I smiled and hugged him back, flattered and reassured. For a very, very short time our junior year, Ned and I had been a couple. “Thanks. John, you remember Ned.”
They shook. “Let me get you a drink. What’s your handicap now? Sallie’s around somewhere,” Ned said to me, waving toward the guests circulating downstairs. “You should let her know you’re here.”
“Where should I put this?” I raised my decorated bag of marinated feta.
“Oh, you brought a gift. This way.” Belle navigated the crowd, confident as the queen bee she’d always been. I followed her, part of her court.
The guests ranged from our age to our parents’, the women all shiny, the men in khakis and button-down shirts. Except for the waiters, John was the only man in a tie. A server offered me champagne on a tray. Other servers passed plates of giant shrimp, tiny sandwiches, little bites on skewers. Like at a wedding reception. I looked over my shoulder for John.
“Meg! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” Sallie embraced me, careful not to spill my wine. “Is this for me? You are so sweet. Everybody, you know Meg.”
I did know them, most of them, Sallie’s posse, high school pals. Susie Perkins, May Chester, Rose Campbell and her adopted sister, Phebe. Members of Sallie’s wedding party, friends from her neighborhood, all with white, white smiles and expert manicures.
“How was the beach?” I asked Sallie.
She shrugged, flipping her perfect highlights over one shoulder. “Oh, you know. Sterling got stung by a jellyfish, and the boys were off playing golf all day, and Mother got mad because Belle complained about missing all the Black Friday sales when everybody knows she does all her shopping online. She won’t set foot in the mall. So Daddy . . .”
I sipped champagne as the conversation shifted to ski trips to Park City and Banff, cruises and Caribbean vacations. Sallie and Ned were going to Hawaii in January. Belle was talking about Mexico. I liked listening to them, the gurgle and flow of feminine voices as familiar and comfortable as waves rippling on shore. I helped myself to a slider filled with some kind of spicy meat—Jo would know—washed down with more champagne.
“I haven’t done Cancún since spring break days,” Susie said.
“We go to Sanara in Tulum,” Belle said. “The yoga studio is right on the beach.”
Across the room, John stood, hands in pockets, head to one side, part and yet apart from the group discussing golf or whatever it was men talked about at parties. Cars? He had probably sold, serviced, or financed most of those fancy vehicles outside. The sight of him—blond and broad-shouldered—kicked my memory.
John, his fair hair shining under the stadium lights, making his way purposefully toward me on the sidelines. “Hello, Meg.”
“You remembered my name.”
He looked adorably, momentarily confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember your name?”
“Because we’re not at the bank. I’m not wearing my name tag.”
He smiled. “You don’t need a name tag. I know you.”
“Are you and John going anywhere after the holidays?” Rose asked politely.
“Oh. No.” I took another sip from my champagne flute. “We can’t leave the kids. Or my mother. She’s still in the hospital.”
Belle and Sallie exchanged a quick, significant glance.
“I heard. I’m so sorry,” Rose’s sister, Phebe, said.
“How is your mother?” Sallie asked kindly.
My head was pleasantly fizzy. Maybe I couldn’t afford a trip to Hawaii. But at least for tonight I wanted to escape my everyday self. My everyday life. My to-do lists.
Ned swam up by my shoulder, red-faced and hospitable. “Your glass is empty. Let me get you a refill.” He signaled to a waiter.
“Oh, I don’t . . . I shouldn’t . . .” I looked around for John. He’d left the guys and was talking to one of the servers with that caring attention that was so attractive.
“Haven’t you had enough?” asked Sallie. I set down my flute in confusion. “Not you, Meg. Ned, you know what the doctor said about motility.”
“Christ, Sallie, for one night, can we not talk about my sperm?” Ned picked up my glass and his own. “Come on, Meg. Let’s get away from Debbie Downer here.”
I looked at Sallie.
“Ned’s right. It’s a party.” She waggled her fingers, her diamonds catching the light. “Go have fun.”
It’s a party, I repeated to myself as I tagged after Ned. Maybe John would follow? Ned grabbed drinks from a passing tray. We circulated, making our way toward the back of the house, pausing to chat, saying hi to people I’d known since high school.
“Like old times,” Ned said as we found a quieter spot overlooking the water.
“Boys on one side of the room, girls on the other?”
“Sneaking wine coolers on the back deck.”
I laughed. “My choice in drinks has improved.” So had my choice in dates. I glanced over my shoulder at John. He was still in the corner listening to the waiter, a youngish man, not much older than the boys John used to teach. His students had loved him. He could focus on you like he was genuinely interested in what you had to say, like you were the most fascinating, important person in the world.
He’d looked at me that way. “Can I take you home?” he’d asked, watching me with those warm, brown eyes. “Or we can drive to the beach. Spend the night. Watch the sun come up.”
I smiled harder at Ned, compensating for my husband’s inattention. Ned slid closer, whiskey on his breath. I pretended not to notice.
“I thought I saw you out here.” Trey swooped in and kissed my cheek. “Hey, Ned. Great party.”
