“Hellooo, you two!” Leah enthused. “I hope you’re having a marvelous time.”
“Oh, indescribably so,” Tamara commented.
“Yeah,” Bridget said, almost believably. And then, because she hated to lie, she took an inadvertently large bite out of the head-deprived Gingerbread Man. A mistake. She started coughing—an immediate and uncontrollable reaction to a strong, unrecognizable spice. What the heck had Leah baked into this thing?
Kip thrust a small martini-shaped glass at her, a wedge of some fruit—an apple slice?—garnishing the rim. “Here, honey. Have one of these.”
Desperate, Bridget took it and gulped. The flame of vodka engulfed her throat and eviscerated her taste buds. For a moment, she coughed even harder but, suddenly, it all stopped. Her esophagus had been sufficiently shocked by the mysterious contents of the cocktail. “Uh, thanks,” she murmured.
Kip grinned and put one in Tamara’s hand as well.
“What…is it?” Tamara asked for them both.
“A Poisoned Appletini, of course,” Leah said far too cheerfully.
“It’s not really toxic,” Kip confided. He winked at them. “Unless you drink too many of ’em.”
Then the Goth couple laughed at their own joke and moved on to terrorize the next group of partygoers.
Tamara took a cautious sip of her pinkish drink, and she was pleasantly surprised. There was vodka, yes, but she also detected apple schnapps, Cointreau and a dash of apple cider. Very, very tasty.
And when Kip deposited the remainder of the glasses on the food table and urged her to “Have another one, sweetie,” she took him up on it.
Bridget, by contrast, barely drank half of her first Appletini and absolutely begged off a second. Nevertheless, she stayed by Tamara’s side for another twenty minutes, talking to her about a couple of great new carryout places in the area, until the Twelve Dancing Princesses descended upon them.
Actually, Tamara noted there were only half a dozen of them—the local instructors at Madame Chelsea’s School of Dance—but they pirouetted so much that, to Tamara, it felt as if there were at least twice as many.
The Dancing Princesses knew Bridget’s daughter from her years of ballet study, and they flung a seemingly endless stream of questions at Bridget:
“We’ve missed Cassandra this semester. Is she practicing her pliés? Her chassés? Her relevés?”
“Will you be enrolling her in ballet camp next summer?”
“Might she consider auditioning for The Nutcracker in December?”
The flurry of queries naturally left Bridget feeling guilty because she knew she hadn’t focused much attention on her daughter during the past two months, but Cassandra had asked to take a break from dance this fall. It wasn’t as though Bridget was purposely depriving her!
As for Tamara, she only felt old. Although she was personally familiar with all of the dance terms the instructors used, she felt edged out of the discussion. She was long past the age of being a dance student herself and Madame Chelsea’s—unlike some of the other dance studios in the area—did not offer classes for middle-aged adults who wanted to relieve their Swan Lake days.
So, she left Bridget to the Dancing Princesses in the middle of the room and drifted back toward the food table where she grabbed another Poisoned Appletini. Through what was quickly becoming a shimmery vodka haze, she regarded her increasingly chaotic surroundings with newfound interest.
Really, it was a full-fledged Comedy of the Absurd.
There was a fascinating dynamic playing out in the back corner of the room, a sitcom between two Peters and their diminutive dates. That is, Peter Pan, who’d come to the party with Tinker Bell, seemed to be showing an inappropriate level of interest in Thumbelina, the flirtatious date of Peter Piper. Not good.
Thumbelina, with a high-pitched giggle, a batting of eyelashes and a swinging of her petite hips, declared, “Oh, you’re so funny, Peter Pan. Tell us more about Neverland.”
Peter Pan laughed and pretended to sprinkle some pixie dust on her chest, which was surprisingly robust and well-displayed, given her childlike character. Then again, her outfit was kinda skimpy.
Neither Tinker Bell nor Peter Piper looked remotely amused.
Tamara turned her attention to the Arabian Nights contingent at the opposite end of the room, a spectacle involving a threesome this time. She was unsure if Aladdin and Ali Baba were going to draw long swords to fight for the right to take the lovely Scheherazade home, or if they were just going to make it a ménage à trois.
