WILL’S SHRIMP DISH WAS delicious, as was the salad course, but by the time the scallops were served, it was already ten o’clock, and everyone had consumed too much wine and not enough food. Audrey was starting to feel light-headed, and happily accepted the plate of seared scallops Fran passed to her. The scallops were swimming in a butter sauce, and nestled next to a mound of tarragon-scented rice.
“Yum,” Audrey said.
“That smells so good it must be fattening,” Jaime commented, taking a sip of water.
“Like that’s something you have to worry about,” Fran said, setting down the last of the plates, while Will refreshed everyone’s water and wine. “Does everybody have everything they need?”
The scallops were amazing—tender and perfectly complemented by the delicate sauce. There was a lull in the conversation as everyone ate.
“Fran, you have outdone yourself,” Leland said. “What a lovely meal.”
“Absolutely wonderful,” Mark said.
Fran looked flushed but pleased. “Would anyone like more scallops?”
Jaime leaned back in her chair, sighing with contentment, one hand resting on her flat stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“We still have two courses to go,” Will reminded her.
Jaime groaned. “I should have paced myself. I’m going to start off the New Year twenty pounds heavier.”
“This is a treat for me. It’s the first time I’ve been out on New Year’s Eve since my wife died,” Leland said.
Audrey turned to the older man. “I was just thinking the same thing on my way over here. I’m a widow,” she added, although the word still felt awkward on her tongue even after seven years.
Leland’s face creased with distress, and Audrey instantly regretted her words. Why was she bringing up Ryan now? And at a party?
“I’m so sorry. You’re too young to already be widowed,” Leland said.
“A car accident,” Audrey said. Then, anxious to change the subject, she asked, “What did you and your wife used to do on New Year’s Eve?”
“We always got dressed up and went out dancing,” Leland said.
“That sounds like fun,” Jaime chimed in.
“Oh, it was. Penny loved to dance. Me, I have no rhythm, but she was a natural. But she would have loved this, too,” Leland said, indicating the remnants of their dinner with a sweep of his hand. “She always adored throwing dinner parties.”
“I do, too,” Jaime said. “I was just thinking we should get together like this more often.”
“We definitely should,” Will said, helping himself to more wine.
“Why don’t we?” Fran asked. “I was just reading an article in a cooking magazine about how popular dinner party clubs have become.”
“Dinner party clubs?” Mark echoed. “That sounds very official. Would we get to wear a fez like the Shriners?”
“It’s like a book club, only instead of discussing a book each month, you have a group of friends over for dinner. Everyone takes a turn hosting,” Fran said.
“Eating in is the new eating out?” Will suggested.
“I love this idea,” Jaime said. “Count us in.”
“How would it work? Would it just be the six of us?” Mark asked.
“I’m not sure. Should we invite one more couple?” Fran said. Her eyes cut to Audrey. “Or it wouldn’t have to necessarily be another couple.”
Audrey pointed a finger at her friend. “No matchmaking. You promised.” She turned to Leland. “Fran is forever trying to set me up, and she has the absolute worst taste in men.”
“Hey now,” Will said.
“Other than you, of course,” Audrey said.
Fran held her hands up. “I promise. No more set ups. So should we keep it to just us? What do you all think?”
“How about the Ferrers?” Jaime suggested.
“Absolutely not,” Fran and Will said together.
Jaime looked bemused. “What’s wrong with the Ferrers? Christine’s a sweetheart.”
“Yes, Christine is lovely. But Adam’s an ass,” Fran said.
“Is he? I’ve never really talked to him. I usually see Christine on her own. We take yoga together. What’s wrong with him?” Jaime asked.
“Me, me, me,” Will said.
“You?” Jaime repeated. Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. “You’re what’s wrong with him?”
“Adam’s a narcissist. Everything is always about him. What he likes to do, the music he likes to listen to, whatever hobby he’s currently into. He’s incapable of having a conversation that doesn’t focus on him. And God forbid that you should ever disagree with him,” Fran said.
