Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Coop’s coming over? Awesome,” Rory said.

  Will wandered in. He was dressed in his oldest, most stained shorts and a T-shirt that read never forget under a picture of a dinosaur.

  Fran looked him over critically. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  Will looked down at himself in surprise. “Yes. Why?”

  “Because we’re having company,” Fran said.

  “Isn’t it just Coop?” Will asked. “Since when did he count as company?”

  “Yeah, Mom, why are you so dressed up?” Rory asked.

  “I’m not dressed up. This is just really comfortable,” Fran said defensively.

  Fran thought, not for the first time, that it must be easier to have sons than daughters. Boys were so much less critical, especially when it came to their mothers. And she wasn’t about to admit to either her husband or daughter that she’d bought the blue knit maxi dress that very day.

  The doorbell rang.

  “There’s Coop now,” Fran said. She felt a nervous flutter and smoothed her dress down.

  “I’ll let him in,” Rory said, scampering out of the kitchen. A moment later, Fran heard the front door opening and Rory’s enthusiastic greeting.

  “Coop’s here,” Rory announced, bouncing back into the room. Coop trailed in after her.

  “I come bearing fish,” Coop said, holding up a cooler. “Caught fresh this morning.”

  “Excellent,” Will said, taking the cooler from him.

  “He gets the fish, you get the wine,” Coop said, handing Fran a bottle of Chardonnay and kissing her on the cheek.

  “You didn’t have to bring wine, too,” Fran protested. “You brought the fish.”

  “But you’re cooking it for me. That’s a trade I’ll always be happy to make,” Coop countered.

  “Can I get you a beer?” Will asked.

  Will and Coop both had beer, while Fran opted for a glass of Coop’s Chardonnay, which was crisp and buttery. Fran put out blue tortilla chips and a bowl of guacamole she’d made earlier.

  “What have you been up to, Coop?” Fran asked, as she wrapped corn tortillas in foil.

  “The usual,” Coop said. “I’ve been out on the boat a lot.”

  “Can I come fishing with you again?” Rory asked.

  “Anytime,” Coop said, smiling at her.

  “I hope we see a shark again,” Rory enthused.

  “Again?” Fran asked, turning to her younger daughter.

  Coop made a throat-slashing gesture at her.

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that,” Rory said sheepishly.

  Fran looked at Coop, eyebrows raised. “Shark?” she said.

  “Just a very small one. It was sniffing around the boat, hoping to snag a snapper off my line,” Coop said.

  “Why do I suddenly have a vision of Jaws leaping out of the water and snatching Rory off your boat?” Fran asked.

  “Come on, honey, that practically never happens,” Will said.

  “And the shark would be much more likely to eat me. I’m sweeter than Rory,” Coop teased. Rory punched him playfully in the arm. “Ow! Yikes, how does such a little girl pack such a punch? Did you take up boxing?”

  Rory held up her fists, rolling them like a boxer. Coop held up his hands and laughed.

  “I’m officially scared,” he said.

  Iris wandered into the kitchen. Her long dark hair was ironed stick straight, and her eyes were ringed with heavy black eyeliner. Her jeans were so tight, Fran wondered how she could walk in them. Or breathe for that matter.

  “Hey, Coop. I didn’t know you were here,” Iris said.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Coop said, grinning at her. “Are you still hard at work breaking the hearts of all the boys at your school?”

  “You know it,” Iris said, smirking.

  “That’s my girl. Just like I taught you,” Coop said, holding up a hand for Iris to slap.

  “Iris, where did you get those jeans?” Fran asked. “I haven’t seen them before.”

  “Duh.” Iris rolled her eyes. “Where do you think? The mall.”

  “Iris,” Will said sharply.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Don’t duh your mother,” he said.

  “That sounds like the title of a rap song,” Coop said. He crossed his arms over his chest, striking a rapper’s pose, and began to sing: “Don’t duh your mother, if you want me to be your brother.”

  Everyone laughed, except for Iris, who put her hands over her ears.

  “Mom, make him stop,” Iris begged.

  “I have no control over him,” Fran said.

  Will got in on the action, providing a background rhythm for Coop’s rap. “Pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah.”

  “So listen to me, guv’nor, don’t be rude to your mother,” Coop rapped on.

  “Guv’nor?” Fran repeated. “You don’t hear many guv’nors in modern rap. In fact, you don’t hear many guv’nors outside of Mary Poppins.”

  Coop paused, mid-rap. “What else rhymes with mother?”

  “Judger?” Rory suggested.

  Coop tried it out. “Don’t duh your mother, or else I’m going to be a judger.”

  “I don’t think you should give up your day gig,” Will said.

  “Absolutely not,” Iris said, giggling.

  Fran looked around at her family. Happiness fizzed up around them, their faces bright, laughter filling the room. When was the last time she’d heard Iris giggle? It had been so long, she couldn’t even remember. It was Coop, Fran realized. His just being there made them all light up.

