Table for Seven (6 page)

“Chocolate pots de crème,” Jaime corrected him.

“It’s delicious. Is it ready to eat?”

“No, it’s setting in the fridge. And don’t even think of eating one. It’s dessert for tomorrow night,” Jaime said.

Mark looked at her blankly. “Tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Jaime said. “Please tell me you didn’t forget.”

“Okay. I didn’t forget,” Mark said. He hesitated. “Um, what exactly am I supposed to have not forgotten?”

“Our dinner party. Remember? The Table for Seven Club? It’s our turn to host,” Jaime said.

“That’s tomorrow night?” Mark asked.

Jaime stared at him. He couldn’t possibly have forgotten, could he? She had talked of little else for at least a week.

“What time are people coming over? Emily has a tournament down in Boca. I’m not sure what time we’ll get back,” Mark continued.

“Mark, come on. You
have
to be back in time. We’re hosting,” Jaime said through clenched teeth. She rubbed her jaw, trying to make the muscles relax. Her dentist had warned her that she was damaging her teeth by grinding them. He’d fitted her with a night guard to wear while she slept—apparently she was stressed out even then—but during the day she had to make a conscious effort to unclench.

Mark finally seemed to register the edge in her voice.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll work something out. Maybe Libby can take Emily to the tournament,” he said, although he looked doubtful.

“Emily has a tournament every other weekend. Can’t she skip this one?” Jaime said.

“I’d rather she didn’t. It’s a Designated.”

“What’s that?” Jaime asked, instantly regretting the question. She didn’t care if it was Wimbledon. The damn tournament was not going to ruin her dinner party.

Jaime had spent the entire day getting the dining room ready—ironing the linen tablecloth, setting out her set of Spode Camilla china, putting fresh candles in her two antique silver candelabras. Tomorrow, she’d add a vase of flowers, perhaps white orchids.

“It’s a special tournament for higher-ranked juniors,” Mark said. He went on in more detail, but Jaime started to tune him out.

I need to make sure there are enough guest towels in the downstairs bath
, she thought.
And I need to make sure the wineglasses are all spot-free. And what causes the spots anyway? Is it hard water residue?

“… It will be a good challenge for her,” Mark finally concluded.

Jaime took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before she spoke. Past experience had taught her it was better to keep her temper in check around Mark. As soon as she started getting snappish, he’d get defensive and contrary. Knowing this actually made her even angrier, but right now she wanted to get her way more than she wanted to have a fight.

“Maybe she could catch a ride down with one of her friends,” Jaime suggested.

“That’s a possibility. Or I could drive her down, and then find her a ride back,” Mark said.

“I was really hoping you’d be around tomorrow to help out,” Jaime said.

“Help out with what? You know I can’t cook. Well, not anything you’d want to serve to our friends.”

“No, I’ll do the cooking,” Jaime said quickly. “But I could use some help getting the house ready.”

“Didn’t Mary come today?” Mark asked.

Jaime nodded, struggling to keep a grip on her patience. “Yes, she cleaned today. But you know the kids will start dragging their toys out, and it will have to be tidied up before our guests arrive. And you said you were going to cut back the hedges. The front walk is turning into a jungle. Besides, isn’t it Libby’s weekend to have Emily, anyway?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jaime regretted them. Mark’s face closed and his eyes turned stony. He always got annoyed if Jaime offered even the mildest comment about how he and Libby parented Emily.

“She’s my daughter all the time, not just on the weekends,” Mark would say, as if that were the end of any conversation.

But what about us?
Jaime wanted to say.
What about Logan and Ava? Aren’t they your children, too?
Mark didn’t spend nearly as much time with his younger children as he spent at the tennis courts with Emily.

“I’ll call the lawn care company in the morning. They can come take care of any landscaping that needs to be done. And I’m taking Emily to the tournament, but I’ll ask one of the other parents to give her a ride home. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the dinner party, I promise,” Mark said. He kissed her on the forehead, clearly believing that these solutions ended the need to discuss the matter further. “Have you eaten yet?”

“I ate with the kids, but there’s chicken and pasta in the fridge,” Jaime said, turning back to her recipes.

