Table for Seven (42 page)

This was still a somewhat touchy subject that the friends danced around. But they were slowly trying to make it into a joke. The story would be, from now on, that Fran thought Coop was all wrong for Audrey, and yet they fell in love anyway. The part where Fran had thrown herself at Coop, and been rejected, would never be mentioned again, and eventually would be erased from the history of their friendship. Sometimes, a certain amount of amnesia was not only excusable, but necessary for friendships to endure.

“Yes, but I was the one who kept telling you to get back out there,” Fran reminded her. She tossed her hair back, so that the loose curls hung down her back. She glanced at Jaime. “And it’s way too soon to be bugging you about it—you need at least a year to eighteen months to get over your marriage before you’re ready to see anyone seriously—but I’ll eventually get on your case, too.”

“I’ll consider myself warned. But I doubt I’ll ever get married again. I’ll just have a string of hot, young lovers who all worship me,” Jaime said, twirling her wineglass. “And take out the garbage for me.”

“Mmm,” Fran said. “That sounds …”

“Be careful how you finish that sentence. Your husband is now in the room,” Will said, coming into the kitchen with Coop behind him.

“Oops,” Fran said, but she smiled at Will, and he sidled up to her, slipping an arm around her waist.

“I was just showing Coop the battle bot Rory’s building,” Will said. He beamed. “It’s her own design and everything. She takes after her old man.”

“Will’s turning into a stage dad,” Fran informed the group, but she smiled up at him and he kissed her cheek.

“When are you two going to the Bahamas?” Audrey asked.

“At the end of January,” Fran said.

“I didn’t know you were going out of town,” Jaime said.

“It was Will’s Christmas present to me. We’re only going for a weekend—it’s all we could afford, and frankly, we’re sort of terrified about leaving the girls for longer, anyway—but I can’t wait. It’s been a long time since we got away, just the two of us,” Fran said.

“Good for you,” Jaime said. “That’s the one thing I think Mark and I did right. We were pretty good about putting time aside to take trips on our own. But my mom was always willing to come down and stay with Ava and Logan, so we didn’t have to worry about that. Who’s staying with the girls?”

“We are,” Coop said indignantly. “And frankly, I’m a bit insulted that you’re terrified of leaving the girls in Audrey’s and my care. I am Rory’s godfather, after all.”

“Iris’s godfather,” Fran corrected him. “Audrey is Rory’s godmother. And I’m not worried about them, I’m worried about you. You have to look after two hormonal girls and a
puppy. I don’t think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Fran and Coop had both decided to pretend that the night when Fran went to his apartment didn’t happen. They conversed easily, as they always had, although any flirtatious element that may have been there was gone. Coop didn’t kiss Fran on the cheek when he saw her now, but that was probably all for the best.

“A puppy?” Jaime asked, looking around, as though she’d somehow failed to notice one in the room. “You have a puppy?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I swear, we need to sit down and catch up,” Fran said. “We got the girls a puppy for Christmas. A labradoodle. They named him Homer.”

“After the poet?” Jaime asked, wrinkling her nose.

“No! After Homer Simpson,” Fran said, laughing.

“I thought you said you would never get a dog,” Jaime demanded. “Wasn’t that one of the conversations we had at the dinner party club this year?”

“I did say that. But Iris has been volunteering at the animal shelter and helping to train assistance dogs, so I thought she had proven herself,” Fran said, adding a healthy dollop of white wine to the frying pan. It hissed and gave off a plume of steam. “In fact, Homer came from the shelter. He was dropped off with his mother and littermates, and Iris fell instantly in love.” Fran paused. “I’m just thankful that her first love is a dog and not a boy with tattoos.”

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs with the girls, I think,” Will said. He picked up the bottle of champagne. “Who’s ready for a refill?”

“I am,” Jaime said, holding out her glass.

“Me, too,” Audrey said. She was sitting on one of the
high stools lined up by the kitchen counter. Coop moved behind her and rested his hand on the small of her back.

“Anyway, consider yourselves warned,” Fran said. “But don’t even think about backing out on us.”

“We wouldn’t,” Audrey assured her. She looked up shyly at Coop. “Besides, we have a trip of our own to look forward to this spring.”

“Where are you two going?” Will asked.

“Paris,” Audrey said happily.

“Oh, that’s great. Thanks, guy. I finally surprise Franny with a trip, and you find a way to one-up me,” Will said to Coop.

“Hey, I owed Audrey a big romantic gesture,” Coop said. “And all’s fair, and all that.”

“It’s fine. I’d much rather go to the Bahamas than to Paris,” Fran said to Will, patting his arm.

“Then you’re nuts,” Will said, laughing.

Fran began to sauté the pancetta, and its bacony smell filled the kitchen. Once the fat began to render, she added the chopped shallots to the pan. Will got out the mixed baby greens and put them in a big bowl.

“Hon, what else is going in here?” he asked.

“Red onion, goat cheese, and orange slices,” Fran said. “Do you need help?”

“Nope, I’ve got it,” Will said.

“He’s a new-age man. He cooks, he cleans, he’s in touch with his emotions,” Coop teased.

“Oh, hush. You cook, too,” Audrey said. “In fact, aren’t you going to tell everyone what I got you for Christmas?”

“Do I have to?” Coop asked.

“I got him a series of cooking lessons with Juan, the chef
at the Lemon Tree,” Audrey said. “And don’t let Coop fool you. It’s exactly what he said he wanted.”

“Well, after a year of exquisite home-cooked meals, I thought it was time I learned how to do something other than grill fish and make hamburgers,” Coop said. He squeezed Audrey’s waist, and the others wondered why she was blushing, but no one dared ask.