Ned eased away. “Thanks, man.”
“Picked up some cigars for you when I was out of the country. Cohibas.”
Ned’s eyes got big, like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Cuban?”
“Box says Dominican.” Trey winked. “Left them under the tree. Merry Christmas.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Ned glanced from me to Trey. “Guess I’ll go blow a cloud. Excuse me.”
“Impressing a client?” I asked when he was gone.
“Impressing the old boyfriend?” Trey returned dryly.
I flushed. “I’m just having fun.”
“Are you?” Trey asked quietly.
No. “Of course.” Flirting with Ned . . . It was silly, harmless high school behavior.
“Where’s John?”
“Talking to a waiter.”
Trey quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect someone from your family to be a snob.”
“I am not a snob. I’m . . .” Let down. Lonely, I admitted to myself. The one person I really wanted to spend time with was John. For one electric moment in the car, feeling the flex of his thigh under our joined hands, I’d felt that old chemistry. That familiar connection. And now the evening had gone as flat as the bubbles in my champagne. “I don’t know why John can’t relax and mingle with everybody else.” I winced at the whiny sound of my voice. Took another sip of wine.
“Give him a break, Meg. He’s the new kid here. You all have known each other since kindergarten.”
“You didn’t have any trouble fitting in when you moved here.”
“You and your sisters made sure of that. Besides . . .” Trey stopped.
His hesitation, the turn of his head, jolted me out of my self-absorption, reminded me of the lonely boy we had befriended almost fifteen years ago. “Besides . . . ?”
He met my gaze. “Money buys a lot of friends.”
“Oh, Trey.” I felt an almost maternal tug. “People don’t like you because you have money. You’re a good guy. You’re kind and smart and fun to be with. And you’re not exactly ugly.”
“I wish your sister thought so.”
I knew, of course, which sister he referred to. “My sisters love you
,” I said. “We all love you.”
“Sure.” His smile flickered. “Thanks.”
“Come on.” I tucked my arm in his. “Let’s go back to the party.”
We mixed and mingled. So many people wanted to talk to Trey. A lot asked after my mother or my father. I thanked them, smiled, and moved on, looking in vain for John. I felt like a Cinderella who had stayed too late at the ball. My feet hurt. My shapewear chafed.
“You okay?” Trey asked as I squirmed.
“Yes, I just . . .” I was not confessing to Trey that my underwear was rubbing a blister in the crease of my butt. I set down my empty glass. “I don’t feel so good. Excuse me a minute?”
The powder room was already occupied. I backed away from the door. Glanced up the stairs. Surely Sallie wouldn’t mind . . . ?
Her bedroom door was open, coats piled on the bed. I nipped in, out of sight of anyone passing in the hall, and hiked my skirt to my waist. I stretched and jiggled, trying to shift my shapewear. A toilet flushed. I froze as a door on the other side of the room opened, and Ned walked out, his pants gaping. Ack! Ick!
“Shit!” he yelled.
“Sorry!”
Ned fumbled for his zipper. “What are you—”
Trey stuck his head in the door. “Are you all . . . Oh. Hey.”
Heat swarmed my face. My entire body burned. His black, observant gaze skipped from my exposed underwear to Ned’s unbuckled belt. I dropped my skirt hastily. “I just came up to fix my . . .”
“I had to use the bathroom,” Ned blurted.
“Meg?” It was John. Of course he’d come looking for me now. “You ready to go?”
I smoothed my dress over my thighs with fingers that trembled only slightly. “Yes.”
John’s brows flicked together. “Everything okay?”
I nodded, wordless with embarrassment.
Trey looked like he was trying not to laugh. “She wasn’t feeling well. I brought her upstairs to get your coats.”
It wasn’t a bad lie. But . . .
“She didn’t have a coat,” John said.
Trey shrugged. “I didn’t know.”
John looked at me. “You didn’t tell him?”
“No coat. Sorry,” I said to Trey. Or John. I wasn’t sure.
John frowned.
“Well. Time to go. Thank you for a lovely party,” I said to Ned.
And escaped.
* * *
Did you have a nice time?” I asked John on the way home.
“It was fine.”
“I was looking for you. I missed you,” I said.
“It looked to me like you were having a pretty good time without me.”
“With drunk Ned?”
“I don’t pick your friends.”
I shifted on the soft leather seat, trying to dislodge my wedgie. “They’re your friends, too.”
John grunted. “They’re customers, Meg. I’m just the car guy.”
“So, what did you all talk about all night?” I asked. “Cars?”
“Boats.” John slid a glance at me, a hint of humor softening his set expression. “Apparently size matters.”
I smiled. “I can see why you decided to hang out with the waiter.”
“The waiter? Oh, Hunter. He’s home from college, making a little money over the holidays. He was in my American history class. On the wrestling team, too.”
“He seemed very interested in what you were saying.”
“He’s a junior now. Starting to think about careers.” John glanced at me. “He wants to be a teacher.”
“You were a great teacher. Not that you’re not wonderful at your job now,” I added quickly. Being supportive.
He didn’t say anything.
