Table for Seven (5 page)

“Just keep telling yourself that, honey,” Fran said, reaching over to pat his hand. “I think we should come up with a name for our dinner party club. Any ideas?”

“How about the Hungry, Hungry Hippos?” Mark suggested.

“How much have you had to drink?” Jaime asked him.

“Not nearly enough,” Mark said. He grabbed the wine bottle and poured himself a healthy amount. “I need to let out my inner hedonist. You’re driving us home.”

“The Hedonists! That’s what we can call ourselves,” Will said.

“No way,” Fran said. “That’s the name of that naked resort.”

“Come again?” Mark asked. “A naked resort? I want to hear more about that.”

“You know. It’s one of those all-inclusive resorts in Jamaica, only everyone walks around naked,” Fran said.

“Ick,” Jaime said. “Because I so want to lie down on a chaise longue that some guy has rubbed his naked, hairy ass all over.”

“Okay, that’s out. We absolutely do not want a club name that conjures up images of naked, hairy man asses,” Will said, leaning back in his chair and crossing an ankle over one knee.

“How about the Home Chefs?” Jaime suggested.

“That sounds like a line of kitchenware,” Fran said.

“You’re right,” Jaime conceded. “I’m terrible at coming up with names. Ask Mark. It took me forever to decide on the kids’ names.”

“There will be six of us, right? Why don’t we call it the Table for Six Club?” Fran suggested.

“I sort of like it,” Mark said.

“Me, too,” Jaime said.

“I think we have a name,” Will said. He raised his wineglass in a toast. “To the Table for Six Club.”

“The Table for Six Club,” the others chimed in, clinking together their glasses.

The doorbell rang. Everyone looked at one another in surprise.

“Christmas carolers?” Mark suggested.

“A week after Christmas?” Jaime said.

“Christmas carolers with poor calendaring skills?” Will said.

“I’ll go see who it is,” Fran said, starting to stand. She looked unsteady, and swayed for a moment before catching the back of her chair.

“Wait, you stay put. I’ll go,” Audrey said.

“I’m fine,” Fran protested.

“Honey, you’re drunk,” Will said. He grinned. “As am I.”

“It’s these bottomless wineglasses,” Mark said, inspecting his as though it were a strange artifact. “Every time I empty it, it magically refills itself.”

“Why doesn’t Audrey seem drunk?” Fran asked.

“I switched to water over an hour ago,” Audrey said, patting Fran’s shoulder as she passed by. “I’ll be right back.”

Audrey left the room with some relief. It felt good to stand after so many hours of sitting, and she arched her back, stretching the muscles. She fumbled momentarily with the dead bolt and then opened the front door. There, standing on the front porch, was a tall, rangy man with broad shoulders. His face was tan, and his fair hair was short. His features weren’t handsome—his pale eyes drooped at the outer edges and were lined, and his nose looked like it might have been broken at some point. But the overall effect was surprisingly sexy.

He blinked at her. “You’re not Fran.”

Audrey smiled. “No. I’m not.” She held out her hand. “I’m Audrey Dickinson.”

He shook her hand. His hands were large, and the palms were calloused. “Nice to meet you, Audrey Dickinson. I’m Coop.”

Ah
, Audrey thought.
Will’s gay friend
. She was a little surprised—Coop didn’t seem gay. She could have sworn that his eyes flickered toward her cleavage for a moment.

“Just Coop?” Audrey asked.

“Preston Cooper.” Coop grimaced. “I still haven’t forgiven my parents for that. But I suppose it could have been worse.”

“True. They could have named you something really weird, like Phoenix or Dweezil,” Audrey said.

Coop grinned. “I always thought that if you’re going to have an unusual name, it should be something really cool. Like, I don’t know”—he pondered this for a moment—“Spike?”

Audrey wrinkled her nose.

“No? How about d’Artagnan?” Coop suggested.

“D’Artagnan? Isn’t that one of the Three Musketeers?”

“Yes. It has a certain swashbuckling charm, don’t you think? And it’s much more manly than Athos or Porthos.”

“Much more manly,” Audrey agreed. “Come on in. Everyone’s in the dining room. You missed the main course.”

“I’m only stopping by for a few minutes. I just left one party and am headed toward another. But I thought I’d swing by and say hello,” Coop said, stepping inside.

Audrey remembered Fran telling her at some point that Coop directed oceanographic documentaries. It was funny, she thought, that in all the times Fran and Will had mentioned Coop over the years, they’d never said anything about his sexual orientation. Anyway, it was too bad he hadn’t been
able to make it for dinner. He would have been an interesting addition to the group. More interesting than Jaime’s bore of a husband.

“Who’s here?” Fran asked, appearing in the hallway. Her eyes were too bright, but she had discarded her heels and was now standing steadily in her bare feet. “Coop! I can’t believe you made it!”

Fran flung herself in Coop’s arms, and when she pulled away, her face was flushed. “Come in and say hi to everyone,” she said, taking Coop’s hand and pulling him into the dining room.

Audrey trailed after them. Fran introduced Coop to the rest of the guests, while Will found him a chair and poured him a glass of wine.

“I really can’t stay,” Coop said. “Although it looks like I missed quite a meal.”

“You did. Everything was wonderful. Fran is a fabulous chef,” Leland said.

“I know she is,” Coop said, throwing an affectionate arm around Fran’s shoulders.

“We were just talking about making this a regular event,” Will said. “Forming a monthly dinner party club.”

“Coop, you totally have to join,” Fran said.

Coop looked skeptical. “What exactly would it entail?”

“We’ll get together once a month and take turns hosting,” Jaime explained.

