Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  Jaime had been hoping Mark would hang out with the kids for a few hours, so she could run errands. She wanted to go to the mall and look for something to wear to the dinner party that evening, and she’d also promised Fran she’d swing by the fish store to pick up a container of smoked fish dip. And she couldn’t put off a Target run for one more day—they were running dangerously low on paper towels, toilet paper, and laundry detergent. If Mark took off to the tennis club with Emily, it would scupper her plans. She could just about make it through Target with Ava and Logan, as long as she got one of the huge, tank-like carts that sat two kids and were impossible to steer, but there was no way she could go clothes shopping with a two- and three-year-old in tow. The last time she’d brought Logan to the mall, he’d crawled out under the dressing room door, just as Jaime was trying on a strapless dress. She’d had to chase after him into the store, barefoot and unzipped, holding the dress up around her.

  “He didn’t mention anything about it to me. Your dad’s at the gym right now, and when he gets back, I have some errands to run,” Jaime said, making sure to keep her voice pleasantly neutral.

  “Emily needs to get the extra practice time in. She has a big tournament next weekend.” Libby smoothed a hand over Emily’s head. “Mark knows. He and I talked about it last night.”

  Jaime tried to swallow back her irritation. Libby just assumed that Emily’s tennis was going to trump all other plans for the weekend. But that was Libby. She was just so self-centered, so sure that she’d get her way at all times.

  “Yes, but apparently Mark forgot to talk about it with me,” Jaime said evenly. She shifted Ava to her right hip.

  Libby flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “I know how that goes. Mark was the same way when we were married. I swear, that man is incapable of keeping track of his schedule.”

  Jaime refused to be drawn in. “Yes, well, we’ll figure it out when he gets back from the gym.”

  “I have to go to the tennis club. I have a lesson with Coach Sarah at two. I can’t just not show up,” Emily said. Ever since Emily had turned twelve, it seemed she was incapable of saying anything without that snotty edge to her voice, Jaime thought.

  “Emily’s right,” Libby said. “She shouldn’t have to miss out on her lesson just because you and Mark haven’t communicated well.”

  “You won’t miss your lesson,” Jaime said. It took considerable effort to keep her voice calm. “But I don’t know if your dad will have time to hit with you before your lesson.”

  “But he promised!” Emily said.

  “Emily, why don’t you go see what Logan is doing,” Libby suggested.

  “He’s in the playroom,” Jaime said.

  “Let me guess. Trains?” Emily said. Jaime nodded, and Emily rolled her eyes in affectionate exasperation. “Come on, Ava, let’s go find Logan.”

  Ava was happy enough to be transferred from her mother’s arms to Emily’s—both of the little ones adored their big sister—and the two of them set off for the playroom.

  Once they were alone, Libby turned to Jaime and, lowering her voice, said, “I didn’t want to say anything about it in front of her, but you should know Emily has been having a hard time lately.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Jaime asked, instantly concerned as all of the problems that plagued young girls flashed through her thoughts. Mean girls, eating disorders, school-work pressures.

  “She’s been having a crisis in confidence ever since her tournament in Fort Lauderdale last weekend. She lost to a girl she’s always beaten in the past, and now she’s convinced that she’s not training hard enough.”

  Tennis, Jaime thought. It’s always tennis.

  “It was just one match. She wins all the time,” Jaime said.

  “A lot of the kids she plays against are homeschooled so they can spend more time training. Emily wants to do that, too,” Libby said.

  “You’re going to homeschool Em?” Jaime asked, surprised. Somehow she couldn’t picture Libby as a teacher. And although Libby didn’t really work—she didn’t need to—she did occupy some sort of position at her family’s company that involved frequent trips to the headquarters in Tampa.

  “I need to talk to Mark about it,” Libby said. “Obviously, I couldn’t do it on my own. He’d have to be on board.”

  “Wait, you want Mark to homeschool?” Jaime asked. She shook her head. “He’d never take the time off work. He’s at the office so much as it is, we barely see him.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jaime wished she could cut her tongue out. She was a big believer in always putting on a good front with everyone, and this was even more important when it came to her husband’s ex-wife.