  “No hot date tonight, buddy?” Will said, slapping Coop on the shoulder.

  “No, not tonight,” Coop said.

  “Let me get you another beer,” Fran said. She took one out of the fridge, and then closed the door with her hip. She handed Coop the bottle. “Have you been seeing anyone lately?”

  “Not really,” Coop said.

  Good, she thought, although she smiled sympathetically.

  “I did take your friend out once, but it was pretty much a disaster,” Coop continued.

  Fran could feel the smile freezing on her face.

  “My friend?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, your friend. Audrey,” Coop said.

  “You and Audrey went out? On a date?” Fran asked.

  She swallowed back the urge to pump Coop for details. When had he and Audrey been out? Where had they gone? Why hadn’t Audrey mentioned it to her? And, most important, what had happened between them?

  “It didn’t go well,” Coop said.

  “Why didn’t you like Audrey?” Rory asked.

  “I did like her. I mean, I do like her. She’s just not so crazy about me,” Coop said. He grinned at Rory. “Shocking, right? I mean, who wouldn’t love me?”

  “Did you rap for her?” Iris asked. “That might explain it.”

  Coop laughed.

  “Coop, come out to the garage. You have to see Iggy,” Rory said, tugging at Coop’s arm.

  “Who’s Iggy?”

  “The battle bot Dad and I are building,” Rory said. Coop allowed himself to be led off, followed by Will and even Iris. Fran was left alone in the kitchen, still trying to process this bombshell.

  Coop and Audrey had gone out together. On a date.

  Obviously, it hadn’t been a success. Coop had made that clear enough. Maybe there wasn’t any chemistry between them, Fran thought hopefully.

  But if that was it, Fran thought, why didn’t Audrey mention anything about it to me?

  THE NEXT MORNING, WILL wheeled his lawn mower over to Leland’s yard. He’d mowed three passes before Leland came out onto his front porch, walking slowly, and waved him down. Will turned the mower off.

  “What in tarnation are you doing?” Leland asked.

  “You sound like Yosemite Sam from Looney Tunes. Are you going to call me a wascally wabbit next?” Will asked.

  “I don’t want you mowing my lawn,�
� Leland said.

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t ring your doorbell and ask permission before I started,” Will said.

  “Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass,” Leland said. “I have a cane, you know. And I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “I had nothing better to do than wander the neighborhood with my trusty mower, looking for lawns that need mowing,” Will said.

  “Fran put you up to this, didn’t she?” Leland said.

  “She might have mentioned something about it,” Will said.

  Leland sighed. He looked older, Will thought. And he was using his cane more than he had in the past.

  “I know the lawn is getting to be too much for me,” Leland admitted, which in itself was shocking. Leland had always taken great pride in his yard, and that he did all the work on his own. “But there’s no need for you to do it. I’ll hire a lawn service.”

  “No way,” Will said. “They’ll bring those heavy mowers in here, chop up your grass, and before you know it, you’ll have bald patches all over the place.”

  “So? That way the lawn will match my head,” Leland said.

  “If I don’t mow your lawn, Fran will kill me. Do you really want that on your conscience? Me dead. Fran in jail. Our children orphans.”

  Leland looked truly distressed. Will sympathized. The limitations imposed by aging must be hellish. One door after another closing on you, all the while knowing that you’ll never be able to open it again.

  “I’ll tell you what. You can consider me your lawn service. And for my payment, you can make me a sweet tea,” Will said, knowing full well that Leland always kept a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge.

  Leland finally acquiesced, nodding. Will returned to his mowing, wondering why he felt so guilty.

  Leland’s yard wasn’t large; it took Will only thirty minutes to mow it. He turned the mower off, and Leland reappeared, moving slowly without his cane and under the weight of a tray, which he set on a wicker table between two rocking chairs.

  “Perfect,” Will said, joining Leland on the front porch. He sat in one of the rocking chairs and accepted a glass of cold tea. There was also a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies, which Will helped himself to. “I hope you didn’t bake just for me.”

  “No, I whipped these up this morning,” Leland said. “I was going to bring some over to you-all after lunch.”

  “I’ll just eat our share now. Save you the trip,” Will suggested. He patted his round stomach. “Although I’m supposed to be cutting back. Fran’s been on my case ever since Christmas, when I was asked to take on the role of Santa at the girls’ school.”

  “Never a good sign,” Leland agreed. “Fran’s gotten so thin. How much weight has she lost?”

  “I’m not sure. I know she’s been buying a lot of new clothes lately,” Will said. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen his wife naked and couldn’t, which was actually a bit disturbing.

  Leland looked sharply over at Will. That was the thing about Leland, Will thought. He seemed ancient, his body stooped and shrunken, his face as lined and veined as old leather. But it would be a mistake to suppose that old age had turned him dithery. His mind was as clear as ever.