“I’d have to cook?” Coop asked.

“I’ll help you when it’s your turn,” Fran said. “Come on, you have to join us. It will be so much more fun with you there.”

“Should we take that the wrong way?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it every month,”
Coop said. “I’m looking at taking another filming trip in the next few months.”

“That’s okay. You can come when you’re in town,” Fran said.

“You might as well go along with it,” Will said to Coop. “You know how Fran is. When she gets an idea into her head, resistance is futile.”

“She is persistent,” Coop agreed, patting Fran’s shoulder.

“Just do what I do. Nod and say, ‘Yes, dear,’ ” Will said, demonstrating his beleaguered husband nod.

“Will, cut it out,” Fran said, her tone suddenly sharp.

“It’s okay, I already know better than to argue with you,” Coop said. “I’m in. But I’m going to hold you to your promise to help me when it’s my turn.”

Fran grinned at him. “You’ve got it. I’ll be your sous chef.”

“No, I’ll be your sous chef,” Coop said, squeezing her arm.

“Why does that sounds vaguely dirty?” Mark asked.

“Because Coop’s the one saying it,” Will said. “What did we say the name of our dinner party club was going to be?”

“Table for Six,” Jaime said.

“Now we’re seven,” Will said. He raised his glass. “Let’s try this toast thing again. To the Table for Seven Dinner Party Club.”

february

WARM GOAT CHEESE SALAD WITH PEARS AND WALNUTS

INDIVIDUAL FILETS EN CROÛTE

PARSLEY LEAF POTATOES

ASPARAGUS

CHOCOLATE POTS DE CRÈME

J
AIME STOOD IN HER kitchen, whisking bittersweet chocolate into a mixture of milk and cream, which had been brought to a simmer and removed from the heat. As she stirred, waiting for the finely chopped chocolate to melt, she wondered if Mark was having an affair.

She didn’t have any definitive proof. There hadn’t been any of the clichéd signs, like lipstick marks on his shirt collars or unexplained late-night phone calls. And she couldn’t imagine where he would find the time or energy. Between work and home and the hours he logged at the tennis club with Emily, how could Mark possibly fit a mistress into his schedule?

Even so, she had a nagging feeling that something was up. Mark had been so distant lately. Even more so than usual. And then there was his damn iPhone fixation. He always claimed he was checking work emails, but Jaime had her doubts. She’d even stolen a look at his messaging history in the hopes that it would give her some insight into what was going on. But the texts there were mostly work related, with a few from Libby, Mark’s ex-wife, about Emily’s schedule. This was not in itself enough evidence to prove his innocence—Mark was smart enough to delete anything damning.

Once the chocolate had melted evenly, Jaime whisked together eggs and sugar in a glass bowl until the mixture turned
a pale yellow. Then she stirred the eggs and sugar into the chocolate, and set the custard aside to cool.

As she wiped down the countertops and put away the ingredients, she wondered why the thought of Mark having an affair didn’t upset her more. Shouldn’t it make her feel sick and queasy? Or move her to rage? Instead, the idea just made her tired. If he was having an affair—if she found out for sure—she’d have to do something about it. Take a stand. It might even lead to a divorce, to selling the house, to dividing up their time with the children. At the very least, they’d probably end up in couple’s therapy, which was truly a grim prospect. The last thing she wanted to do was spend an hour every week dissecting the problems in her marriage in front of a stranger. Who had the time or energy?

Jaime got out seven of the set of eight vintage pink Spode custard cups she’d found on eBay. They were lovely, complete with double handles, covers, and saucers, and were perfect for the chocolate pots de crème she was serving for the dessert course at the first official meeting of the Table for Seven Dinner Party Club. She poured an equal amount of the chocolate mixture into each cup, lined them up on a rectangular Pyrex baking dish, and placed it in the Sub-Zero refrigerator.

The front door opened, and Mark’s voice called out, “Hey, where is everyone?”

“In the kitchen,” Jaime called back.

Mark was dressed for tennis, wearing a navy blue sweatshirt over gym shorts. His hair was damp and his cheeks were flushed.

“Hi,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. He smelled of sweat and fresh air.

“Hey,” Jaime said.

“Where are the kids?” Mark asked.

Jaime looked pointedly at the clock. It was after eight. “They’ve been in bed for over an hour.”

“Emily’s practice ran late,” Mark said.

“I figured as much,” Jaime said. Then she wondered—not for the first time—if he was seeing someone at the tennis club. There were certainly enough attractive women hanging around there, all showing off their tanned legs in short skirts. But she had a hard time believing that Mark would choose to flirt with another woman while Emily was nearby. His daughter was very sharp and very perceptive—she’d catch on quickly if something was up.

If Mark heard the edge in her voice, he ignored it. “Sarah was working on speed drills with the kids,” he said. “I think Emily needs to do more of that. She gets lazy with her footwork.”

“Mmm,” Jaime said, as she mentally reviewed her to-do list for the dinner party. She scanned the recipe for the salad to see if any portion of it could be completed ahead of time. Baby greens tossed with pears and a vinaigrette, then topped with slices of pan-fried goat cheese. Maybe she could whisk up the vinaigrette now. The main course of filets en croûte—filet mignon covered with a sautéed mushroom mixture and Gorgonzola cheese, then wrapped in puff pastry—was already prepared and chilling in the refrigerator. There would be plenty of time to finish the rest of the salad, the asparagus, and the potatoes tomorrow afternoon.

“What is all this?” Mark asked, running his finger over the dribble of chocolate left in the saucepan and sticking it in his mouth. “Pudding?”