The Whole Enchilada (4 page)

4

H
olly and I walked quickly into Marla's kitchen. She greeted friends. Then she stepped out to the screened porch, where she scanned the group out back. I wondered if she was looking for the man from the driveway.

I slid up beside her. “Let's have some wine,” I whispered. “Then we can talk.”

“Okay.” Her velvety-blue eyes darted right and left. She said under her breath, “I'm in a relationship mess.”

“With that guy out front?”

“Not him, not . . .” She seemed about to add,
anymore,
but changed her mind. “That guy's just a nutty manipulator who's trying to get money out of me.”

“A nutty manipulator?” I repeated, trying to think of a place in Marla's new house where we could have a confidential conversation. At the same time, I wondered if I could hand over the timing of the oven to someone reliable. Ever eager to glean gossip, Marla spotted us and hurried out to the porch.

To Holly she said, “Does this have to do with George?”

“God, no,” said Holly.

“Bull,” said Marla.

“I wish George were dead,” Holly said.

“I can't wait to hear
this,
” Marla murmured.

Ignoring curious glances from the folks in the backyard, Holly put her strong hands around Marla's and my upper arms and pulled us close.

“Why do you wish George were dead?” Marla asked, sotto voce.

“Did you hear the one about the farmer who slapped a mosquito off his donkey?” Holly replied. “The bug was a pain in the ass.”

I thought,
Not again.

“Don't say another word,” Marla warned, as she turned back to the kitchen. “I've got a good Cabernet in the kitchen. And no more jokes. I want the whole story.”

While Marla poured us glasses of wine, I wondered where, in fact, George Ingleby was. Had Holly seen him, hence the whisper? All the guests seemed to have arrived, and yet I had seen neither George nor Lena.

As Holly checked out the people standing around the pool as well as splashing in it, I reflected that I did not like or dislike Dr. George Ingleby. Years ago, he'd been a legend in his own mind, never less than an hour late for any appointment, intent on impatiently interrupting patients as they related their tales of woe. He'd marched importantly down every hospital corridor he'd ever found himself in. But after he'd stumbled badly in the relationship with Holly, it was my guess that he'd gone into therapy. George seemed to be living proof of another of Holly's favorite riddles, an oldie but goody:
How many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but the lightbulb has to be willing to change.

George had actually started showing himself to be a good dad to Drew. He may not have taken his son to church, but he came to every fencing meet this spring. He even attended some of the practices. He must have reworked his schedule so he could be present at CBHS parent-teacher conferences, with Holly sitting stiffly on Drew's other side. At these events, George did not smile at me, or even acknowledge that he knew who I was. But so what? Okay, he hadn't been a good husband to Holly. But I didn't think that any of us, especially Drew, would be better off if George were no longer alive. This I kept to myself.

“Actually, you know what, Holly?” Marla said, after she returned and we toasted with our plastic cups. “Ex-husbands don't provide any more fireworks once they're dead. Sort of deprives us of fun.”

“Deprives us of fun?”
I asked, disbelieving. Father Pete was out back with the other parents; Holly had invited him. But if our good priest heard us rejoicing over the death of a former parishioner, no matter how dissolute that churchgoer had been, he would not be happy.

Marla shrugged. “Not having an ex to complain about is sort of a loss.”

“Like you know what I'm talking about,” Holly said drily.

“Not at the moment,” Marla replied smoothly. “But I'm hoping you'll tell me.”

Holly did a careful survey of Marla's backyard. Her eyes seemed to catch on someone, or something, because her face turned tense. “Oh, God,” she said. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He who?” I asked. But Holly became suddenly quiet.

I followed her gaze. There was a group of about twenty adults beside the kids. Among them stood Dr. Warren Broome, his head above the rest. Patsie Boatfield had her arm protectively twined through his.

“Wait,” I said. “I knew Patsie Boatfield was bringing her new husband. Did she marry Warren Broome?”

“You really don't keep up, do you?” said Marla.

Patsie was a member of St. Luke's. “They didn't get married at the
church,
” I said, as if this excused my ignorance.

“I'm pretty sure Father Pete refused to do the service,” Marla countered.

