Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  Perhaps Coop hadn’t used his best judgment when he took her home with him. She was awfully young, still in her twenties. She taught kindergarten, she’d said. He’d imagined her wearing a full-skirted dress, reading a picture book aloud to her class, while they stared up at her with wide eyes and slack mouths, riveted by the goings-on of Peter Rabbit. And even though this was as nonsexual an image as possible, the picture had charmed him, and he’d spent the rest of the evening at her side as they compared the finish on a selection of Chilean wines. The more wine they tasted, the less it seemed to matter that she wasn’t much of a conversationalist—her topics of interest focused heavily on who the current contestants of some reality dancing show were and whether or not two Hollywood stars were really dating or if it was all just a publicity stunt—and the more he admired her long, shiny dark hair and shapely legs.

  The sex had been fine, although once it was over Coop felt nothing more than a sense of weariness and the beginning of a red wine–induced headache. Now he wondered how long she’d stay. Some women bolted, while others hung around, lingering over coffee and dropping hints about going out to brunch together.

  Misha showed signs of life. She stretched and sighed, and then sat up.

  “Good morning,” Coop said.

  “Hi,” she said. “What time is it?”

  Coop checked the clock by his bed. “Ten to seven.”

  Misha threw her legs over the side of the bed and padded off to the bathroom, where she proceeded to spend an inordinate amount of time. When she finally emerged, she was wearing Coop’s bathrobe. She plopped down on the edge of the bed and turned to face him, leaning back on her arms.

  “God, I was so wasted last night,” she said conversationally.

  “Oh, yeah?” Coop said.

  She nodded her head enthusiastically. “I haven’t been that drunk since the Kappa Spring Fling last year.”

  This information clanked around in Coop’s head—still rusty from too much wine and too little sleep—for a few beats before it dawned on him what she was saying.

  “Spring Fling?” he repeated. “Kappa? What’s that? It sounds like a sorority.”

  Misha nodded. For someone who claimed to have been “so wasted” the night before, she was looking offensively bright eyed and chipper. “Kappa Kappa Gamma,” Misha said. “University of Florida.”

  Coop stared at her. “Please tell me you’re not still in college,” he said.

  Misha laughed and tossed her hair back. Coop noticed that she played with her hair a lot. She was constantly stroking it or twisting it around one finger. “Of course not.”

  Thank God, Coop thought.

  “I graduated last year,” Misha continued.

  “Which would make you, what … twenty-four? Twenty-five?” he asked hopefully. Maybe she had been on one of those six-year plans.

  “Twenty-three,” Misha said.

  Twenty-three. He had brought home a twenty-three-year-old girl, fresh out of college. Popular culture instructed that this should give him a rush, that it was proof he was still virile. But instead it just made Coop feel old and even more tired.

  “Why? How old are you?” Misha asked.

  She had very large, very round eyes, set wide on her face. Coop had spent the night before trying to figure out who Misha reminded him of—an old girlfriend, maybe, or a movie actress. But suddenly it hit him—she looked like Veronica from the old Archie comics. He opened his mouth to tell her this, but then decided against it. She had probably never heard of the Archie comics. It was probably before her time. Hell, it was before his time.

  “I’m forty-five,” Coop said.

  Misha’s mouth dropped open and her eyes grew even wider. “Are you serious?” she asked.

  Coop wasn’t sure if her disbelief was flattering or not. He nodded, warily.

  “God, you’re so old,” she said.

  Okay, definitely not flattering.

  “I’ve never been with someone so old before,” Misha continued. “I mean, you’re practically as old as my father.”

  “Thanks for that. I have to say, I’m really enjoying this conversation,” Coop said.

  But Misha wasn’t listening to him. Instead, she’d hopped off the bed again and was rummaging through her purse. He had a momentary flash of hope—maybe she was so horrified, she would turn into a bolter—only to have it dashed a moment later, when he saw she was just retrieving her phone. She returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged, and began to tap on the phone at lightning speed.

  “What are you doing?” Coop asked.

