Table for Seven (3 page)

She opened the pantry door to retrieve the pasta jars and then stopped, blinking at the mess. A box of cookies sat
opened and unsealed. Where it came from, Jaime had no idea; she never purchased anything that contained partially hydrogenated oils. A crumpled bag of Doritos lay on its side, also opened, with the top folded loosely down and not a bag clip in sight. Boxes of crackers and cereal were no longer neatly lined up, but all askew, as though someone had pulled out every single box and then shoved them carelessly back in. The glass lid to the canister that contained the almonds was gone. Jaime looked down and saw it on the floor.

“Doritos?” Jaime said. “Oreos?”

Mark raised his hand. “Guilty.”

“When did you start eating junk food?”

“I didn’t. Emily was hungry when I picked her up, so I sent her into the store with a twenty while I took a business call. What you see there is the result of a twelve-year-old grocery shopping without supervision,” Mark said, still not looking up from his iPhone.

Emily was Mark’s daughter from his first marriage. And, as Jaime had learned in the four years she and Mark had been married, the problem with being the second wife—especially when your husband shared a child with his former wife—was that the first family never really went away. Mark’s ex-wife, Libby, called and texted him all the time, keeping Mark apprised of every last detail of Emily’s life. This constant contact had only gotten worse since Emily had begun to show real promise as a tennis prodigy. Mark—already a tennis enthusiast—was obsessed. He was at the courts nearly every day, chauffeuring Emily back and forth to her lessons, consulting with coaches, spending more time and money than seemed possible nurturing her talent.

“She made a mess,” Jaime said, bending over to pick up the lid to the almond jar. It was cracked.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get her to clean it up,” Mark said. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Emily! Come down here.”

“What? Why?” a muffled voice called back from the general direction of the living room.

“I’d like to speak to you, that’s why,” Mark called back. He rolled his eyes at Jaime. “And just think, the teen years are still ahead of us.”

Emily strolled into the kitchen. She was very thin, with fair hair caught back in a ponytail and her mother’s dark, shrewd eyes. “What’s up?”

“I need you to—wait.” Mark’s phone beeped, and he stopped to peer down at the new text he’d received. “What’s this? Why is Coach Sarah putting you with Savannah for the doubles draw at the tournament this weekend?”

Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s stupid, right? Savannah can’t even hit a backhand.”

“She’s not a strong enough partner for you,” Mark said.

“Yeah, but Savannah, like, cried after she lost at the tournament last weekend. I think Sarah thought it would give her, I don’t know, confidence or something to put her with me.” Emily shook her head with disgust. “It’s, like, totally ridiculous.”

“It’s not your job to give Savannah confidence,” Mark said.

“I know, right? I totally told Coach Sarah that. She said something stupid about making sacrifices for the team,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. She rested her hands on her narrow hips, and tossed her ponytail back.

Jaime often marveled at her stepdaughter’s self-confidence. She herself had been painfully shy at the same age, and would never have had the nerve to challenge an authority figure.

“I think Savannah should just give up tennis and take up volleyball or something,” Emily said.

“I thought you and Savannah were friends,” Jaime said.

Mark and Emily both turned incredulous faces toward Jaime. They looked so much alike at that moment—the high foreheads, the square chins, the matching expressions—that Jaime almost laughed.

“So?” Emily said.

Jaime suddenly felt tired, and lost enthusiasm for the conversation. “Please don’t put food back into the pantry without making sure it’s sealed,” she said.

Emily’s expression turned stormy. Jaime could almost see a bubble caption appearing over her stepdaughter’s head that read, YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER.

“I don’t want to get bugs,” Jaime said, trying—and failing—to sound calm and not at all defensive.

“I folded the bag over,” Emily said.

“I know. And that’s great. But once you do, just put a bag clip on. I keep them right here in this drawer,” Jaime said, opening the drawer nearest the pantry to show her.

“You’re so, like, anal,” Emily muttered.

“Emily,” Mark started, without hearing Emily’s snide remark.

Jaime turned to him, relieved that her husband was stepping in. Technically, she had every right to chastise Emily for rude behavior. But in practice, doing so typically caused small conflicts to erupt into larger dramas.
You’re not my mother
was in fact a frequent retort. And it was hard to argue the point. Jaime was not Emily’s mother. What was more, Emily had never asked for her parents to divorce, or for her father to remarry, or for two younger half-siblings to be born. Jaime had some sympathy for her stepdaughter’s ever present resentment.

