Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
* * *
“Fabulous job.” Delores Debonis swept across the room and leaned forward, kissing each of Pauline’s cheeks in turn. “The flowers are to die for!”
“Oh, but the appetizers are exquisite,” Pauline said. “That caviar . . . and I can’t stop eating the goat cheese crostinis!”
That was only a half lie, she told herself. She’d heard the goat cheese was good, but she’d never been able to abide the sour taste of it, personally.
“Cheers,” Delores said, clinking her champagne glass against Pauline’s and emitting a schoolgirl’s giggle that was at odds with her matronly figure. “We pulled it off!”
Pauline glanced around the room. In one corner a string quartet played Bach, and waiters circled with trays of wine and champagne. The flowers Pauline had selected—elegant purple
orchids—adorned the two dozen large round tables, which were all about to be filled by well-heeled guests. In a few moments the auctioneer would stand up and press people to buy the donated prizes: a spin around a racetrack with Danica Patrick, a helicopter tour of New York followed by four backstage passes to a Broadway show of the winner’s choice, a luxury trip to Thailand . . .
They’d raise a nice amount for the hospital—at least six figures—but it didn’t escape Pauline’s notice that it would’ve been much easier for her and the other board members to each write a check directly to the hospital. They were the ones donating prizes—Dwight and Pauline had given the trip to Thailand—and their friends were the ones filling the tables. It was like the old three-card monte game, with the money being shuffled around until its original origin was camouflaged. What was the point, really?
Delores gave a squeal and hurried off to greet another board member. “Are you okay, darling?” Pauline asked Dwight. “Can I get you another Coke? Or maybe a glass of wine?”
“N-no, I’m good,” he said. Dwight sometimes stuttered when he got nervous, and large gatherings like this one made him anxious. Pauline placed a hand on his arm and smiled at him.
He gave a little tug to his bow tie, and she moved to straighten it, wishing it could cover his prominent Adam’s apple. Still, she loved seeing her husband in a tuxedo with his hair gelled back. When they’d first met, Dwight had dressed like a much older man—one who lacked even a passing acquaintanceship with fashion. There had also been an unfortunate incident—Pauline still shuddered to think of it—involving an afternoon pool party, Dwight, and a Speedo. Right after they married, Pauline had begun shopping for him, replacing his plaid shorts, leather sandals, and sweater vests with clothing that straddled the line between classic and hip: perfectly plain black T-shirts made of the
finest cotton, gray pants that fit his trim hips correctly, and—her crowning achievement—bathing suits that almost reached his knees.
“You look so handsome,” she said and was rewarded with a smile. “I see former Senator Dodd across the room. Remember, you met him in the Hamptons last summer. He’s the CEO of the Motion Picture Association now. We should go say hello.”
Dwight nodded, and they began to weave their way toward him, Pauline leading slightly and casting bright smiles at acquaintances she passed.
“What time do you think this will wrap up?” Dwight asked. She started to cringe but reflexively hid it. His question had been loud enough for those around them to hear.
“Surely by ten,” she said, her voice low and concerned. She stopped walking. “Are you tired? Because you could go on ahead, and send the car back for me . . .”
He squeezed her hand. “Of course not. Just wanted to make sure we’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
“It’s a big day,” Pauline said, smiling at him.
“M-maybe I should check the weather again,” Dwight said, pulling out his iPhone. “The long-range forecast shows a storm heading that way . . .”
“Sweetie, everything’s going to be wonderful. It’s supposed to be bright and sunny for the first part of the week, and if it rains one day, there will be lots to do. Remember, I can set up a wine tasting. And the house is stocked with books and movies and games. Plus I’ve got a few other surprises up my sleeve. So I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Your friends are going to have the time of their lives, and so will we.”
Pauline could see gratitude fill his eyes. How strange—especially since he didn’t see them regularly—that Dwight cared more about what these old college friends thought than about
networking at the event tonight. He was so brilliant about some things, and so clueless about others.