Clearly, she wasn’t the only one under the influence of the unusual alcoholic mixtures. She sighed and wondered vaguely what Jon was up to—hunting down the district attorney and a local judge or two, no doubt—but, mostly, she scanned the crowd, nibbled on the apple wedge accompanying her latest drink and chitchatted briefly with a Dwarf, a Sorcerer and a couple of Evil Henchmen.
She’d gotten to the point where her buzz had morphed into a delightfully relaxed awareness, fringed by the smooth and rare edge of self-acceptance. As an added bonus, she found herself able to focus on limited stimuli with the intensity of a toddler. She was completely living in the moment and unusually at peace with the sensation.
Which was why, of course, the very next marvel introduced into her consciousness was the inevitable sight of Aaron slipping into the room.
Dressed as yet another prince (there were too damn many of them already) and carrying a couple of pumpkins suitable for carving, he grinned when he spotted her. Setting down his offerings on the unoccupied ledge of a bookshelf, he strode over to her and said, “Hey, Tamara. Good to see you here.”
“You, too. Nice outfit.”
“Thanks.” He spread his robe like a caped crusader. “I’m a superhero.”
“You’re a prince.”
“Same difference.” He shrugged. “Point is, I’m a cool and invincible dude, prepared to battle every obstacle in my path.” He motioned to her long, fake Rapunzel braids. “If there’s a pair of garden shears around here somewhere, I can fix those for you.”
She laughed and reached for her fifth (sixth?) Poisoned Appletini. “Take a swipe at my braids, neighbor, and you’re gonna need to be immortal, not just invincible.”
Back in the center of the room, Bridget finally wrapped up her conversation with the Dancing Princesses, sending them flitting off to interrogate some other equally negligent ballet mom. She glanced around for Tamara and saw her laughing with a Very Handsome Prince near one end of the table. Graham was a few clusters of people away, talking with a couple of guys from the fire department—a Lion, a Tiger and, yes, a Bear—so she finally had a few moments to herself.
She walked to a semiquiet spot near the candy-covered walls of the room (the Wieners had decorated several areas of their house like the witch’s cottage in Hansel and Gretel, complete with wrapped chocolates shaped like various creatures of the night, gumdrops and lollipops taped to the walls), pulled out her cell phone and gave the kids a quick call. After she’d let Shelby know about Jennifer’s cell phone problem, and just as she was listening to Keaton’s long recounting of the “way cool DVDs in Veronica’s living room,” Graham walked up to her and motioned for her to hang up.
Bridget said goodbye to her son and turned to her husband. “How’s it going, my good Woodsman?”
He rolled his eyes. “Checking up on the kids again? Jeez, Bridget. Give ’em a little space. They’re fine. Have a Spider Sandwich or one of the Bloody Pigs in a Blanket, why don’t ’cha?” He popped a biscuit-covered wienie into his mouth. “They’re not half bad.”
She bit her lip. She’d been trying to watch her weight by eating healthier things in smaller portions. Trying to avoid reflexively reaching for food as a way to soothe herself. Trying, even though Graham didn’t know this, to help out Jennifer by phoning the house at her friend’s request.
But why even bother attempting to explain? Graham only saw what he wanted to see, and what he wanted to see was his wife a
cting in the way he always expected her to act. Which was as a snacker, a worrier, a hovering mother. And maybe she was all of these (not that she didn’t have a reason—she’d been right about Evan having a problem, after all!), but Graham didn’t stop to listen to her explanations. He hadn’t for years. At least not once he thought he knew her.
“I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay,” she said, pulling her red cloak a little tighter around her shoulders.
Graham shrugged. “They’re okay. And they’ll let us know if they aren’t.” He took a step back from her and surveyed her costume. “That’s pretty cute on you,” he said with a small grin. “Maybe we could play dress up later.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She smiled weakly.
He studied her expression and shrugged again. “But you’re not into games like that, are you?” he said, clearly not expecting an answer because he swiveled around, strode to the table and grabbed himself another black beer. He didn’t bring one back for her because, as he said when he returned, she’d already had one drink that night. “And you never drink more than one at a party.”