Some.

“I’m going to talk to Sarah. If she’s not going to assign you a partner you can win with, I think we’ll pull you from the doubles draw, and have you just play singles,” Mark continued.

Jaime stared at her husband. Had he completely missed how rude Emily had just been to her?

“I think Coach Sarah will be really annoyed if I do that,” Emily said.

“Too bad. I don’t want your ranking to be affected, which it might be if you’re forced to play with Savannah,” Mark said.

“Mark,” Jaime said.

“Yeah, but Coach doesn’t like it when one of us says we don’t want to play with someone she puts us with. She says it’s bad sportsmanship or something,” Emily said.

Jaime’s temper rose, filling her throat, causing her to almost choke on her husband’s name. “Mark!”

Mark finally looked up, surprised at the sharpness of her tone. “What’s up, babe?”

“Emily just called me anal,” Jaime said, hating that she sounded like she was ten years old and tattling to the teacher.

“She did?” Mark asked. He looked at Emily. “Did you call Jaime anal?”

As if I would lie about it
, Jaime thought, now so furious her stomach curdled and her mouth tasted sour.
Is that what he thinks? That I would make up stories of Emily behaving badly, just to drive a wedge between them?

Emily shrugged one shoulder, and studied her nail cuticles.

“Emily, apologize to your stepmother,” Mark instructed.

“Sorry,” Emily muttered, still not looking up from her nails.

It wasn’t a heartfelt apology. In fact, it barely counted as an apology at all, as it was made under duress. But Mark seemed satisfied.

“I’ll talk to Coach Sarah,” he said. “I’ll work it out with her. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” Emily said. She walked over to the pantry, retrieved the bag of Doritos, and fished out a handful of chips.

Jaime wondered if she really saw a triumphant smile flash across her stepdaughter’s face, or if she had just imagined it. Jaime opened a drawer, took out a bag clip, and set it pointedly on the counter. Then she turned and strode out of the kitchen toward the playroom, determined to get Logan away from
Thomas the Tank Engine
before his mind atrophied into Jell-O.

AUDREY DICKINSON CONSIDERED TURNING her car around and heading home. At one point, she put her indicator on, and pulled into the center turn lane. Then, reminding herself she couldn’t just not show up to a dinner party she had said she’d attend, she turned her indicator off, and pulled back out into traffic.

She hated New Year’s Eve. None of the holidays were particularly easy to get through, but New Year’s was the very worst. Everyone was always desperate to prove that they were having a good time but no one ever really did. Audrey had given up on going out for New Year’s Eve years ago, even before Ryan’s … well. Even before he had died. In fact,
her reluctance to do anything on New Year’s Eve other than sit on the couch, wearing sweats and eating bad Chinese takeout straight from the boxes, used to drive Ryan crazy. He would celebrate an average Tuesday, or a night that a professional athletic team was playing a game, with three vodka martinis. A holiday that was actually dedicated to drinking to excess was not something he’d ever miss out on.

And now Audrey was stuck going to a New Year’s Eve party, when what she really wanted to do was stay home and snuggle up on the couch. Maybe with a dog. If she had a dog.

I need to get a dog
, Audrey thought.
That could be my solution to all holiday invites. Thanks, I’d love to, but I have to stay home with my dog
.

Audrey was still thinking about her imaginary dog
—An Irish wolfhound? An English bulldog? A pug?
—when she pulled up in front of the Parrishes’ small, Spanish-style house. Twinkle lights circled the trunks of the palm trees and a huge Christmas wreath hung on the door. Audrey climbed out of her car, and then reached back in for the cheese and olive plate and bottle of red wine she’d brought.

Here goes nothing
, she thought.
And I am absolutely not staying until midnight
.

Audrey rang the bell. A few beats later, Fran opened the door.

“Happy New Year!” Fran said, hugging Audrey awkwardly over the plate and bottle. Fran’s cheeks were flushed and she was wearing a red and white striped apron decorated with a felt Santa.

“Happy New Year,” Audrey said. She handed Fran the wine. “I brought a cheese plate, too.”