Pauline still couldn’t quite believe this trip was going to happen, even if it had been her idea. At least they had Caleb to ease the burden of traveling. He would walk and feed their two Irish setters, collect and sort the mail, and answer the phone. He’d make sure that the maids came in on time, and that the gardens were watered. Any unexpected emergency—say, a broken pipe—would be dealt with swiftly and expertly. The refrigerator would be stocked the afternoon of their return, and their suitcases would be whisked away moments after they stepped through the front door, so the contents could be laundered and dry-cleaned.
Still, she couldn’t help wishing the seven days were already behind them. She resumed walking toward Senator Dodd and thought back to how it had all started, when an invitation had arrived at their home a few months earlier. She’d turned over the envelope, reading the return address, then opened it as she walked into Dwight’s study.
“Who’s Allie?” she’d asked.
Dwight was tapping away on one of his three computers. “Hmmm . . . What? Why?”
“She just invited us to her thirty-fifth birthday,” Pauline had said, handing him the card. It was one of those preprinted ones with open spaces to write in the date and time of the event.
“An old friend from college,” Dwight had said, grinning as he looked at the invitation. “You’ve met her a few times . . . she came to our wedding.”
Pauline had nodded, even though that day had been a blur of other people’s faces, her mother’s happy tears, and her own nerves.
“I’ll let her know we’re coming,” Dwight had continued, putting
the card down next to his keyboard and turning back to his work.
Pauline had been too surprised to say anything other than “Okay.” She and Dwight received a lot of invitations, but there was always a catch—someone wanting money or access. This Allie—who, come to think of it, Pauline did vaguely recall; she was a peppy, smiling sort—had written “Absolutely no gifts!” at the bottom of the invitation and underlined it twice. She truly just wanted their company?
Pauline had guessed correctly to dress in jeans and leather boots and a thin-knit sweater, and when she’d walked into Allie’s house, she’d noticed the sweet-sharp smell of chili bubbling on the stove, the sound of laughter, and the trays of corn bread spread out on kitchen counters to cool. It was a pleasant, modern home, with one room spilling into the next, all connected by gleaming blond wood floors and high ceilings. Kids’ artwork decorated the walls, but the scribbles and streaks of paint were displayed in creative, whimsical frames that actually made them look interesting.
Allie had spotted Dwight and run across the room to give him a hug, then she’d turned to Pauline to do the same. After a surprised moment, Pauline had patted Allie’s back twice.
“It’s so good to see you!” Allie had cried. Her face was open and lightly freckled, and smile lines creased the skin around her eyes. “Pauline, I’ve heard so much about you, but we’ve never had a chance to talk.”
You’ve heard about me?
Pauline had almost asked.
From who?
But she’d just said thanks, because she was too embarrassed to admit she hadn’t realized that Dwight had any real friends from college. Pauline had never thought it was odd because she’d never felt the need for many friends, either. Sometimes she thought it was one of the reasons why she and Dwight felt so well-matched; why theirs seemed like a perfectly arranged
marriage. She was his escort at dinners and galas, where she remembered names and made small talk to cover Dwight’s shyness; they had sex three or four times a month; and they never fought. She’d never had an orgasm with Dwight, either, and had never been consumed by a rush of love when she walked into a room and unexpectedly discovered him there. But she admired Dwight’s mind and his innate sense of fairness, and was amused by his interest in comic books and computer games. Her man-child, she sometimes thought of him. If she had to pick one word to describe her emotions about their marriage, it would be
contentment:
This was the life she’d expected, the one she’d yearned for. She believed Dwight felt the same way.
But during Allie’s party, she’d seen another side of her husband emerge. She’d watched as a woman named Tina burst through the door, dark curls cascading down her back, a handsome man at her side and a gaggle of kids hanging on her like ornaments dangling from a human Christmas tree.
“Sitter canceled,” Tina had gasped, and Allie had flapped her hand toward the basement door. “Bring the kids down there,” she’d said. “I’ll put on a movie and bring down a bowl of potato chips.
You
go get a drink.”
She’d watched as Tina had spotted Dwight on her way to the bar set up on the kitchen counter, and how she’d hugged him, too, and had offered him a shot of tequila, teasing him about a party in which they’d both tossed back four straight shots. Dwight had turned bright red, leading Pauline to think there was more to the story than that. But he’d accepted the shot, and clinked glasses with Tina.