Maybe instead of a dinner party club, I should start a second wives’ club
, she thought.
The only problem is that it would have to be a club of one, because I don’t know any other second wives. I was the only one foolish enough to make that mistake
.

“HOW DOES THIS LOOK?” Fran asked.

Will and Rory looked up from the remote-controlled combat robot they were building. It was a Rammer, and was about the size of a canister vacuum. In fact, the very first robot he’d ever built had been made from a canister vacuum, which Fran was still annoyed about, as it had been her vacuum and practically new. This Rammer was low to the ground, with six wheels and a heavy casing. It was a totally new design for Will, who normally preferred to compete with spinning robots, right up until his last Spinner—nicknamed Freddy—had been mercilessly crushed against the arena wall by a Rammer built by two teenagers from Orlando. After that, Will started to see the wisdom in competing with a heavy-duty bot. Today’s project was to mount the wheels onto their axles. The parts were scattered along the workbench Will had built along one side of the garage. Will and Rory sat perched on high stools to work.

Will blinked at his wife, who was wearing a black-ribbed sweater over a dark denim skirt and low black heels.

“It seems like overkill for movie night,” Will said.

“No, it’s for tomorrow. To wear to the dinner party.”

“You’re pre-dressing?”

“I’m trying to decide what I’m going to wear.”

Will decided this must be one of those odd womanly behaviors that he was never going to understand, and was therefore better off not asking too many questions. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Fran made a face. “I don’t want to look
fine
. I want to look pretty.”

“It’s very nice,” Will said.

“Nice isn’t any better than fine.”

“You look great. Don’t you think, Rory?” Will asked, hoping his daughter would bail him out.

Rory scrutinized her mother. “I think the sweater is too tight. It shows your stomach.”

Fran clutched her stomach. “Seriously?”

Rory nodded.

“Then why did you tell me it looks good?” Fran asked Will accusingly.

He shrugged. “I like it.”

“I swear, I have nothing to wear. I’m going to have to go shopping tomorrow,” Fran said. She turned and stalked back into the house.

Will looked at Rory.

“What?” Rory said. “I had to tell her the truth if you weren’t going to. And I was nicer about it than Iris would have been. She would have told Mom she looked fat.”

“That’s true,” Will said. Iris had recently become incapable of saying anything nice to anyone and was especially nasty to her mother and younger sister. “Where is your sister, anyway?”

“Babysitting,” Rory said.

“Again?”

“She’s saving up for some ceramic iron thingy,” Rory said.

“She’s saving up for an iron? You mean, like, to iron her clothes with?” Will asked, completely bewildered. “What’s wrong with the iron we have in the laundry room?”

Rory laughed. “No, not for clothes. It’s an iron for her hair. You know, to make it straight.”

“Why would Iris want to straighten her hair with an iron?” Will asked. Iris had inherited Fran’s beautiful dark
corkscrew curls. He’d always been glad one of the girls had lucked out. Rory had straight hair so baby fine, barrettes and ponytail elastics slid right out of it.

“She hates it. She says that curly hair makes your face look fat.” Rory turned her attention back to the battle bot and began sifting through a pile of bolts. “It’s so stupid. I’m never going to bother with that girly stuff.”

Will remembered with a pang Iris saying almost exactly the same thing when she was Rory’s age. Just a few years earlier, Iris had been more tomboy than girly-girl, always climbing trees and playing soccer and helping him in the workshop. He tried to remember the last time she’d been in the garage. Months? No, longer. It had been over a year, at least. He glanced at Rory, who was intent on the workbench, distractedly pushing her blue wire-frame glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose, and wondered how much longer she’d be willing to hang out with him out here, building fighting robots, talking about upcoming competitions. Rory was still young enough to lack the self-consciousness that made the teen years such hell. Sometimes Will would catch her breaking into a dance for no reason at all, throwing her skinny arms around and shaking her head, lost in rhythmic abandon. The sight never failed to fill him with joy.

Will gave Rory a one-armed hug, which she tolerated for exactly three seconds before wiggling free.

“Come on, Dad. I want to get the front wheels mounted before we watch the movie,” she said.

“Then we’d better get to work,” Will said, smiling at her.