I groaned. Poor Patsie. Or at least, that was the way I saw it. Warren Broome. Oh, God.

He was a Denver psychiatrist who'd become infamous a couple of years before. The reason: he'd slept with at least one of his female patients. That patient had reported him, and claimed there were other victims. She'd gone to the papers, even asked for help from the public in identifying these other women. But no one else had come forward. Broome had been suspended for six months, as I recalled . . . and then he'd gone off my radar, which was not nearly as keen as Marla's.

At the moment, Broome was staring at Holly. He was quite tall, and, in addition to his sexual misadventures, was a reputed ace on the tennis court. He had the kind of straight, ash-blond hair most women would kill for. Beside him, Patsie chatted amiably to the gaggle of guests. Warren, his thin-lipped mouth open, seemed to be ignoring her. If anything, as he stared up at Holly, he resembled a drooling kid who was pressing his face against the candy-store window.

“Focus, Holly,” Marla ordered. “You're in a relationship mess, you're dealing with a manipulator, and you wish ill to your ex. And besides all that, you're going to explain to us, your
friends,
what your financial situation is. Goldy wants to know why you're in a rental, and we both need to find out the reason you transferred Drew from EPP to CBHS. I have money and Goldy is good with advice. So spill it.”

Just at that moment, though, we were distracted by Tom announcing loudly that the volleyball net was ready for use. The kids burst upward like exploding confetti. They called to each other, tossed around the volleyball, and picked teams. A few of the kids—including Arch, I noted—moved to sign Bob's clipboard. Bob appeared crestfallen that he'd recruited so few volunteers. Ophelia had retreated to the shade of one of Marla's trees, where she sat on the ground, reading a book. Reading? It didn't seem like the most logical activity for a young woman to do at a birthday party, especially with her handsome fiancé just a few feet away. A squiggle of worry wormed its way into my brain: How would she act on Monday night? Sullen? Shy? Or studious?

“Oh, God, he's inside!” Holly said as her gaze traveled back to Marla's kitchen. The man from the driveway was hovering over the stove. With his sandy-haired fringe, he resembled a monk attending to a pan on one of the burners. “You have to get Tom to get rid that guy,” she begged. “He's nuts, I'm telling you.”

Marla's forehead knotted in puzzlement. “What's he
doing
?”

“Goldy!” Holly said sharply. Below in the yard, a bunch of kids looked up to see what was going on. “Do something. Get Tom.”

“I'm here,” said Tom. His voice was low but authoritative. When had he arrived at my side? I shivered. Had he been on his way up here, and heard Holly when she'd yelled about the balding man being inside? He said, “What's the problem?”

“There's an uninvited man by the stove—” I began.

“Oh, no!” Holly cried, pointing into the kitchen. “Now George and Lena are here, too.” She gripped Tom's forearm. “You have to get rid of that balding guy in the kitchen. The one who looks out of place? He's wearing a shirt with long sleeves. And I don't know how in
the hell
my ex-husband, and his bitch wife, Lena, came to be here.”

“Didn't you invite them?” I asked, bewildered. “It's Drew's birthday! He's your son's father, Holly.”

Holly turned her face away, as if she couldn't hear me.

Marla said, “Oh, for heaven's sake, Holly,” echoing my tone. “Goldy's right. You should have invited George.”

Holly wailed, “Everything's falling apart.”

“One thing at a time,” said Tom. “Ladies, please dial it down several notches.” He hustled into the kitchen, took the balding man by one elbow and George Ingleby by the other. Despite being well built, the balding man appeared to melt. But Dr. George Ingleby, his coarse black hair standing on end, put up a fuss. And once again, George reminded me of those old photos of Stalin: unyielding stance, upraised chin, proud demeanor. He even had a thick mustache. George strained against Tom's superior strength and raised his voice. Unfortunately, there were no closed windows between the kitchen and the porch.

“I should have been invited to this party!” George Ingleby hollered. “I'm his father. How dare your wife exclude me?”

“Out, out,” Tom was saying.

“Damned spot,”
Marla added gleefully, happy to have at least some ex-husband drama. Holly crossed her arms and ignored both of us.

