He sighs. “Get some sleep, Jessie. But my vote will be the same in the morning. I think he likes you. And I’m pretty sure we’ve been having this same chat since middle school.”
Well, ouch. “Goodnight, Dyson.”
“Night, kitty cat.”
Two nights later I don’t really feel like going out, but I promised my brother I’d accompany him to an event thrown by the wives and girlfriends of the hockey team. Jamie is an honorary member of the WAGS club. As far as I can tell, they have two purposes. First, to drink together at every home game. Second, they do charity work. Tonight is some kind of planning session for their annual holiday Christmas party. It raises money for the same children’s hospital where I visited the cancer ward for my very first hospital assignment.
“What are we bringing?” I ask my brother, eyeing the shopping bag under his arm.
“I brought a couple of six-packs. The WAGS like fruity drinks. So BYOB if you want something else.”
“I love fruity drinks.”
We’ve arrived at a downtown apartment building with a lobby even grander than the one where my brother lives. “Whose apartment is this again?”
“Katie and Ben Hewitt live here. Wait ’til you see this place.”
Jamie isn’t kidding. Their pad is swanky. It has a formal entry foyer with a chandelier. A uniformed maid takes our coats. When we step into the giant room beyond, my eyes lift to find the double-height ceiling. There’s a walkway around the upper part, from which doors disappear to parts unknown.
“Cheezus,” I whisper.
Jamie cocks an eyebrow.
“I mean…” I clear my throat. “This is some place.”
The women spot us and then tackle Jamie like a tidal wave. “You came!” “You didn’t have to bring beer!” “Have a cookie!”
Good lord. I love Jamie, but he’s not a celebrity.
They cluck on over to me. I’m hugged and patted, too. “You look so much like him!”
“Would you believe there’re six of us?” I ask, shaking Katie Hewitt’s hand.
“Shut the front door!” she shrieks. “Six? Are you all gorgeous? I don’t know if the world can handle that much beauty.”
Her words turn me into a stuttering goofball, because I’ve never been good at taking a compliment. Luckily, someone brings me a strawberry daiquiri. Jamie’s wink says, I told you so about the fruity drinks.
But the thing is delicious, and I’ve decided that these women know how to have fun. Starving nursing students don’t party like this, and it’s a nice treat.
I’m introduced around as “Jamie’s gorgeous sister.” Which means nothing, because everyone here is either glamorous or beautiful or both. Katie Hewitt has thick, glossy hair and diamond earrings so large that I’m surprised she can hold her head up. She’s a hoot, too. Her brand of glam isn’t Rich-and-Stuffy. It’s Let’s-Party-Like-Wild-Women. She’s wearing a custom Toronto jersey with the logo done in rhinestones, and I’d lay odds that her red lipstick was color-matched to the team’s logo. Under one arm she holds a chubby white poodle with a red bow on its curly little head.
She’s the hostess, so I take her for the leader of this organization. But when the meeting is called to order, it’s by a dark-haired beauty named Estrella. She’s wearing a “C” on her Toronto sweater, and I can’t decide whether her husband is the team captain or if it refers to her own title.
Because she’s clearly in charge.
“Listen up, ladies!” she declares, banging on a daiquiri glass with an elegant silver spoon. “First, I want to thank Katie for hosting us tonight.”
“Oh, come on, I fucking live for this!” Katie says, beaming. A cheer rises up.
Estrella taps her spoon again, calling for order. “Now we have a very important decision to make. Which caterer do we want for the Christmas party?”
All the carefully made-up faces around the room turn thoughtful. A young woman raises her hand. “Which one made those pigs in blankets we had at our summer party?”
“That’s the guys at North End. But there’ll be children at this party, and hot dogs are a choking risk.”
There are murmurs of agreement, and several heads are scratched.
“But we can still have mini empanadas and mini quiche. So all is not lost.”
They discuss miniaturized foodstuffs for a few minutes while I wander over to the buffet table and nibble on fancy cheese. My brother sets himself up in front of the largest TV screen I’ve ever seen, on a beanbag chair the size of Mount McKinley. He pats the space beside him, and I sit down to the familiar crunch of shifting Styrofoam.
“God, I want this chair,” I whisper, petting the plush surface. It’s wooly and warm. “I could just live my whole life right here. It’s like a giant…”
“Sheep,” Jamie supplies. Then he grins. “Did Blake ever tell you about his fear of sheep?”
“His…what?” I’m thrown a little by Jamie’s mention of Blake. I don’t want my family to know about my recent frisky business with the guy. They already think I’m a screw-up and a lightweight. I don’t need to give them any more reasons to judge me.
“Yup. He hates sheep. Can’t stand ’em. Thinks they’re dangerous.”