I tried again. “And of course you make more money at the dealership than you could in teaching. Teachers don’t get paid anything close to what they deserve.”
“That’s what I told him. But it’s a great job, teaching. If you don’t have a family to support.” John switched on the radio. We listened to music the rest of the way home, James Taylor singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in a mournful key.
* * *
I’ll be right up,” I promised John after Hannah had gone.
He did not look at me. “Take your time. I’ve got some work to do.”
Again? But how could I complain? It was my fault he had to work so late.
I drifted through the downstairs. Miss Hannah had left our house as tidy as her own, all the toys picked up, the counters wiped free of crumbs. I transferred a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer. Added soap to the dishwasher. Adjusted the thermostat.
My phone buzzed with a message from Jo. Call me!!!, the giddy string of emojis more like Amy than Jo.
I smiled wistfully. Something had made my sister happy—something besides her usual fabulous life in New York. I wanted to hear all about it. But not tonight. Hard enough to pretend to myself that everything was all right. I’d never fool my sister.
I texted her a brief update on Momma and then—feeling guilty for dodging Jo’s call—sent her a picture of me in my dress.
I couldn’t wait to take it off.
I went upstairs to check on the twins. They looked so sweet in the dim glow of the night-light, like cherubs, like sugarplums. “God bless, my babies,” I whispered. “Sleep tight.”
John’s light was on at the end of the hall, but I didn’t go to his office.
I peeled out of my clothes, the hated shapewear like a cicada chrysalis, pale brown and shiny, the corpse of my pre-baby body. I stuffed it into the hamper and got into bed, lying with my eyes closed as John came in and turned on the shower. He always showered at night. I loved the way he slipped into bed, smelling like soap and clean, male skin.
He kissed my cheek.
“John?”
“Mm?” He moved down to my neck.
“Is everything all right?”
“Mm.”
“I just wondered . . .” I squirmed. His mouth was hot and gentle on my breast. “You seemed kind of upset earlier.”
“Honey, I’m fine.”
Of course he was fine. When you’re the oldest child, you’re always fine, because there’s always somebody younger than you who’s not fine and needs attention.
“It’s just . . . We never talk anymore.”
“We talk,” he said a bit defensively.
“About our schedules. Or the kids. Not about us. Not about our feelings.”
“Honey, I’m a guy. We don’t sit around discussing our feelings.”
“We used to,” I reminded him. “We used to talk for hours.” About everything and nothing at all. About our hopes and fears, our plans and our dreams, about where to go out for dinner or what was on TV. Or we could sit in silence and be perfectly in tune.
He sighed and rolled away, punching his pillow to stuff it under his head. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I didn’t want to sound as if I was complaining. “Tell me something important,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Tell me what you want out of life.”
“Besides sex?”
I sputtered with laughter. “John!”
He turned on his side to face me, his warm, brown eyes on mine. His thumb traced the shape of my smile. “There it is,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy, Meg.”
My heart melted. “Oh, John.” That was so lovely. How could I be anything but grateful? “That’s it?”
“That’s not enough for you?”
I grabbed his hand. “Of course it’s enough. It would be enough for anybody. But what about you? What do you want, John?”
“I want to take care of you. You and the kids.”<
br />
“You do. You work so hard. I love you, John.”
His face was sober. “Love you, too, honey.”
“But I want you to be happy, too.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” I searched his face, unconvinced. “Let it go, Meg,” he said in his Coach voice.
I could push. But I didn’t want to fight. And maybe there was a chance we could get this night back on track. I squeezed his hand again.
John raised on one elbow to kiss my forehead. “Good night, honey.”
“Are you tired?”
“Kids will be up before you know it,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”
“You’re right.” I kissed him back softly. “Good night, John.”
But it was a long, long time before I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11
Jo
Hot, hot!”
“Knife.”
“Behind!”
All around me, manic cooks stirred, seared, and sautéed, clanking pans and scraping spoons like the rhythm section of a dysfunctional orchestra. Fat sizzled. Pots bubbled. Intake hoods roared. Two hours into service, the bar was buzzing and the dining room packed. The printers spat orders nonstop into the kitchen.
Eric commanded the center of the storm at the pass, feet planted shoulder-width apart, a black bandanna knotted around his head like a pirate’s. My fingertips tingled, itching to push beneath the texture of his hair, to find the strong shape of his skull.
I expelled my breath. Hoo, boy.
“Rib eye up,” Lucas yelled from the meat side, his voice fraying.
I jerked forward, pot in hand. My elbow knocked a half-full hotel pan from the flat-top, spilling buttery browned circles of potato fondant all over the floor.
Crap. Crappity crap.
Ray, on fish, swore. “Get it together, March. What’s got into you today?”
Your boss, I thought inappropriately. My boss. Eric.
All through service, I’d been acutely conscious of him, touching, tasting, plating, his strong hands coaxing and sure, teasing exactly the response he wanted from every gleaming entrée, every delicately placed garnish. The soft, secreted nerve endings inside me twitched to insistent life.
Meg and Jo Page 17