  “We’ll figure something out. Emily could always go to his office, and do her studying there,” Libby said smoothly.

  Jaime knew that when Libby said we’ll figure something out, she meant herself and Mark. They wouldn’t ask for Jaime’s input, even when it came to this sort of big decision, one that would certainly affect Jaime and the two younger children.

  But before Jaime could say anything, before she could assert herself, Libby glanced at her watch and said, “It’s already eleven-thirty? I have to run. I have a lunch date.”

  “A date? Are you seeing someone?” Jaime asked.

  Libby smiled and her dark eyes sparkled. “There is someone I’ve been seeing quite a lot of lately.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s my dentist. Wes Thompson. Do you know him?”

  Jaime shook her head. “Did he ask you out while he was examining your teeth?”

  Libby laughed. “No. I ran into him at the produce section. He asked for help picking out a melon.”

  “A likely story,” Jaime said, grinning despite herself. At times, she could almost imagine that, under different circumstances, she and Libby might have been friends. Almost.

  “I know, right? I bet he was just hanging out there, waiting for someone he could use his melon line on,” Libby said. “I’ll have to tease him about that.” She shouldered her large, calfskin bag. “Tell Mark I’ll call him later. We need to go over Emily’s upcoming tournament schedule. I can take her to the tournament in Tampa, but I need him to cover Jacksonville in two weeks and Miami at the end of the month.”

  “Jacksonville in two weeks,” Jaime repeated, as though she were committing it to memory. When in truth, she was reeling from the sudden announcement that Mark would be away for two of the next four weekends. And that she wasn’t even hearing it from Mark himself, but from his ex-wife.

  “I HOPE I’M NOT too early,” Audrey said when Fran opened the door on the night of the dinner party. “Wow, you look great! Is that a new dress?”

  Fran flushed with pleasure and did a little twirl, showing off her red knit dress. “You like? I was worried it might be too low-cut.”

  “No way.” Audrey gave Fran a kiss on the cheek, and held up a foil-covered plate. “I brought blue cheese stuffed dates wrapped in bacon. I thought Leland would like them.”

  “You’re sweet. I’m sure he’ll love them,” Fran said, taking the plate from her. “Come back to the kitchen and keep me company while I cook. Do you want some wine?”

  “Do you have to ask?” Audrey replied, following her friend back to the kitchen. The Parrishes’ house was small but cozy. Photos of the girls framed in black lined the hallway, a pair of pink sequined flip-flops had been abandoned by the front door, pencil lines marking the girls’ heights decorated the kitchen door frame. Audrey felt a small pang. She had never been one to pine for a baby, had never even been completely convinced that she wanted to be a mother. And she and Ryan hadn’t been anywhere close to starting a family when he died. But now and again, it would hit her how much she might be missing out on.

  Audrey tried to shake off these maudlin thoughts. You’re here to have fun tonight, she told herself sternly.

  She accepted a glass of red wine from Fran and sat down on one of the bar s
tools lined up in front of the kitchen counter.

  “Can I do anything to help?” Audrey asked.

  “No, I’ve got it under control. I just have to finish chopping the chopped salad,” Fran said. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing new,” Audrey said. She studied Fran as she took a sip of wine. “Have you lost weight?”

  “A little. I’ve started going to the gym again,” Fran said.

  “You look fantastic,” Audrey said.

  “Thanks.” Fran smiled at her friend and picked up a large chef’s knife. She began chopping a head of radicchio into a fine dice, stopping occasionally to scoop the chopped lettuce into a large wooden salad bowl. “Do you like the wine? I ran into Coop yesterday at the wine store, and he recommended it.”

  “Is Coop a wine connoisseur?” Audrey asked.

  Fran nodded. “He’s not one of those guys who go around with their own personal tasting cups and insist on gargling every wine they try. But, yeah, he’s pretty knowledgeable about wine. Food, too.”

