lived, as Jaime took over keeping Fran company while she stirred, leaving Will and Coop free to talk fishing.
“I think we’re just about ready to eat,” Fran said twenty minutes later. “Why don’t we move to the dining room.”
The dinner party guests obligingly tripped off to the dining room, and once everyone was seated at the table, Will held up a bottle of wine.
“How is everyone doing on drinks? More wine, Leland?” Will asked.
Leland smiled and held out his glass. “Please. Empty glasses always depress me.”
“That sounds like one of those sayings that should be embroidered on a pillow,” Fran said, laughing, as she came in with a platter of antipasto and a loaf of warmed rustic Italian bread.
Coop wondered again at how cheerful Fran seemed, and the stark contrast this made to Will’s pallid and somber demeanor.
As the antipasto platter was passed around, Leland, seated to Coop’s right, looked at him sternly and said, “What is the story behind Audrey’s absence?”
Coop shook his head and shrugged. “I have no idea. I know as much about it as you do.”
Leland continued to look at him. It reminded Coop vividly of being a kid hauled up in front of the principal.
“I think these dinner parties are good for Audrey,” Leland said censoriously. “She spends too much time on her own. That’s not good for a woman like her.”
“A woman like her? What does that mean?” Fran asked, frowning.
“Some people are happier on their own. But I think those types are rare. Most people are social beings. They need to be out, around other people, having fulfilling relationships,” Leland said.
“I think that’s true,” Jaime chimed in. “I read an article a while back that said people who are involved in organizations are happier than people who aren’t. It doesn’t matter what it is—a church, a sport, a book club.”
“A dinner party club,” Mark said.
“Exactly,” Jaime said, nodding at her husband.
The conversation shifted into a discussion of clubs. Jaime said she also belonged to a book club, and Mark joked that he might be a Free Mason, but wouldn’t be able to tell them if he was. Leland used the cover of this conversation to turn to Coop and quietly say, “You need to make things right with her. That’s not the sort of woman you should let get away.”
Coop was starting to feel exasperated. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but trust me—I’m not the reason why Audrey isn’t here,” Coop said. As he spoke, he wondered if this was in fact true. After all, he’d never known that so many of his ex-girlfriends carried such resentment about how things had ended. But that was just it, Coop thought—he hadn’t broken up with Audrey. She’d ditched him. And then ran off with Kenny and his cellphone holster.
“Why would Audrey not come because of Coop?” asked Fran, who was sitting at the head of the table on Leland’s other side.
“She wouldn’t. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me,” Coop said. He shrugged, feeling defensive.
“Hmm,” Leland said, clearly not buying this.
Fran sighed. “Okay, I didn’t want to get into it, but it really has nothing to do with Coop. Audrey’s not here because she and I had an argument. A bad one, actually. I think it’s the end of our friendship.”
“No, it’s not,” Jaime protested. She slid a sidewise glance at Will, which Coop found odd.
“Anyway, I know it’s awkward, but let’s just try to move on,” Fran said. She turned to Coop and smiled. “How’s your new project going? Are you still in the process of editing the dolphin footage?”
Fran served the risotto, and they segued into small talk. Mark updated them on his daughter’s tennis career, of course, and Jaime and Fran lamented the lack of a good local bakery, while Will stayed mostly mute, coming to life for only a brief period when the bakery discussion turned to which restaurant in town made the best brownies.
“Margaret Davies,” Leland said suddenly.
Coop looked at him, feeling vaguely uneasy. Was this early stage dementia? Leland had seemed a bit off all evening. He asked Jaime twice what her children’s names were, and seemed confused when Fran handed him the bread basket.
“Do you want some more water?” Coop asked, brandishing the pitcher.
“Margaret Davies made the best carrot cake. It was so spicy and moist,” Leland said, his voice dreamy.
An uneasy silence fell over the table. Leland’s eyes were unfocused, and his speech was slightly slurred. He seemed to be listing to the right. Coop poured water into Leland’s goblet.
“Have some water,” Coop urged the older man.
“She was a beautiful woman, too. Those long, long legs that seemed like they went straight up to her shoulders. My wife never forgave me for Margaret. Not really. I wish she had. You should forgive the people you love, especially when they’re so sorry. And I was so sorry,” Leland continued. His voice began to slur.
Coop looked at Will. “Stroke?” he mouthed.
“Maybe we should call 911,” Will said.
Suddenly, Leland slumped forward, crashing into the table. Jaime gasped, and Coop and Fran both jumped to their feet.
“Call 911!” Coop yelled.
Will sprinted off to the kitchen to retrieve the phone. With help from Fran and Mark, Coop got the elderly man out of his chair, and laid him down on the floor.
“Do you know how to do CPR?” Fran asked him.
Coop nodded and began to check for vital signs. Leland wasn’t breathing, and his eyes were open, staring unseeingly up at the brass chandelier. Trying to remember the CPR class he’d taken years earlier, Coop blew two deep breaths into Leland’s mouth and then began to do chest compressions on Leland’s thin chest. One, and two, and three, and four …
He counted to thirty, then stopped. Leland still wasn’t breathing.
“An ambulance is on the way,” Will said.
“Let me help,” Fran said.
She positioned herself at Leland’s head and took over blowing deep breaths into his mouth. Coop began another series of chest compressions.
“Come on,” Coop said through gritted teeth. “Come on, Leland.”
It felt like forever until the ambulance arrived. He and Fran worked together. Breaths, compressions, breaths, compressions. The others stood by silently, watching. Coop and Fran kept at it, right up until emergency rescue services arrived. And even after the EMTs took over, attempting to revive Leland with a portable defibrillator, Coop continued to count in his head. One, and two, and three, and four …
Come on, Coop thought, trying to focus all of his willpower onto the elderly man. Come on. Wake up.
But in the end, nothing any of them did helped. And Leland never did wake up.