“And did you know that he went to Yale?” Will said.
“No, I didn’t. Why? Is Yale a bad thing?” Jaime asked.
“No, but it proves that you’ve never really talked to him. Because if you had, you would have known that Adam went to Yale,” Will said.
“Seriously. I’ve known Adam Ferrer for ten years, and even after all this time, he still makes a point to tell me he went to Yale every single time I see him,” Fran said.
“Oh, the Yale guy!” Mark snapped his fingers. “Now I know who you’re talking about. He’s sort of short, with a thick neck and mostly bald?”
“Hey, watch it. There’s nothing wrong with being bald,” Will said. “In fact, I have it on good authority that my style is going to be all the rage six months from now. I like to call it the ‘Friar Tuck.’ Just wait, you’ll see George Clooney shaving his head to imitate the male-pattern baldness that I come by naturally.”
“Just keep telling yourself that, honey,” Fran said, reaching over to pat his hand. “I think we should come up with a name for our dinner party club. Any ideas?”
“How about the Hungry, Hungry Hippos?” Mark suggested.
“How much have you had to drink?” Jaime asked him.
“Not nearly enough,” Mark said. He grabbed the wine bottle and poured himself a healthy amount. “I need to let out my inner hedonist. You’re driving us home.”
“The Hedonists! That’s what we can call ourselves,” Will said.
“No way,” Fran said. “That’s the name of that naked resort.”
“Come again?” Mark asked. “A naked resort? I want to hear more about that.”
“You know. It’s one of those all-inclusive resorts in Jamaica, only everyone walks around naked,” Fran said.
“Ick,” Jaime said. “Because I so want to lie down on a chaise longue that some guy has rubbed his naked, hairy ass all over.”
“Okay, that’s out. We absolutely do not want a club name that conjures up images of naked, hairy man asses,” Will said, leaning back in his chair and crossing an ankle over one knee.
“How about the Home Chefs?” Jaime suggested.
“That sounds like a line of kitchenware,” Fran said.
“You’re right,” Jaime conceded. “I’m terrible at coming up with names. Ask Mark. It took me forever to decide on the kids’ names.”
“There will be six of us, right? Why don’t we call it the Table for Six Club?” Fran suggested.
“I sort of like it,” Mark said.
“Me, too,” Jaime said.
“I think we have a name,” Will said. He raised his wineglass in a toast. “To the Table for Six Club.”
“The Table for Six Club,” the others chimed in, clinking together their glasses.
The doorbell rang. Everyone looked at one another in surprise.
“Christmas carolers?” Mark suggested.
“A week after Christmas?” Jaime said.
“Christmas carolers with poor calendaring skills?” Will said.
“I’ll go see who it is,” Fran said, starting to stand. She looked unsteady, and swayed for a moment before catching the back of her chair.
“Wait, you stay put. I’ll go,” Audrey said.
“I’m fine,” Fran protested.
“Honey, you’re drunk,” Will said. He grinned. “As am I.”
“It’s these bottomless wineglasses,” Mark said, inspecting his as though it were a strange artifact. “Every time I empty it, it magically refills itself.”
“Why doesn’t Audrey seem drunk?” Fran asked.
“I switched to water over an hour ago,” Audrey said, patting Fran’s shoulder as she passed by. “I’ll be right back.”
Audrey left the room with some relief. It felt good to stand after so many hours of sitting, and she arched her back, stretching the muscles. She fumbled momentarily with the dead bolt and then opened the front door. There, standing on the front porch, was a tall, rangy man with broad shoulders. His face was tan, and his fair hair was short. His features weren’t handsome—his pale eyes drooped at the outer edges and were lined, and his nose looked like it might have been broken at some point. But the overall effect was surprisingly sexy.
He blinked at her. “You’re not Fran.”
Audrey smiled. “No. I’m not.” She held out her hand. “I’m Audrey Dickinson.”