“We're walking to the front door,” Tom went on, wrenching George's arm and pulling the tall, balding stranger along as well. “We don't want a scene, do we?” Tom's cold tone scared even me. “In fact,” he concluded, “we want no excitement here at all.”

Then Tom pulled the stranger, who had not spoken a word, and George, who looked as if he worked out as much as his ex-wife did, toward the front of Marla's house. No matter what those guys' routines at the gym were, neither one of them was a match for my husband's strength. For the first time, I noticed Lena Ingleby, who was as short and curvy as Holly was tall and slender. A dark nest of curls surrounded her head and framed her pretty, perfectly made-up face, which featured a tiny chin and even more tiny turned-up nose. She didn't dare touch Tom, but she did squeal in protest.

“Holly had no right to exclude us!” she cried. “She's already sending Drew to Alaska, to see her sister. George was manipulated into giving his consent, but really . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Yeah, like you care about Drew,” Holly said under her breath.

“But
why
didn't you invite George to this party?” I asked, as gently as I could. We had divided the invitation duties in half; she was supposed to invite Drew's people, while I did Arch's. About twenty folks had replied to me; the rest had answered Holly, which was how we'd come up with forty-odd guests, many of whom now stood in Marla's kitchen looking at each other, openmouthed. Their expressions seemed to be asking:
How often do you witness adults acting like spoiled kids, at a kids' birthday party?

“Oh, George is such a wuss,” Holly said. “How could I enjoy myself if he was here?”

“Darling,” said Marla, “it's not
your
party.”

Holly shrugged. Meanwhile, someone had finally told Drew what was going on. He raced past us, calling to his father.

“Oh,
don't
, Drew,” Holly cried.

Drew stopped long enough to give his mother a slit-eyed look. “You should have invited him.”

“God,” said Holly, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “Everybody always blames me when things go wrong.”

When Tom, the stranger, George, and Lena had disappeared, the timer went off. I called to the parents, who remained rooted in place, directionless. “Everyone who has a dish heating, now is the time to check it. Dinner's in ten minutes.”

And that, finally, was how we got things going. The parents began talking to each other and pulling their casserole dishes from Marla's ovens. Arch, who was in charge of leading the kids to the buffet table, knew his cue. Drew, his body slumped in defeat, slouched along behind him. All the rest of the guests—kids and parents alike—offered to get drinks, serving spoons, or whatever was needed. Marla asked that they make sure no one went outside with a china dish or glass bottle. We also needed more plastic cups lined up on her kitchen island. Soon everyone was busy with duties.

Considering the early fireworks, the party went off . . . well, okay, I suppose. When Tom reentered Marla's dining room, I cocked an eyebrow at him. He shook his head once, indicating that I'd hear later what had happened. Meanwhile, the dining room table was crowded with offerings. A pool of steaming cheese floated atop a tamale pie, while an inviting scent wafted from the enchiladas. A large tossed salad tantalized with its sweet cherry tomatoes and crunchy chips. But it was Julian's gorgeous colorful chile relleno tortas that had most of the guests oohing and aahing.

At Marla's insistence, I went through the line with the other parents. Julian, meanwhile, moved quickly and purposefully around the buffet and the guests' tables. He filled serving dishes, removed empty bowls, and asked if people needed something else to drink. Really, I wondered, how had I managed the past few years without him?

Drew seemed to recover from his father's unexpected appearance, followed by his swift disappearance. He and Arch blew out all the candles on the sheet cake. Julian and I scooped out
dulce de leche
ice cream until my arm ached. Julian's swimming-strengthened arms never appeared to be bothered by anything.

Even Holly, who had seemed unsettled by the appearances of the uninvited stranger, then George and Lena, began to laugh and enjoy herself. To be honest, I would have been upset, too, if my ex-husband had made a scene and I were being stalked by a “nutty manipulator.” I did notice that Holly conscientiously gave Warren Broome a wide berth, even walked away when he leaned down to talk to her. I made a mental note to ask Marla about that. Could
he
be the one with whom she was having the relationship mess? For Patsie Boatfield's sake, I certainly hoped not.