  “Texting Marissa. She’s not going to believe that I just had sex with someone who’s forty-five,” Misha said. She paused. “Or maybe I should just tweet it. I haven’t had anything good to tweet in ages.”

  “You’re going to tweet that we had sex?” Coop asked. He had a vague idea that this had something to do with posting messages on the Internet. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Misha nodded happily. “Yeah, this is great.” She hit another rapid succession of buttons on the phone, and then looked up at him. “I’m starving. Do you want to go get breakfast? I can tweet that, too.”

  AFTER WORK, FRAN STOPPED by Uncorked to browse through their selection of Cabernet Sauvignons. She’d decided she wanted to make short ribs for the dinner party club, and the recipe she’d selected called for two bottles of Cabernet, which the ribs braised in for several hours.

  What was the rule about cooking with wine? Fran tried to remember. Were you supposed to use wine you would serve with dinner, or was it okay to use the cheap stuff? Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up, and her heart gave a lurch.

  “Hey there,” Coop said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Mmm, you smell good.”

  Fran felt a thrill of excitement. He thinks I smell good, she thought. She wondered if his lips had actually lingered on her cheek, or if she was just imagining it.

  Even though Coop looked tired and hadn’t shaved that morning, he still managed to look sexy. Fran suddenly pictured pressing her lips against his neck, which was smooth and deeply tanned. This mental image caused her to flush a deep, hot red.

  This is ridiculous, Fran thought. I’m suddenly forty going on fourteen.

  “Hi!” Fran said, hoping Coop didn’t notice how flustered she was. “What are you doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing you are—buying wine for your dinner party,” Coop said. “Your email said we’re having short ribs, right?”

  Fran nodded. “I’m braising them in Cabernet,” she said. “So I thought I should probably serve a Cabernet to go along with the meal.”

  “Good thinking.” Coop looked over the selection of wines, and grabbed a bottle that the wine store was advertising as having received a ninety-three rating from Wine Spectator. “I’ll bring two of these, as an extra backup for you.”

  “Thanks, that’s so nice of you,” Fran gushed.

  Then she looked at the price tag, and her heart sank. The wine Coop had selected cost nearly fifty dollars a bottle. Will would kill her if she spent that much, especially since she had planned to buy four bottles of red, along with a couple bottles of white, in case someone didn’t drink red. But if she went with the thirteen-dollar bottle she had been about to put in her cart, it would look like she was being cheap, especially in comparison to the wine Coop would be bringing.

  “This Chilean Cabernet is excellent. Have you tried it?” Coop asked, pointing at a bottle priced at fifteen dollars. “It was featured at a wine tasting I went to last night, and I really liked it.”

  “I’ve never tried it.” Fran picked up the bottle and examined the label. “Do you think it will pair well with short ribs?”

  Coop nodded. “It’s perfect.”

  Fran felt a rush of gratitude as she loaded four bottles of the Cabernet into her cart, next to the two bottles of Chardonnay she’d already selected. She had a feeling that Coop was steering her toward the less expensive wine because he knew she
and Will were on a tight budget. But he’d done so in a way that didn’t make her feel small. He was such a good guy, Fran thought, with a rush of affection.

  “Thanks,” Fran said, squeezing his arm.

  “No problem.” Coop grinned down at her, which caused Fran’s heart to start skittering around again. “How’s Will doing?” he asked.

  “Will? He’s fine.” She shrugged. “You know Will. Same as always.”

  “He knows there’s going to have to be payback, right?” Coop said.

  “For what?” Fran asked. Then, remembering the last dinner party, she said, “Oh, you mean for the whole telling-Audrey-that-you’re-gay thing?”

  Coop nodded. “That was a serious violation of the Guy Rules.”

  “Guy Rules?” Fran rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not serious. Besides, I’m the one who actually told her.”

  “But I know he was the one behind the lie,” Coop said, undermining his statement with another grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t cause any permanent damage to him.”

  “I’ll tell him to be on his guard,” Fran said. “Did you have fun at the dinner party?”

