Cocktail Hour (21 page)

Kate felt warmth go through her. Thank God for Bianca. The phone rang again and Kate scuttled away while pawing through her purse frantically. Flipping open her old worn-out cell-phone that she couldn't bear to part with for a newer model, she gasped, “Hello?”

“Kate, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Just got your message. One of those days, I’m afraid. What’s your news?”

“I’m sorry? I called you too soon. We were excited because of one of those silly over the counter pregnancy tests?”

“You’re pregnant? Well, that’s blessed news!”

“But those tests are usually wrong?”

“Oh? I didn’t know that. No…your sisters used them. No problem?”

“Well, anyway...let’s wait and see what the doctor says? I’m probably not going to use those tests anymore. I’ve heard bad things?”

“That’s news to me. But you probably have heard the latest, being married to a doctor,” her mother said, the usual swelling of pride evident in her voice. “It’s a good thing we’re talking though. I’d been meaning to call you. It’s about David.”

“David? What’s the matter with David?”

“That’s the thing. We’re not sure. He hasn't been showing up to work lately. Calling in sick a lot. We had him to dinner on Sunday, but he said everything was fine. He just won’t tell us. You know how he gets. Stubborn through and through.”

Kate felt the world swirl a little, and stopping next to an empty table, she put a hand out to steady herself on it. David? What was the matter? And yes, when prodded, he closed up tight. You had to coax him, appease his need for independence through reassurance that it was his choice, that you would be waiting when he was ready. But her parents and siblings weren’t patient enough, got frustrated and pushed. “Yes? He is? But if you wait? He comes around? But how often has he missed work?”

“A lot. Three weeks now. He’s going to lose his place at the group home if he can’t work. It’s a requirement.”

“I know,” Kate said. This was bad. Three weeks wasn’t a head cold or a tummy ache. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, David! Her sweet David.

“We were hoping that you could come home and see him? He’ll talk to you.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to Grant later and try to figure something out.”

“Soon as you can. Thank you, Katie sweetheart. We knew we could count on you.”

The light-headedness was growing worse. Maybe she
was
pregnant. Kate lowered herself into one of the chairs at the table. “Okay? I’ll call you tomorrow. Anything else going on?”

Kate half-listened to her mother’s flannel-soft familiar voice telling her about the usual problems: the ever-falling prices per hundredweight of milk, issues with the feed and various animals, and the ongoing war for prime real estate at the local farmer’s market. Kate was distracted, hit by the fact that what her mother had just said was true. They had always counted on Kate to help when it came to David.

Her parents hadn’t been prepared for their late-in-life “surprise” and even less prepared to take care of a special needs child. So, as the youngest child who was able-bodied and able-minded, who carried the lightest load on the farm, Kate had been the one to really mother David. She had been the one to change his diapers even when he grew too big for them and graduated to adult diapers, to teach him how to feed himself and actually get food in his mouth when he should have been learning how to ride a bicycle without training wheels, to still be laboring over basic single-number addition and subtraction with him when he was a teenager.

Staring at the little brown birds that were hopping around on the pavement nearby, Kate realized that she had abandoned David by moving away. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Family was nearby; he had his job and his group home. But Kate had been the one he had always counted on, looking to her whenever confused, asking her to sing Cat Stevens' song, “Moonshadow” over and over to him when he was anxious or scared, the tune and rhythm of the song soothing to him. As if in echo to the lyrics of that remembered song in her head, the little birds leapt and hopped about closer to Kate’s feet.

She swallowed hard. How could she have done this to David? But that's not what mattered now. She had to make it right and care for him somehow, help him. She said goodbye to her mother and ended the call, her hand once again reaching for her belly and hoping for the reassurance of roundness there. It was, as always, resolutely flat.

Mojito

Half-listening to Chelsea and Sharon's conversation, Bianca took another sip of the proffered champagne. It was okay, but nowhere near as good as even the least expensive champagne she served at her largest parties. But they were giving, so she was taking. Or maybe not. What she really wanted was a mojito.

She put her glass down and looked over toward where the waiters still hovered near the potted palms flanking the door of the restaurant. Seeing her look, two of them rushed forward and stumbled a little over each other trying to be the first to reach her side. It was a comical display and a clear sign of the dregs that usually dined at this second-tier restaurant.

"Yes, miss?"

"Madam?"

Bianca said, "I'm sorry, but I'm really in the mood for a mojito after all. Do you serve them here?"

The first waiter furrowed his brow. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, but-"

"Of course we do!" The second waiter insisted, his chest puffing out. "Coming right up," he said and then ran back inside with the other following and whispering urgently at his back.

While she was waiting, she tuned back into the conversation. Chelsea was saying something about a man named Travis. Aha! Bianca perked up out of habit. Ever since high school it was an unspoken rule between them that Bianca had first dibs on any man of interest, Chelsea taking the leftovers. Whenever Chelsea forgot this, Bianca kindly reminded her by actively stealing the man in question away from her. With the lone exception of John, she always had a brief fling with Chelsea's love interest during which Bianca made sure the guy fell in love with her, and then tossed him away like used Kleenex. Although she had no use for Chelsea's men anymore, she still felt the need to see Chelsea jump.

"Travis, huh? Tell me more, Chelsea. I'm very interested," Bianca said, leaning in.

Chelsea's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Oh, but Bianca! You're married? To John?"

"I doubt you need to remind me. But tell."

"I...Travis is a guy. No one special! From work?"