“To college,” she’d said. “We had no idea how good we had it back then, did we?”
“You, ah, still look every bit as pretty,” Dwight had said, a flush lingering on his cheeks.
Was he flirting?
Pauline wondered, more amused than jealous.
She couldn’t imagine Tina would be his type, with her huge breasts spilling out of her V-neck sweater and jeans that looked like they were about to split at the knees.
Pauline had been intrigued by the other college friend who came to the party, a tall redhead named Savannah, who’d dipped a finger into the chocolate frosting on the cake and slowly sucked her fingertip, not caring if anyone noticed. Now if
she
tried to flirt with Dwight, Pauline wouldn’t be quite so amused.
“Where’s Gary?” someone had asked.
“Working, as usual,” Savannah had tossed back. Then her eyes had widened.
“Dwight Glass! I haven’t seen you in ten years!”
“A-actually, fourteen and a half,” he’d corrected her, but she’d covered his mouth with her hand, laughing. “Stop it! You’re making me feel old!”
Pauline had promptly wandered over to join them, and Savannah had embraced her as warmly as Allie had.
“Never would’ve gotten through math classes without your husband,” Savannah had said. She’d seemed to be a little tipsy—she was leaning heavily against Pauline, and speaking too loudly—and Pauline had shifted away on the pretext of covering a cough. She’d listened as Savannah reminisced about a pancake house where they’d gone on Sunday mornings, where bottomless cups of coffee and heaping plates of carbs had cured their hangovers.
“So you spent a lot of time together in college?” Pauline had interjected.
“With Dwighty?” Savannah had laughed instead of answering. “He’s always been a sweetheart. And he’s looking good! Are you working out, Dwight?” Savannah had squeezed Dwight’s biceps—Pauline had felt herself stiffen—but then Allie’s husband, Ryan, had clinked a glass, quieting the room for his toast.
“To my wife,” he’d begun.
“Which one?” a prankster had hooted from the back of the room.
“The one who made the chili you’re eating!” Allie had shot back, but she was smiling.
“To my wife!” Ryan had repeated as two young girls carried out a birthday cake. “Our family’s Superwoman. Happy thirty-fifth, honey. I love you.”
“Awww,” Savannah had called as Allie took a deep breath to blow out the candles. Pauline had looked around the room at the colorful paper streamers, the smiles, the raised glasses of beer and wine. Then she saw the look on Dwight’s face. It was as if he’d been illuminated from within; she’d never before witnessed such a pure expression of joy on his face. On
anyone’s
face. It was as if he’d finally been chosen to play kickball after a lifetime of watching from the sidelines, as if he’d come down the stairs on Christmas morning to see Santa himself filling the stocking by the hearth.
He really liked these people, she’d realized. Her shy, sweet husband loved being part of a group.
That was when her idea was born.
She wanted to do something for him, something spectacular—to make him realize she could make him that happy, too. No, it was more than a want. She
needed
to. She’d filled her wineglass again as she began plotting the details. By the time they left the party, the foundation of her plan was in place.
Dwight had been tipsy by then, all loose-limbed and clumsy, and after they slid into the backseat of their Town Car, she’d hit the button to raise the tinted partition, separating them from their driver.
“Lean your head back,” she’d whispered, her voice low and husky, and then she’d scooted across the seat. She’d bent down and unzipped his pants, taking him in her hand and feeling him grow instantly hard.
“Pauline . . .” he’d said, but it wasn’t a protest.
She’d run her tongue up and down his length, then slowly circled the tip, teasing him before taking him into her mouth with quick, firm movements, not letting up on the pressure for a moment. He hadn’t lasted long, which had pleased her. He wouldn’t want sex for another week or so, which meant there would be a plausible excuse for why she wouldn’t get pregnant this month.
She’d found a handkerchief in her purse and wiped her mouth. His head was lolling back, and she knew he’d drift off before they arrived home. She’d taken a deep breath and put her lips close to his ear.
“Honey? I’ve got a great idea for your birthday . . .”
“WOO-HOOOOO!”