  “Sure. What’s the story with your friend Audrey?” Coop asked. Fran thought that he posed this question with the sort of casual tone that belied a deeper interest, and, instantly, jealousy snaked through her.

  “What about her?” Fran asked, turning to inspect a cooler with a display of gourmet food. Olives, cheeses, pâtés. She picked up a wheel of brie and placed it in her cart. She’d slather it with raspberry preserves then bake it wrapped inside puff pastry, and serve it with drinks before dinner.

  “She seemed nice. Very smart,” Coop said.

  Fran nodded. “She is both of those things,” she said. She might not love the direction this conversation was going in, but even so, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—run Audrey down. Besides, it should hardly be a surprise that Coop would be interested in Audrey. She was attractive, elegant, and smart.

  Far more attractive than me, Fran thought ruefully. And single. And not married to his best friend.

  “She said she runs a day spa,” Coop said.

  Fran nodded again. She selected a box of wheat crackers from the display on top of the cooler and wished she had changed out of her work scrubs and rubber clogs. She could have at least put on some lip gloss. Audrey never left the house with a bare face and tangled hair.

  When did my personal grooming standards become so lax? Fran wondered.

  “Why are you making me dig for information? Come on, give me the scoop on her,” Coop said, sounding exasperated.

  “What do you want to know exactly?” Fran asked, resigning herself to the conversation.

  “I didn’t notice a wedding ring. Is she single?”

  “Yes. She was married once, but her husband died,” Fran said.

  “Really?” Coop’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the story there?”

  “It was a car accident. Seven years ago,” Fran said, remembering that awful week. Audrey’s early morning call from the hospital, her voice hollow with shock. Accompanying Audrey to the funeral home. Sitting in the rocking chair, holding a four-year-old Rory and weeping into her baby fine hair, as she couldn’t break down in front of Audrey. “It was pretty horrible, actually.”

  “That’s too bad,” Coop said. Then, after an appropriate pause, he said, “She’s not involved with anyone now?”

  Fran looked at him directly for the first time since the conversation had started off on this Audrey tangent. “No,” she said. “She’s dated a bit over the years, but she’s never met the right person. In fact, she’s convinced that there’s no such thing. At least, not since Ryan.”

  Coop nodded thoughtfully. “What was he like?”

  “Who, Ryan? He was great. Funny, smart, the sort of guy everyone likes,” Fran said.

  “So she was married to Mr. Perfect?”

  Fran exhaled a short laugh. “He was definitely not perfect. Ryan drank. A lot.”

  “Had he been drinking the night he died?” Coop asked.

  “Probably,” Fran said. “His car hit the side of an overpass on I-95. It was late, and there was a bad storm that night, but knowing Ryan, I’ve always assumed he’d been drinking. Audrey has never said much about it to me. She’s very protective of him. Of his memory.”

  “I wouldn’t think many alcoholics have happy marriages,” Coop said.

  “I wouldn’t, either,” Fran said. “And I don’t know that their marriage was necessarily that happy. But haven’t you ever noticed that sometimes when a person dies, the people mourning them start rewriting history? I’ve seen it with some friends who’ve lost their parents. I had one friend whose mother was emotionally abusive to her throughout her childhood, but once the mother died, my friend kept going on and on about some trip they took to New York City when she was little, and how her mother took her to tea at the Plaza like Eloise.”

  “Eloise?” Coop asked.

  “You’ve never heard of Eloise? It’s a picture book about a little girl who lives in the Plaza Hotel with her dog, Weenie. Anyway, my friend had this one good memory of her mother—seriously one good memory in thirty-eight years of being her daughter—but it’s the one she clung to,” Fran said. She shrugged. “I guess it’s a way of protecting yourself from the pain.”

  “The pain of the loss?” Coop said.

  “Yes, partly. And partly from the pain that whatever went wrong in your relationship, whatever it was that was screwed up, can’t ever be changed. It’s over.” Fran looked in the cooler again, picking up a container of mixed olives. “Do you like olives?”

  “What?” Coop seemed caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. “No, I can’t stand olives.”

