by Megan Hart
“Can we just get started? I’ve got stuff to do,” Patricia said.
“Fine with me,” Claire replied nonchalantly. “Let’s go.”
She couldn’t have irritated Patricia more with her blasé response. The disregard for her anger made Patricia even more snappish. Though she and Claire had butted heads in the past, this seemed excessive. I set out to defuse the inevitable blowup by pulling out my notebook and pen.
“Okay. First thing we need to decide is where to have it.” I tapped the pen to the paper. My parents’ anniversary was in August. Thirty years. Patricia had come up with the idea for a party. “At their house? At my house, or Patricia’s? Maybe at a restaurant.”
“How ’bout the VFW?” Claire smirked. “Or the bowling alley?”
“Very funny.” Patricia tore apart her croissant but ate none of it.
“Your house, Anne. We could have a pit beef barbecue, or something, on the beach.” Mary’s phone beeped again, but she ignored it.
“Yeah…we could.” I didn’t hide my lack of enthusiasm for that idea.
“Well, we can’t have it at my house.” Patricia sounded firm. “I don’t have the space.”
“And I do?” My house was nice, and by the water, true, but it was far from spacious.
Claire scoffed, waving at the waiter, who came over at once. “How many people do you really think are going to come? Hey, hon, bring me a mimosa, will you?”
“Jesus, Claire,” said Patricia. “Do you have to?”
For a second Claire’s insouciance slipped. “Yeah, Pats. I do.”
“We could have it at Caesar’s Crystal Palace,” I suggested quickly to fend off an argument. “They have lots of receptions and stuff there.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Mary said. “The food there’s super pricey, and honestly, you guys, I just don’t have the cash to put toward this party like some of you do.”
She gave me a significant look, then one to Patricia. Claire laughed. Mary looked at her, too, with a wiggle of brows.
“Yeah, me and Mary are poor.” Claire looked up at the waiter who brought her drink. “Thanks, sugar.”
He actually blushed when she winked. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Claire had no shame.
“I think keeping the cost down is a good idea, too.” Patricia said this stiffly, looking at her plate and its desiccated croissant. “Let’s have it at Anne’s. We can buy the paper goods at the wholesale club and make a bunch of desserts. The pit beef barbecue would be the most expensive thing, but they include the corn on the cob and rolls and stuff.”
“Don’t forget the booze,” Claire said.
Silence ringed the table. Mary’s phone beeped and she flipped it open, her face blank. Patricia said nothing. I didn’t, either. Claire looked around at each of us.
“You can’t seriously be thinking of not having booze,” Claire said. “At the very least, you have to have beer.”
“That’s up to Anne,” Patricia said after a moment. “It’s her house.”
I looked at her, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. I looked at Mary, also ignoring me. Claire, however, met my gaze head-on.
“We can have whatever we want,” I said, finally.
“It’s an anniversary party for Mom and Dad,” Claire said. “Now, you tell me you’re going to throw them a party and not have booze.”
We were saved from an uncomfortable silence by the arrival of our food. It took a few minutes to distribute and get started on consuming, but that brief time was enough. Mary sighed, stabbing a fried potato.
“We could have beer.” She shrugged. “Get a keg.”
“A couple bottles of wine,” said Patricia grudgingly. “And we’d have to have champagne, I guess. To toast. It’s been thirty years. I guess they deserve a toast. Don’t they?”
They were all looking at me to decide. My fork hovered over the omelet my stomach was deciding it no longer wanted. They wanted me to say yes or no, to make the choice for them. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want that responsibility.
“Anne,” said Claire at last. “We’ll all be there. It’ll be okay.”
I nodded once firmly, the sharp action hurting my neck. “Fine. Sure. Of course. Beer, wine, champagne. James can set up a bar outside and make mixed drinks. He likes that.”
We all said nothing for another long moment. I imagined I felt relief from my sisters at not having to be the ones to make the choice, but perhaps it was only my imagination.
“Now. What about the guest list?” I said, my voice firm as I took charge.
Keeping the surface polished.
I wanted James to refuse to have the party at our house, but, of course, he thought it was a great idea. He was at the grill with a beer in one hand and the tongs in the other when I broached the subject. His apron had a picture of a decapitated, bikini-clad woman imprinted on the front. Her breasts bulged every time he lifted his arms.
“Sounds great. We could rent a tent in case the weather’s bad. It’ll give some shade, too.”
The scent of sizzling steaks should have made my mouth water, but my stomach was too twisted for me to appreciate it. “It will be a lot of work.”
“We’ll hire help. Don’t worry about it.” James flipped the steaks expertly and lifted the lid on the bubbling pot of corn.
Watching him, the master in front of his superfab-andgroovy grill, I let a small smile tug my mouth. James needed step-by-step instructions to make microwave oatmeal, but he fancied himself the Iron Chef of outdoor cooking.
“It will still be a lot of work.”
He looked at me then, finally getting it. “Anne, if you don’t want to have it here, why didn’t you say so?”