Bridget couldn’t help but feel depressed by this. For how many years had she heard, “You’ve always done things this way,” or “You’ve never liked such and such,” etc.? Hard to grow if the people around you refuse to let you jump out of your box. People willing to see her as she was in that moment were few and far between. Even fewer of them, men like Dr. Luke, for instance, didn’t make her feel as though change was a futile endeavor. Didn’t make her feel lonely in a room packed with fairy-tale characters.
Bridget saw Tamara leave the refreshments room with the Very Handsome Prince—who was he, anyway? She wondered about him momentarily but got distracted by more of the in-house drama. Leah brought out a fresh platter of something. “Chicken Little’s Hot Wings!” their Goth hostess cried. Bridget’s stomach roiled and she was about to sneak some fresh grapes out of her basket when Candy showed up.
“Hey, Bridget,” the sweet dental hygienist said, coming up to her and Graham, a tall man trailing after her. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Joe.”
Bridget greeted the young man, who smiled warmly at them and was dressed in lederhosen and a puffy white shirt. “Hansel and Gretel?” Bridget guessed after introducing them both to Graham.
“Yep.” Candy laughed, clearly already a bit tipsy. She must have had a glass or two of something strong before leaving home. “Pretty funny getting here and seeing all these crazy Halloween treats stuck to the walls.”
Her new husband grabbed a chocolate bat from the wall, unwrapped it and stuffed it in his mouth. “It’s totally wild,” he said, chewing. “Want a jelly bean, honey?”
Candy shook her pigtails and leaned closer to Bridget. “He’s really not getting the ‘no sweets after dinner’ thing.”
Graham seemed to take to the guy, however, and he pointed out a couple of items that young Joe/Hansel might like at the food table while Bridget and Candy chatted for a few minutes about the office.
“Graham,” Candy said when the guys rejoined them, “your wife’s creations have been just amazing this fall. She’s made some of the most delicious dishes I’ve ever tasted anywhere. That chestnut ravioli—oh, my God!”
“Oh, whoa,” Joe said, his eyes widening in surprise and recognition. “You’re the one who cooks. I’ve heard awesome things about you.”
Bridget smiled and bowed her head. “Thanks, but I just follow the recipes. It’s really no big—”
“It’s a seriously big deal,” Candy interrupted. Again she turned to Graham. “Your wife’s too modest. What she’s not telling you is that she’s become legendary in the office. Dr. Luke and Dr. Jim are petitioning to get her hours extended to full time. Not only because she makes these incredible meals and shares them with us, but because she’s so upbeat and wonderful with the patients. You must feel so lucky to have her at home. Poor Joe here”—she elbowed her husband in the side—“can’t cook a thing, and he has to put up with my awful attempts at dinner.”
“We eat sandwiches a lot,” Joe confessed. He kissed the top of Candy’s blond head. “But they’re really healthy sandwiches.”
Graham smiled at the young couple’s enthusiasm. “You’re right, Candy. Bridget can cook some very wild stuff.” Then he raised an eyebrow in Bridget’s direction. “Hadn’t heard anything about extended hours, though. That’s real interesting.”
Bridget felt her face flush and fervently wished Joe would stuff a chocolate bat, a marshmallow pumpkin or anything at all in his darling bride’s mouth. Candy was clearly incapable of taking a hint and shutting up herself. Bridget wanted Graham to listen to her, of course, but not when he was being so mocking. “Well, anyway, I’m glad to know everyone at Smiley Dental likes my cooking. That’s so flattering, but I think—”
“Hey, I wanna hear more about the kinds of things Bridget’s been cooking during the day,” Graham said pleasantly. “What’s in chestnut ravioli?”
All eyes turned to Bridget. “Top secret recipe,” she quipped. “Now, has anyone here ever visited the Wieners when it wasn’t Hallowe—”
“C’mon, Candy,” Graham said, turning to the blabby hygienist. “Fill me in on all the, uh, secrets.”