  “Really? I never knew that about you,” Fran said, putting the olives back. She was glad she’d jettisoned her original menu, which had included lamb chops piled with goat cheese, chopped tomatoes, and olives. It was delicious—Fran had made it for Easter dinner the previous year—but she ultimately decided it was too simple for the dinner party club.

  “What can I say? I’m a man of mystery,” Coop said, grinning down at her again.

  “An enigma wrapped in a riddle,” Fran said.

  “Actually, I’m not,” Coop admitted. “Pretty much what you see is what you get with me.”

  “And that’s why we love you,” Fran said, squeezing his arm.

  JAIME SAT AT THE kitchen table with a pile of green netting, a coil of wire, and assorted craft materials set out in front of her. She was planning a Peter Pan and Tinker Bell party for Ava’s second birthday. All of the children from Ava’s play group were invited, along with a select few children from her Music Babies class (although not Aidan, who once bashed Ava over the head with a maraca, and had the reputation of being a biter). Jaime was making a set of fairy wings for each of the little girls and felt Peter Pan hats for the boys.

  She was just finishing up her fifth set of tulle wings—not bad for an afternoon’s work, considering she had to keep stopping to assist Logan, who was building a complicated train track in the playroom, or Ava, who was ignoring the wooden puzzles and basket of board books Jaime had set out in favor of playing with the Tupperware—when she heard the front door open.

  “Hello? Is anyone home?”

  Jaime tensed.

  Mark’s ex-wife, Libby, had—yet again—walked right into their house without bothering to knock.

  Sure, she was dropping Emily off. But still. It was one of those touchy blended family issues. God, Jaime hated the word blended, as though the people involved were a fruit shake. Their house was Emily’s home, or, at least, her second home. So of course Emily had her own room and her own key, and she was free to come and go as she pleased. But sometimes, like today, when her mother was with her, it meant that Libby also felt free to breeze in, unannounced. It was, Jaime thought, completely inappropriate. Not to mention incredibly annoying.

  “I’m back here,” Jaime said, getting to her feet.


  “Mommy, up,” Ava demanded.

  Jaime obligingly scooped her up and headed out to meet Libby and Emily. Maybe if she was quick, she could intercept Libby in the hallway.

  “Hello, Jaime. Hi, Ava,” Libby said, smiling brightly at the little girl, her head tilted to one side.

  Libby was short and curvy, with short dark hair and very tan skin. She was attractive, but not beautiful, Jaime had always thought with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  “Hi,” Jaime said, smiling back with equal wattage.

  “Hey, Jaime,” Emily said. She was wearing a navy blue tennis dress, and had her pink backpack slung over one shoulder. She came over and dropped a kiss on her half-sister’s head. “Hi, Ava. I like your bow. I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”

  Emily headed back toward the kitchen. Libby followed her, not waiting for an invitation. Jaime swallowed a sigh.

  “What’s going on here?” Libby asked, her eyebrows arched, as she looked at the piles of fairy wings and green tulle.

  “Ava’s birthday party is next weekend. We’re having a Peter Pan themed party for her,” Jaime said.

  “Cool,” Emily said, picking up a set of the wings. “Can I help?”

  Jaime smiled at her stepdaughter. “You really want to? I’d love that,” she said.

  “You’re going to an awful lot of work for a bunch of two-year-olds, aren’t you?” Libby said with a laugh. “It’s not like Ava will remember it when she’s older.”

  Jaime’s teeth clenched. That sounded like something Mark would say. In fact, it was exactly what Mark had said when she began planning the party. What was so wrong with wanting to make their daughter’s birthday special? And even if Ava didn’t remember it, she’d see the pictures, which were certain to be adorable.

  “Did you have a lesson this morning, Emily?” Jaime asked.

  “No, I have one this afternoon,” Emily said.

  “You do?” Jaime asked and wondered why Mark hadn’t mentioned this to her. “Does your dad know?”

  “Yep.” Emily grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and bit into it. “He’s taking me. We’re going to go early and hit for a while before my lesson.”