“My sisters outvoted me. They all want a pit beef barbecue, and this is the only place to have it. Besides,” I conceded, “even if we rent a tent and hire people to serve and clean up, it will still be cheaper than having it at a catering hall. And…we do have a nice place.”
I looked around. Our house and property were more than nice. A lakefront home with its own stretch of beach, privacy and seclusion, surrounded by pine trees. One of the first homes built along the shore road, the house itself had belonged to James’s grandparents. Others on the road were selling in the high nine hundreds and above, but we’d paid nothing. They’d left it to James in their will. It was small and worn, but clean and bright and most importantly, ours. My husband might build luxury half mansions for everyone else, but I preferred our little bungalow with the personal touches.
James slid the steaks onto a platter and brought them to the table. “Only if you want to, babe. I don’t care, one way or another.”
It would have been so much easier if he had. If he’d put his foot down and demanded we host my parents’ party someplace else. If he’d taken the choice from me, I could’ve blamed him for making what I wanted come true.
“No.” I sighed as he slapped an immense portion of beef onto my plate. “We’ll have it here.”
The steak was good, the corn crisp and sweet. I’d made a salad with in-season strawberries and vinaigrette dressing, and crusty French bread rolls. We ate like kings as James told me about the new work site, the problems he was having with some of the guys on his crew, about his parents’ plans for a family vacation.
“When do they think that’s going to happen?” I paused in cutting my steak.
James shrugged, pouring himself another glass of red wine. He didn’t ask me if I wanted any; he’d stopped asking long ago. “I don’t know. Sometime this summer, I guess.”
“You guess? Well, did they think to ask any of us when we might like to go? Or if we want to go?”
Another shrug. He wouldn’t have thought of it. “I don’t know, Anne. It’s just something my mom mentioned. Maybe sometime over the fourth.”
“Well,” I said, buttering a roll to give my hands a reason not to clench. “We can’t go away with them this summer. You know we can’t. I wish you’d just told her that up front.”
Ja
mes sighed. “Anne—”
I looked up. “You didn’t tell her we’d go, did you?”
“I didn’t tell her we’d go.”
“But you didn’t tell her we wouldn’t.” I frowned. It was typical and unsurprising, and right now, immeasurably more irritating.
James chewed in silence and washed down his food with wine. He cut more steak. He poured steak sauce.
I, too, said nothing. It wasn’t as easy for me but had come about from long practice. It became a waiting game.
“What do you want me to tell her?” he asked, finally.
“The truth, James. The same thing you told me. That we couldn’t take a vacation this summer because you’ve got that new development going in and you need to be on-site. That we’re planning on using your vacation time to go skiing this winter, instead. That we can’t go. That we don’t want to go!”
“I’m not saying that.” He wiped his mouth and crumpled his napkin, then threw it on his plate where it soaked up steak sauce like blood.
“You’d better tell her something,” I said sourly. “Before she books the trip.”
He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand over his head. “Yeah. I know.”
I didn’t want to be fighting with him about this. Especially since I wasn’t really tense about his mother, but about hosting my parents’ anniversary party. It all cycled around, though, a snake eating its own tail. Feeling pressured into doing something I didn’t want to do for people I didn’t want to please.
James reached across the table and grabbed my hand. His thumb passed over the back of it. “I’ll tell her.”
Three words and such a simple sentiment, but some of the weight dropped from my shoulders. I squeezed his hand. We shared a smile. He tugged me gently, pulling me closer, and we kissed over the remains of our dinner.
“Mmm. Steak sauce.” He licked his lips. “Wonder what else that would taste good on.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
James laughed and kissed me again, lingering though the position was awkward. “I’d have to lick it all off….”
“That sounds like a very good way to get an infection,” I said crisply, and he let me go.
Together, we tossed the paper plates and put away leftovers. James found many excuses to rub and bump against me, always with a falsely innocent “Pardon me, excuse me,” that made me laugh and punch his arm. Finally he backed me against the sink and pinned me. His hands closed around my wrists, pressing my hands down to the countertop. His pelvis anchored mine.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Fancy meeting you here.” He nudged me with his erection.
“We have to stop meeting like this. It’s really too shocking.”
He pressed closer to me, knowing I couldn’t move away. His breath, redolent of garlic and onion but in a delicious and not repugnant way, gusted over my face. He tilted his head to align our mouths, but he didn’t kiss me.
“Are you shocked?”
I gave my head the slightest shake. “Not yet.”
“Good.”
Sometimes it was like that with us. Fast and hot and hard, swift and frantic fucking without bothering to do more than slide aside panties and unzip a fly. He was inside me in a heartbeat, and I was wet for him. Slick. My body gave him no resistance as he filled me, and we both cried out.
My arms went around his neck, his hand beneath one thigh to shift the angle. We rattled the cupboards. I wasn’t sure I’d come but something in the way his body hit my pelvis, over and over, tipped me into a short, sharp climax. James followed just after my body tightened around him. His face dropped to my shoulder, both of us breathing hard. The position quickly became painful and awkward, and we untangled ourselves with stiff motions. He put his arms around me, and we stood together as our breathing slowed and the sweat on our faces cooled in the breeze coming in the window.