“Once he’s had a few lessons, you’ll all have to come over for another dinner party,” Audrey said brightly. She smiled at Jaime. “And yes, you, too. You’ll never be a fifth wheel with us.”

“So the Table for Seven Club continues?” Will asked.

“I don’t think so. Not officially, anyway,” Fran said. “For one thing, we’re five now.”

“And for another, I don’t think I’ll be in a position to entertain anytime soon. I have a lot on my plate right now,” Jaime added.

“No, I think we can do away with the monthly meetings,” Audrey agreed. “But we can still get together for dinner now and again, right?”

“Absolutely,” Fran said.

Jaime nodded her head, and Coop gave a thumbs-up.

Fran beat four eggs in a large Pyrex measuring cup, then stirred in grated pecorino romano and parmesan cheeses, salt, and freshly ground pepper. She drained the spaghetti, which had been cooking in a large pot of salted water, and added it to the frying pan for a moment, before removing the pan from the heat. She stirred the egg and cheese mixture into the pasta, while the others looked on. Fran took a fork, sampled the pasta, and looked up with a smile.

“Dinner is served,” she said.

for Sam

READ ON FOR

AN EXCERPT FROM

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT

by WHITNEY GASKELL

ONE
INDIA

I
’VE ALWAYS LOVED THE LIGHT BY THE OCEAN AT THE END of the day. Those magical moments, just as the sun is sinking low in the sky, when everything on the beach is cast in a rosy, golden glow. I raised my ever-present camera and snapped a few shots of Miles, Rose, and Luke as they played at the water’s edge. The three of them had found a stick and were taking it in turn to throw into the water for Otis, our black and white border collie mix. He barked happily and plunged into the foamy white surf after it.

“Otis is going to smell like a fish after this,” I said, lowering the camera.

Jeremy was in the middle of attempting to get the charcoals on the hibachi to catch fire. He looked up in Otis’s direction and grinned. Jeremy had an appealing, open face with a high forehead, long chin, and oversized, Jimmy Durante nose.

“Maybe he’s part fish. He’s always loved to swim,” he said, running a hand through his short red-brown hair until it stood up on end.

“It’s good to see him active. His arthritis has been so bad lately,” I said.

“Otis and I are both getting to be old men,” Jeremy agreed. He sat back on his heels, admiring the charcoal, which was now smoking nicely. It had been a warm day—typical
weather for West Palm Beach in the late spring—but there was a breeze blowing off the water.

“Not so old,” I said, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. I settled down on the plaid blanket we’d spread out over the sand, and began to rummage through the cooler.

“What gourmet delicacies are we cooking up tonight? Breast of duck in a sour cherry reduction sauce? Beef tenderloin with roasted shallots?” Jeremy asked, settling down next to me on the blanket. He lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head, and closed his eyes.

“Hot dogs,” I said, holding up the plastic-wrapped package. “Followed by marshmallows.”

Jeremy opened one eye and squinted at me. “God, I love you,” he said reverently.

“Because I brought hot dogs?” I asked, smiling down at him.

“Partly because of the hot dogs. But mostly because of the marshmallows,” he said.

“Not just marshmallows,” I said. I rummaged in an oversized tote bag and pulled out a box of graham crackers and a six-pack of chocolate bars. “We’re going to make s’mores. Your favorite.”

“Will you marry me?”

“I’m already married to you.”

“Good thing. A woman who serves me processed meat products and s’mores. What more could any man want?” Jeremy said. He sat up, propping himself on bent arms. “Should I call the wild bunch up here?”

“Give them a few minutes. The hot dogs still have to cook,” I said, pulling a bunch of bamboo skewers out of the bag. I looked at them doubtfully. “Do you think these are long enough to roast the marshmallows on? I don’t want one of the kids to catch fire.”

“Yeah, we’d have a hard time explaining that to Mimi and Leo,” Jeremy said.

“They’d never let us babysit again,” I agreed.

The children belonged to my best friend, Mimi, and her husband, Leo. They were on a romantic overnight getaway to South Beach, so Miles, Rose, and Luke were spending the night with Jeremy and me.

“Are the coals hot enough?” I asked.

“They should be,” Jeremy said, reaching for the shrink-wrapped package of hot dogs. He pulled the dogs out and, one by one, dropped them on the grill.

While the hot dogs sizzled, I got out paper plates, napkins, mustard, and a bag of potato chips. The children, sensing food was imminent, abandoned the stick-tossing game and ran up the beach toward us. Otis, soggy but triumphant, followed them at a trot, proudly holding the stick in his mouth.

“I’m starving,” Miles announced, tripping just as he reached us. He tried to cover his embarrassment over this clumsiness by flopping down on the blanket, but his cheeks flushed red. Miles, ten, had recently gone through a growth spurt and was still getting used to his new longer legs and arms.

“You’re always hungry,” Rose said, daintily brushing the sand off her bare legs before sitting down cross-legged next to me. Rose, age eight, was our goddaughter. She was her mother in miniature—the same slanting dark eyes and full lips, an identical cloud of dark hair. The only traces of Leo were evident in her long nose and slightly squared chin.

“Look who’s talking,” Miles retorted. “Mom says that you eat more than you weigh on a daily basis.”

“Liar,” Rose said, but without much rancor.

Six-year-old Luke, who’d been unsuccessfully attempting to convince Otis to part with his stick, sat down next to his sister. He had a sturdier build than his lanky big brother and still had baby-rounded cheeks. His small, square feet were caked with sand. I considered brushing them off, but then decided it was a lost cause.