He shook her hand. His hands were large, and the palms were calloused. “Nice to meet you, Audrey Dickinson. I’m Coop.”
Ah, Audrey thought. Will’s gay friend. She was a little surprised—Coop didn’t seem gay. She could have sworn that his eyes flickered toward her cleavage for a moment.
“Just Coop?” Audrey asked.
“Preston Cooper.” Coop grimaced. “I still haven’t forgiven my parents for that. But I suppose it could have been worse.”
“True. They could have named you something really weird, like Phoenix or Dweezil,” Audrey said.
Coop grinned. “I always thought that if you’re going to have an unusual name, it should be something really cool. Like, I don’t know”—he pondered this for a moment—“Spike?”
Audrey wrinkled her nose.
“No? How about d’Artagnan?” Coop suggested.
“D’Artagnan? Isn’t that one of the Three Musketeers?”
“Yes. It has a certain swashbuckling charm, don’t you think? And it’s much more manly than Athos or Porthos.”
“Much more manly,” Audrey agreed. “Come on in. Everyone’s in the dining room. You missed the main course.”
“I’m only stopping by for a few minutes. I just left one party and am headed toward another. But I thought I’d swing by and say hello,” Coop said, stepping inside.
Audrey remembered Fran telling her at some point that Coop directed oceanographic documentaries. It was funny, she thought, that in all the times Fran and Will had mentioned Coop over the years, they’d never said anything about his sexual orientation. Anyway, it was too bad he hadn’t been able to make it for dinner. He would have been an interesting addition to the group. More interesting than Jaime’s bore of a husband.
“Who’s here?” Fran asked, appearing in the hallway. Her eyes were too bright, but she had discarded her heels and was now standing steadily in her bare feet. “Coop! I can’t believe you made it!”
Fran flung herself in Coop’s arms, and when she pulled away, her face was flushed. “Come in and say hi to everyone,” she said, taking Coop’s hand and pulling him into the dining room.
Audrey trailed after them. Fran introduced Coop to the rest of the guests, while Will found him a chair and poured him a glass of wine.
“I really can’t stay,” Coop said. “Although it looks like I missed quite a meal.”
“You did. Everything was wonderful. Fran is a fabulous chef,” Leland said.
“I know she is,” Coop said, throwing an affectionate arm around Fran’s shoulders.
“We were just talking about making this a regular event,” Will said. “Forming a monthly dinner party club.”
“Coop, you totally have to join,” Fran said.
Coop looked skeptical. “What exactly would it entail?”
“We’ll get together once a month and take turns hosting,” Jaime explained.
“I’d have to cook?” Coop asked.
“I’ll help you when it’s your turn,” Fran said. “Come on, you have to join us. It will be so much more fun with you there.”
“Should we take that the wrong way?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it every month,” Coop said. “I’m looking at taking another filming trip in the next few months.”
“That’s okay. You can come when you’re in town,” Fran said.
“You might as well go along with it,” Will said to Coop. “You know how Fran is. When she gets an idea into her head, resistance is futile.”
“She is persistent,” Coop agreed, patting Fran’s shoulder.
“Just do what I do. Nod and say, ‘Yes, dear,’ ” Will said, demonstrating his beleaguered husband nod.
“Will, cut it out,” Fran said, her tone suddenly sharp.
“It’s okay, I already know better than to argue with you,” Coop said. “I’m in. But I’m going to hold you to your promise to help me when it’s my turn.”
Fran grinned at him. “You’ve got it. I’ll be your sous chef.”
“No, I’ll be your sous chef,” Coop said, squeezing her arm.
“Why does that sounds vaguely dirty?” Mark asked.
“Because Coop’s the one saying it,” Will said. “What did we say the name of our dinner party club was going to be?”
“Table for Six,” Jaime said.
“Now we’re seven,” Will said. He raised his glass. “Let’s try this toast thing again. To the Table for Seven Dinner Party Club.”