“When’s your next appointment with the doctor?” James’s question made me blink.
“I haven’t made one.”
I pushed away from him to rearrange my clothes and wash the grill utensils. The dish soap made my fingers slippery, and I dropped the tongs into the steel sink with a clatter that sounded like an accusation. James, however, did not accuse.
“Are you going to?”
I looked at him. “I’ve just been busy.”
He could’ve pointed out that since the local counseling center I’d worked for had lost its funding and closed, I’d been anything but busy. He didn’t. He shrugged and accepted my answer like it made sense, even though it didn’t.
“Why?” I asked. “Are you in a hurry?”
James smiled. “I thought you wanted to get started. Hey, who knows, maybe we just made a baby. Just now.”
That was utterly unlikely. “How lucky would that be?”
He reached for me again. “Pretty lucky?”
I snorted delicately. “To have conceived our child standing up in the kitchen?”
“Maybe she’d be a good cook.”
“Or he. Boys can be good cooks, too.” I tossed a handful of suds his way.
James buffed his nails on his shirtfront. “Yeah, just like his old man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh…yeah.”
Before we could disintegrate into teasing about James’s lack of culinary skills, the phone rang. I reached for it automatically. James took the opportunity of my distraction to knuckle my sides.
I was laughing, breathless, when I answered. “Hello?”
The crackle of static and silence greeted me. Then, “Anne?”
I fended off my husband’s wandering hands. “Yes?”
“Hello, Anne.” The voice was low, deep, thick. Unfamiliar yet something made me think I knew it.
“Yes?” I said, uncertain, glancing at the clock. It seemed rather late for a telemarketer.
“This is Alex. How are you?”
“Oh. Alex. Hello.” My laugh sounded embarrassed this time. James raised an eyebrow. I’d never spoken to Alex. “You must want to speak to James.”
“No,” said Alex. “I’d like to talk to you.”
I’d already been planning to hand off the phone to James, but now I stopped. “You would?”
James, who’d been reaching for the phone, took back his hand. His other brow raised, the pair of them arching like birds’ wings. I shrugged and raised a brow myself, using the subtle nonverbal signals we’d forged as our private marital communication.
“Sure.” Alex had a laugh like syrup. “How are you?”
“I’m…fine.”
James stepped back, palms up, grinning. I cradled the phone against my shoulder and turned back to the sink to rinse off the dishes, but James nudged me aside and took over the task. He waved a little, shooing me.
“That’s good. How’s the bastard you married?”
“He’s fine, too.” I went to the living room. I’m not much of a phone conversationalist. I always need something else to do while I’m talking, but now I had no laundry to fold, no floor to mop. No dishes, even, to wash. I paced, instead.
“He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I opted to assume Alex was teasing. “Nothing the whips and chains can’t take care of.”
His low chuckle tickled my eardrum. “That’s right. You keep him in line.”
“So…James tells me you’re coming for a visit?”
The hiss of static made me think we’d lost the connection for a second, but then he was back. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Unless you object?”
“Of course not. We’re looking forward to it.” A slight lie. I was sure James was looking forward to it. Never having met Alex, I wasn’t so sure about having him as a houseguest. It was an intimate proposal, and I wasn’t so good at intimacy on short notice.
“Liar.”
“Beg pardon?” I stopped short.
Alex laughed. “You’re a liar, Anne.”
At first, I didn’t know how to respond. “I—”
He laughed again. “I’d be the same way. Some rascal calls out of the blue wanting to be put up for a few weeks? I’d be a little concerned. Especially if half the things I’m sure Jamie’s told you about me are true. He has told you stories, hasn’t he?”
“A few.”
“And you’re still letting me come to visit? You’re a brave, brave woman.”
I’d heard stories about Alex Kennedy but assumed most of them were exaggerations. The mythology of boyhood friendship, the past filtered through time. “So, if only half of what he’s told me is true, what about the rest?”
“Some of that might be true, too,” Alex said. “Tell me something, Anne. Do you really want me in your house?”
“Are you really a rascal?”
“A ragged one. Running round and round that rugged rock.”
He surprised me into a laugh. I was aware of an undercurrent there, a slight flirtation he was offering and to which I was responding. I looked into the kitchen, where James was finishing up the dishes. He wasn’t even paying any attention, uncaring about my conversation with his friend. I’d have been eavesdropping.
“Any friend of James,” I said.
“Is that so? But I bet Jamie doesn’t have any friends like me.”
“Rascals? No. You’re probably right. A few scoundrels and a moron or two. But no other rascals.”
I liked his laugh. It was warm and gooey and unpretentious. The connection hissed and crackled again. I heard a flare of music and the murmur of conversation, but couldn’t tell if it was in the background or breaking through on the line.
“Where are you, Alex?”
“Germany. I’m visiting some friends for a day or so before I go to Amsterdam, then to London. I’ll be leaving for the States from there.”
“Very cosmopolitan,” I said, only a bit envious. I’d never been out of North America.
Alex’s laugh rasped. “I’m living out of a suitcase and I’m jet-lagged all to shit. I’d kill someone just for a bologna sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise.”