  “That surprises me,” Audrey said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure,” Audrey said, with a half-shrug. “I guess I saw him as more of a beer and boats sort of a guy.”

  “He is. He’s both, really. I think that’s what makes him so interesting,” Fran said. She dumped the last of the chopped radicchio into the salad bowl and turned her attention to chopping butter lettuce. “You can’t really pigeonhole him.”

  Audrey eyed her friend suspiciously. “I thought you weren’t going to try to set me up with Coop,” she said.

  Fran looked up from her lettuce-chopping, surprised. “I’m not.”

  “Uh-huh. Then why are you talking him up to me?”

  “I wasn’t talking him up. I was just making conversation,” Fran said. She seemed flustered and began chopping the lettuce with more vigor than was strictly necessary.

  “What’s up with you?” Audrey asked, taking another sip of wine.

  “Nothing’s up,” Fran said.

  “Hey, Audrey,” Will said, wandering into the room. He was wearing a short-sleeve shirt in a lurid Hawaiian print. He ambled over to give Audrey a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hey,” Audrey said, smiling at Will with affection. “No tequila shrimp tonight? I was hoping you’d make your award-winning recipe again.”

  “Minus the award part,” Fran said.

  “Did you like them last time?” Will asked, looking pleased.

  “I loved them,” Audrey said.

  “Fran wanted to try out a new menu tonight. I did make the dessert, though. It’s a four-berry tart. The original recipe was for a three-berry tart, but I added blackberries. Because that’s how I roll,” Will said with a modest shrug.

  “Wow, you really know how to live on the edge,” Audrey teased. The doorbell rang.

  “Can you get that?” Fran asked.

  “Sure thing,” Will said. A moment later, he returned with Jaime in tow.

  “Hi,” Jaime said brightly. She handed Fran a bottle of white wine with a big red bow tied around the neck.

  “Thank you,” Fran said, accepting it and a quick hug. “Where’s Mark?”

  “He’s running late as usual. I decided not to wait for him,” Jaime said briefly, and then turned to give Audrey an air kiss. “Hi, there. I don’t want to get lip gloss on you.”

  “What’s Mark doing? Work emergency?” Audrey asked, although even as she asked, she couldn’t think of what sort of emergency a commercial litigator would have on a Saturday evening.

  “No, he was at the tennis club hitting with Emily, and they lost track of time. I talked to him on my way over here. He’s going to stop at the house, shower, and then he’ll be over,” Jaime said. She glanced at Fran. “He said to send his apologies, and please not to wait for him to eat.”

  She spoke lightly, but she looked strained.

  “No worries. Leland and Coop aren’t here yet, anyway. Whoops, maybe I spoke too soon,” Fran said, as the doorbell rang again.

  “I’ll get it,” Will said. “Will you pour Jaime a glass of wine?”

  “Sure thing. Red or white?” Fran asked.

  “I’ll start with white, please,” Jaime said.

  Fran retrieved a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge, as Will ushered Leland and Coop into the now crowded kitchen. Audrey smiled and joined in with the chorus of hellos, although she felt awkward seeing Coop again. He, however, didn’t seem to share her embarrassment. He walked up to her and patted her on the shoulder.

  “If it isn’t my gay matchmaker,” Coop said with a grin.

  Audrey could feel her cheeks flaming. “I sort of hoped we could pretend that entire evening never happened,” she said.

  “Are you kidding? Never,” Coop said.

  Will and Fran hustled around, making sure everyone had a glass of wine—or, in Leland’s case, a scotch on the rocks.

  “So what else has Franny told you about me? Is there anything else I need to set the record straight on?” Coop asked. He spoke softly leaning forward, so that his mouth was inches from her ear. Audrey could feel her entire body go warm and boneless.

  Am I attracted to him? she wondered. Oh, my God, what if I am?

  It was a truly terrible thought. It was the last thing she needed in her life. A dog, maybe. A boyfriend, definitely not. Even that word—boyfriend—made Audrey feel itchy. She and romance were not a good mix. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried—she’d been married, after all. And look how that had turned out. She’d chosen a dysfunctional alcoholic as her life partner.