Candy giggled. “Well, I don’t remember the ingredients as well as Dr. Luke. He took notes. You wouldn’t believe how he listens to everything Bridget says. But I’m pretty sure there was amaretto liqueur in it, and some grated chocolate….”
A few rooms away, in the large living room, Jennifer was struggling to keep drowsiness at bay. One would think that with all the spooky noises and the decoration overload it’d be easy to stay awake, but the green Kool-Aid (aka: “Witch’s Brew”) was at least 50 percent tequila. When mixed with the monotony of Michael’s conversation—he really hated this party—the effect was like NyQuil.
For what felt like an hour and a half, he lamented the lost evening, during which he would have rather been at home playing gin rummy with the girls, grading Spanish quizzes or, alternately, cleaning the garage. Then he complained of headaches, which Jennifer could empathize with because the music was…odd. Loud, pulsating and far from mainstream.
“Where did they get this awful mix CD?” Michael grumbled, the most recent Halloween “song” coming to a crescendo with screeches that sounded like cats undergoing electrocution.
“No idea,” Jennifer murmured as the next selection began to a weirdly syncopated beat. She heard someone else in the room joke that it was by Beauty and the Beastie Boys, and she would have laughed at that except Michael’s discontent kept her from so much as cracking a smile.
Michael checked his watch for probably the eighty-seventh time in the past half hour. “It’s after eleven,” he said. “Veronica should’ve put Evan and Keaton to bed by now.” He held out his palm. “Hand me your phone, would’ya? I’m just gonna give them a quick ring. Make sure they got the tent up and everything’s okay.” The boys were having a campout in the basement of the house until the party was over, and Cassandra was crashing in a sleeping bag on Shelby’s bedroom floor.
Jennifer fought to keep her expression neutral. “Oh, sorry. I forgot to charge it, so the battery died. Don’t you have yours with you?”
He shook his head. “I forgot it at home, but I figured it was all right because you always have yours with you.” Then, because his irritation had eclipsed his good nature and logic had long since fled, he added, in an especially pissy voice, “How the hell are the kids supposed to get a hold of us if we don’t have a working phone?”
She took a deep breath. “Don’t worry. I told Bridget about it as soon as I realized there was a problem. If anything comes up, the kids will just call her number, but I’m really not wor—”
“Well, I’m worried. Look around this house. It’s huge. It’s filled with people. Bridget and her working cell phone could be anywhere in it.” He swiveled from side to side, glancing wildly around them for emphasis. “Right now they could be havi
ng an emergency and we wouldn’t even know it!”
Jennifer tried to speak calmly. “I saw Bridget by the refreshments table not that long ago. I’ll go check with her, okay? I’m sure she’s talked with the kids and—”
“No, I’ll go,” Michael said with a huff. “And, swear to God, I’m not staying one minute past midnight. I don’t care what the Wieners say about us.”
She downed the last of her Witch’s Brew as he strode out of the room and, figuring the coast would be clear for at least five minutes, moved to a semiprivate corner to turn on her phone and check for text messages.
There were seven more. All from David.
She blinked at the tiny screen and tried to shield it from the sight of the other guests wandering past her. She knew she should just delete them, unread. But, like a four-car pileup at the end of the interstate, she couldn’t help but look. Couldn’t stop herself from clicking on each one.
The first message was a clear continuation of the Goldilocks story—David style—that he’d begun earlier in the night: She was tired of being a good grl. Just Say No to more rules.
Then: She snuck in2 the house like a school grl in knee highs & a shrt skirt. Little did she know she’d emerge a woman.
Jennifer swallowed and scanned the edges of the room for signs of Michael. Still clear. Next message: She searched til she found something v. tasty.
Then: She bit and sucked and licked…. Goldilocks was rly good w. her mouth.
Oh, God. David was such a piece of work. How was it that he always knew how to punch her buttons? He could drive her crazy and turn her on in the same breath. Such a disconcerting quality.
Message number five: In her excitmnt she broke a few things in the house. Bad grls shd be punished—shdn’t they?
Jennifer blushed. Then: She turned on the bedrm radio & “Sister Golden Hair” was playing. The music made her sleepy so she crawld in2 bed.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 22