COOP GRADUALLY BECAME AWARE of a wet, rough tongue licking his cheek. He opened one eye. His dog, Bear—who
was a mutt of undetermined parentage—continued to give his face a bath.

“Knock it off.” Coop groaned and pushed the dog away. Bear didn’t seem offended. He sat, panting happily, smiling his doggy smile.

Coop sat up on the couch, stretching. The muscles in his back made an odd popping noise. When had he gotten so creaky? Lately, it seemed that there was always something aching somewhere on his body. Today’s lower back pain was courtesy of some work he’d done on his boat that morning—the water pump had been on the fritz—before taking it out on the water.

“What time is it?” Coop asked aloud. Since Bear didn’t seem prepared to answer him, Coop glanced at the digital clock on the cable box. 6:07. “Oh, no.”

Coop leapt to his feet, trying to ignore the twinge of protest from his back. He was due at the dinner party at 6:30. Between the morning of work, the day spent out in the sun, and the beer he’d had with lunch, he’d sacked out on the couch when he came back from the marina and had managed to oversleep.

“Why did I ever agree to go to this thing?” he muttered as he headed to the bathroom. The last thing he wanted to do was spend a Saturday night eating dinner at somebody’s house with a bunch of people he didn’t know, save for Will and Fran.

It was all Fran’s fault, he decided. He’d never been able to say no to her. She was a force of nature. They really should ship her off to the Middle East, he thought ruefully. She’d have the Israelis and Palestinians squared away in no time.

Twenty-five minutes later, he was showered, shaved, and dressed in a crisply ironed white shirt tucked into his favorite
faded jeans. He stopped at the liquor store down the street from his waterfront condo, purchased two bottles of Taittinger champagne and drove fifteen minutes inland to the address he’d scribbled on the back of a receipt. Mark and Jaime lived in a looming white house with a carefully manicured front lawn and a huge silver Lexus SUV parked ostentatiously in the tile-paved driveway.

Coop sighed. It was going to be a long night.

He climbed out of his white pickup and headed to the front door without bothering to lock the truck. The neighborhood didn’t strike him as a hotbed of crime. He made his way up the walk to the front door—which was flanked with two tall black urns, each containing a leafy palm tree—and rang the bell. A moment later, he heard the clacking of high heels against hard floors and then the door was opened by an attractive woman with a thin, gym-toned body and stick-straight blond hair whom he’d met briefly at the Parrishes’ New Year’s Eve party.

“Hi,” she said. She smiled, displaying professionally bleached teeth, and held out a hand. “It’s nice to see you again. I’m Jaime, by the way.”

“I remember. Nice to see you again.” Coop juggled the champagne bottles so that he could shake her hand, which was thin and cold. Then, he held up the bottles. “These are for you.”

“Thank you,” Jaime said, looking with delight at the bottles. “What a treat.”

“An apology for my lateness,” Coop said.

Jaime shook her head. “No need for apologies. In fact, you beat my husband home. Come on into the living room, everyone’s in there. What can I get you to drink?”

“Do you have whiskey?” Coop asked as he followed Jaime
across the foyer. He took advantage of his position to admire the curve of her bottom. If she was logging time at the gym it was definitely paying off, he thought. It was too bad she had a husband. Coop had never been interested in the drama of extramarital entanglements.

“Yes, of course. How would you like it?” Jaime asked. She led him into a large living room tastefully decorated in shades of cream and beige. There was a small knot of people gathered there, including Fran and Will.

“Straight up,” Coop said. “I’m easy like that.”

He grinned again, although out of respect for Jaime’s marital status, he was careful not to use his most dazzling smile, which had on many occasions caused women to tear off their clothes and throw themselves at him.

“Just give me one minute,” Jaime said and headed over to a bar just off the living room.

Fran looked up. “Coop!” she called out and bounded over to him. Her long curly hair was loose around her shoulders and she held a wineglass in one hand. “I was starting to think you’d ditched us!”

“Would I do that?” he asked, kissing her cheek.

“Of course you would,” she said. “You’re thoroughly unreliable, and you know it.”

“Hey, guy,” Will said, slapping his shoulder. “Good to see you.”