“Will will be thrilled. His personal motto is
You can never have enough cheese
,” Fran said. “I gave him a wheel of Maytag blue cheese for Christmas, and it nearly brought him to tears. Come on in. Everyone’s back in the kitchen.”

“Who is everyone exactly?” Audrey asked.

“You know Jaime and Mark, right? They’re here. And our next-door neighbor Leland.”

I knew it
, Audrey thought.
I knew it, I knew it
.

“Fran,” Audrey said. “Please tell me this is not a set up.”

“It’s not, I swear!”

“I’ve told you about a thousand times that I don’t want you to play matchmaker for me,” Audrey said.

“Leland is seventy-one and walks with a cane,” Fran said. “I’ve told you about him before. He’s the one who makes those amazing oatmeal cookies.”

“Oh, right, I remember. But I thought there were going to be seven of us,” Audrey said.

“I also invited Will’s friend Coop, but he’d already made other plans,” Fran said.

Audrey looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“I wasn’t trying to set you up with him, either,” Fran said. She played with the silver heart hanging on a chain around her neck. “Coop is gay.”

“Oh,” Audrey said, mollified. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you.”

“No worries. Come on back to the kitchen. I tried to get everyone to go into the living room where it’s more comfortable, but they won’t budge.”

“Maybe they just want to keep you company while you cook,” Audrey suggested, following Fran down the short front hall. “Or maybe it’s that the act of food preparation is nurturing, so it makes people feel good to be around it.”

“Well, prepare to be nurtured,” Fran said. “I have five courses planned.”

The Parrish kitchen was bright—Fran had painted the walls orange in an effort to draw attention away from the dated white laminate cupboards—and filled with the smells of dinner preparation. Will stood at the counter, also wearing an apron—his was green, with KISS THE COOK emblazoned across the front—chopping parsley.

“Audrey, hey,” Will said, opening his arms. Will was balding, with a round, pink-cheeked face. He had kind brown eyes, an easy smile, and sideburns that he wore too long.

“Hi,” she said, accepting his hug and peck on the cheek.

“Do you know everyone? Mark and Jaime?”

“Hi, Jaime. Hey, Mark,” Audrey said, smiling at the couple standing at the counter, both holding glasses of red wine. They were both tall and lean with fair hair and very white teeth, and probably could have passed as siblings. Audrey remembered Fran telling her once that Jaime had all of her body hair lasered off. Audrey eyed Jaime’s arms. They did look suspiciously smooth.

“Hi, Audrey. I love your dress,” Jaime said, leaning forward and kissing the air over Audrey’s right cheek.

“Thanks,” Audrey said.

“And this is our neighbor Leland,” Fran said.

Audrey turned to smile at an elderly man who was dressed jauntily in a blue blazer with gold buttons and a red handkerchief tucked in the front pocket. He was stooped and wizened, and reminded Audrey of a turtle who had escaped from his shell. He held out his hand and Audrey shook it gently. “Hello, I’m Audrey.”

“Leland McCullogh. A pleasure to meet you,” he said. His grip was surprisingly firm.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Audrey said, taking an instant liking to the elderly man. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Fran and Will.”

“None of it is true,” Leland said solemnly. “Except the part about my secret elopement with Elizabeth Taylor.”

“What’s this about Elizabeth Taylor?” Fran asked, handing Audrey a glass of wine.

“I never told you about her? Never mind. You don’t need to know all of my secrets,” Leland said, winking at Audrey, who laughed.

“You’re really serving five courses? I’m impressed. What are we having?” Audrey asked.

“All sorts of delicious things. We’re going to serve a course every hour, on the hour, until midnight,” Fran said.

Audrey managed to suppress a sigh. So much for her hope to be safely at home, in bed, before the New Year’s Eve ball dropped.

“That’s very ambitious,” Audrey said. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No, that’s okay. Will’s making his famous tequila shrimp for our eight o’clock course, and then we’ll be having an arugula, fennel, and orange salad for the nine o’clock salad course, which I’m just finishing now. The scallops will cook quickly, so I won’t start them until after we have our salads,” Fran said.

“Yum, I love scallops,” Audrey said, wondering if this meant they wouldn’t be eating anything substantial until ten o’clock. She helped herself to a cracker and cheese from the plate she had brought. “Where are the girls?”