Sharon said, "Bianca, I'm surprised Chelsea hasn't told you about him. He's-"

Chelsea was saved in that moment by the waiter arriving with Bianca's mojito and presenting it with a flourish. "Your mojito, madam?"

He placed it in front of Bianca and then stood there, hands behind his back as if at attention. She looked at him and waved her hand in dismissal, tired of the over-service at this restaurant already. She certainly hoped the food lived up to Lucie's high praise.

Once he left, she sipped it. This was not a mojito. The ingredients – rum, mint, sugar, lime juice, a splash of soda water - were right, but that's where it ended. No one had muddled it, that was evident by the intact and nearly tasteless mint leaves stuffed in the glass that were supposed to be crushed to a pulp. She took another sip. And it had been vulgarly sweetened with syrup instead of superfine sugar. Obviously, the Luna in Cafe Luna was the luna-tic behind the bar that thought this hot mess was a mojito.

Bianca put the drink down, utterly disgusted with this evening out, and turned her attention back to Chelsea, who had wisely steered the conversation away. Now they were complaining about TMB. Oh, yawn. Boring, boring, boring corporate-slave-talk. Why was she here again?

But of course: John. He was the one that required her regular attendance at all-female nights out. If she didn't attend, the questions started and where they led was dangerous. When she and John were first married, he frequently referred to Chelsea as Bianca's "friend". So much so, she tried to correct him once, only to find out that this would be the stumbling place between them.

"Oh, don't forget," he said, hurrying to dress for work one Wednesday morning after one of their more torrid sessions in bed, making him late again. "Poker tonight with the guys. I'll be home by midnight."

"Again?" Bianca asked, lounging nude on the bed, posed provocatively and hoping for round two. This was before she got bored with the house and John, before Sebastian was conceived and born and the nanny moved in down the hall, when she still enjoyed sex with her freshly-acquired husband. "Why? Aren't I enough of a diversion?"

Knotting his tie, his black hair still wet from the shower, John looked over at her. "Oh, you are. And you're trouble. Look at you. I know what you want," he said and grinned wickedly at her.

"Then why don't you come back here and give it to me?"

"Because I'll lose my job if I'm late for this meeting," he said and sighed, turning to the mirror on the opposite wall and adjusting his tie. "I'll just make it if I fly."

Bianca looked at her husband. God, he was good looking. And rich. Well, he had to be rich or she wouldn't have married him. Imagine that, little dumb-bunny Chelsea scooping up a winner like John and then holding on to him long enough to introduce him to Bianca. And what was he talking about? He couldn't be more secure. She'd met his employers, saw how they drooled over him - right before they started drooling over her.  "You're dreaming. They'll never fire you. You're the best they've got and they know it."

John laughed. "I love it when you talk like that. Could I have a better wife, or what? So, are you going to be all right tonight? Why don't you have a girl's night with Chelsea?"

"Chelsea? Why?"

"She's your best bud, right? Why don't you two get together tonight? It would get you out of the house?"

"Chelsea's more of an acquaintance. She's not-"

John had sat down on a chair near his closet to tie his shoes, but he stopped with the laces still in his fingers and looked at her from across the room. His expression was incredulous. "What? Chelsea was your maid of honor at our wedding?"

Bianca opened her mouth, but then couldn't think of what to say. "I...," she said and stopped.

John's eyes narrowed. "I didn't want to say anything, sweetheart, but...it's not natural. I mean, you never go out with your friends. You never talk to them on the phone. Every girlfriend I ever had couldn't get off the phone, for God's sake. Not you. But I thought that Chelsea and you were really close, you know, just the two of you, and- "

"She is my best friend! You're right," Bianca said, rushing to fix it. Okay, if she had to hang out with Chelsea again, she would. Just erase any doubts from John's mind. "I guess I just feel distant from her lately. She's always busy."

Chelsea had called Bianca many times since the day of the wedding, asking to get together, hit the bars as a team again, although Chelsea admitted it would be different now that Bianca was married. But Bianca hadn't seen why she should accept. Chelsea had served her purpose: wing-woman while they hunted the local hot spots for eligible men, the same role she'd served in high school trolling parties. But she didn't need Chelsea anymore. Well, until now.

She went out with Chelsea once, thinking it would appease John, suffered through the "catching up" and then the idiotic conversation with Chelsea and one of Chelsea's friends for a full two hours before she was finally able to go home. The only enjoyable part of the evening was the steady warm rain of male attention at the bar where they'd met. She knew she needed it - it charged her batteries. But there was nothing else to gain from the whole thing, no real challenge, and she had other, less annoying, ways of getting attention. What really interested her these days was the exciting high-stakes game of money, status, and achievement.

But John didn't let it go. It was constant after that: when was she going out with Chelsea again? He also insisted on inviting Chelsea and a date to their annual Christmas party as well as their Midsummer's Eve bash. Bianca started catching John giving her appraising looks, which worried her because John and his huge income were absolutely necessary to her luxurious lifestyle as well as her plans to dominate Fairfield County socially. She had learned: it wasn't enough to have too much money, or a big house on the water, or a successful husband and adorable child. It wasn't even enough to be a success herself, sweeping awards and sales at Mennon. No, what really made a woman a success was to be on the innermost circle of society, a woman with enough social power to decide who would be allowed in and who would be crushed, a woman who the other rich bitches would bow down to in fear. Bianca couldn't wait for that day.