  Okay. Don’t Panic, Audrey told herself. Maybe Coop would reveal some sort of intolerable bad habit—like chewing with his mouth open, or picking at his fingernails at the table—and she’d be so turned off she wouldn’t have to worry about how incredibly aware she suddenly was of his presence.

  WILL THOUGHT THE EVENING was going well. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Leland was clearly thrilled to have been seated between Fran and Jaime, and was basking in their joint attention. Audrey and Coop were chatting quietly over their salads, and Will, having seen his friend in action before, could tell Coop was interested. It was harder to tell with Audrey. She’d always kept her emotions contained.

  Mark showed up just as they were sitting down at the table, looking fresh from the shower, his hair still damp.

  “Hey, man,” Mark said, shaking Will’s hand. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  “No problem,” Will said. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was already eight. The two glasses of red wine he’d consumed before dinner had made him pleasantly light-headed.

  “Sorry, Fran,” Mark said, leaning down to kiss Fran’s cheek.

  “I’m not the one you’re in trouble with,” Fran said, nodding to Jaime.

  Will didn’t think Jaime seemed particularly angry. She looked serenely composed, her head tilted to one side as she listened to Leland recount a story of a criminal trial he’d presided over, where the defendant—who was defending himself—had attempted to file a motion entitled “Motion to Request that the Prosecutor Go Fuck Himself.”

  “What did you say?” Jaime asked. Mark leaned over to kiss his wife’s cheek. She didn’t turn away, Will noticed, but she also didn’t seem overly enthusiastic to see him.

  “I denied the motion on the grounds that what it requested was physically impossible,” Leland said, and everyone laughed.

  “Mark, would you like some wine?” Fran asked, as he sat in the empty seat between her and Coop.

  “Yes, please,” Mark said. Fran filled his wineglass, while Jaime passed him the salad and a basket of warm rolls infused with rosemary. “I just saw Iris at our house. She was reading Logan a story and acting out all of the characters with different voices. He was mesmerized.”

  “She’s glad to have the work. She was saving up for a straightening iron, but I told her she should really put the money toward the new laptop she keeps insisting she needs. She’s coming aro
und to the idea,” Fran said. “Actually, I’m proud of her. I think it’s a sign that she might really be maturing.”

  “Laptop? Is that what she told you? And you believed her?” Mark said. He took a sip of the wine. “This is good. What is it?”

  Will glanced up, meeting his wife’s eyes.

  “What do you mean, is that what she told us?” Will asked.

  “Mark,” Jaime said warningly.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to say anything?” Mark asked.

  “Okay, you two, spill,” Fran said.

  Will knew that, like him, his wife was running through a mental list of all of the ways a teenage girl could get into trouble with too much spending money. Drugs. Tattoos. Body piercings.

  Mark shrugged. “It’s not such a big deal. She just mentioned she bought some sunglasses today.”

  Will relaxed. Sunglasses were infinitely preferable to body piercings. He glanced back at his wife, but she was still frowning.

  “What kind of sunglasses?” Fran asked.

  “No idea,” Mark said.

  Fran looked to Jaime.

  “Okay, they were pretty expensive,” Jaime admitted.

  “How expensive?” Fran asked.

  “She got them at Nordstrom. They’re Oliver Peoples,” Jaime said, as though this explained everything. Will assumed she was talking about a brand, but he’d never heard of it. One look at his wife, however, told him that she had. Her cheeks had suddenly flushed a dark red, and her eyes were narrowed.

  “How much did she spend on them?” Fran asked.

  Jaime hesitated. “I really think you should talk to Iris about this. I feel like I’m tattling on her.”

  “Seriously, Jaime. How much did she spend?” Fran insisted, using her Sarge voice that Will knew all too well. Jaime might as well give in now, he thought. Resistance was futile.

  Jaime looked down at her plate. “I think she said they were around four hundred,” she said.

  “Four hundred what? Pesos?” Will asked, blinking with confusion. Sunglasses did not cost four hundred dollars. They cost twenty dollars at Target.