  “I had a very good marriage,” Leland began.

  Will nodded. “I wish we could have met your wife.”

  Leland continued, as though Will hadn’t interrupted. “But like any marriage, we had our ups and downs. When you’re with someone for such a long time, it’s easy to start taking them for granted. To stop seeing them when they’re right in front of you.”

  In his surprise, Will swallowed the piece of cookie in his mouth before he’d finished chewing it. It caught in his throat, causing him to cough and his eyes to water. He reached for his iced tea, and took a few hasty gulps.

  “How do you do that?” Will asked, once he’d regained his composure.

  “Do what?” Leland asked.

  “Sometimes it’s like you read my mind. Fran said you do it with her, too. Are you a witch doctor? Do you sacrifice goats in your backyard and stick pins in voodoo dolls?”

  Leland laughed. “I’ve never sacrificed a goat, but I’ll take the Fifth on the voodoo dolls.”

  “Seriously, what’s your secret?”

  “I think it comes from my years on the bench. I got good at reading people,” Leland said. He shrugged modestly. “Sometimes what people don’t say is more important than what they do say. I had to be careful, though, to only make my judgments on what was on the record.”

  “Yeesh,” Will said. “Makes me glad I’m a humble city planner. The most responsibility I have is to figure out where the next traffic light should go.”

  “Every job has its upsides and its downsides,” Leland said.

  “Unless you’re a crack whore. There’s no real upside there,” Will joked.

  “Satisfaction in a job well done?” Leland suggested.

  “I suppose there’s that.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying, every marriage goes through lulls. Periods when you’re not as connected. The thing is, you can’t bury your head in the sand and pretend it’s not happening. You have to deal with it before—” Leland stopped abruptly and cleared his throat.

  “Before what?” Will asked.

  “Before one of you does something stupid,” Leland said.

  Will shook his head. “I would never cheat on Fran, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “You never know what you might do. Or what Fran might do for that matter. Those feelings of loneliness, isolation, of being underappreciated can be powerful,” Leland said.

  “Fran and I have been married for a long time. I’ve never come close to cheating on her. And I know her well enough to be sure that she wouldn’t do that to me,” Will said. The whole conversation was making him uneasy. He liked Leland and was happy to help the older man out—to mow his lawn or move a bookshelf for him. But that didn’t mean Leland had an open invitation to probe into his marriage.

  Leland shrugged. “I’ve been kicking around for a long time. The one thing I know for sure about people is that they have an infinite capacity to surprise you.”

  “Sure, I can see that. But I know Franny,” Will said. He put down his drained glass and stood. “And speaking of Fran, I’d better get home. She has a whole list of chores she wants me to take care of this weekend.”

  Leland’s smile was a little sad, Will thought. He felt another pinch of regret. Why was he rushing off like this? What would have been the harm in letting the old man dole out his marriage advice? It probably made him feel wise and still useful.

  “Thanks for the iced tea,” Will said awkwardly.

  “No, thank you for all your hard work,” Leland said. “It is very much appreciated.”

  “We’re always happy to help out,” Will said. “And thank you for your advice. About not ignoring the lulls. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  COOKING HAD ALWAYS SETTLED Audrey’s nerves. So much so that Ryan used to joke that he always knew that if he could smell freshly baking bread when he walked in the door, he was in trouble.

  She’d baked a lot of bread during that last year of her marriage, Audrey thought. Baguettes, country loaves, tea breads. Her arms had gotten toned from punching down so much dough. And when she’d gotten bored with bread, she’d baked dozens of cookies studded with chunks of chocolate, pans of brownies, towering cakes iced with swirls of cream cheese frosting.

  But as soon as the memory had flickered into her consciousness, she pushed it away. Why was she thinking about that now? What was the point?

  Standing barefoot in her kitchen, wearing her favorite striped men’s pajamas and her hair caught back in a barrette, Audrey tried to refocus her attention on the recipe for rack of lamb, which she would be serving the next night when she hosted the dinner party club. She’d made rack of lamb plenty of times before—it was always a safe, elegant option for dinner parties—but this was a new recipe. It required crusting th
e lamb with a mixture of mustard, panko, and herbs.

  This will be the best main course we’ve had yet, Audrey thought with satisfaction.

  The dinner party club wasn’t a competition. At least, not officially. But everyone secretly wanted to outdo the others. Audrey could tell that Jaime had been annoyed that everyone had raved over Fran’s short ribs, more than they had over Jaime’s individual filets en croûte. And although Leland’s chicken had been perfectly cooked, there was a general sense of pleasure that his was not a hard dish to compete against. Fran was definitely winning so far, but Audrey was convinced that her lamb would top Fran’s ribs.

  The only downside to preparing lamb was that there wasn’t much that could be done ahead of time. She had already diced the parsley and rosemary, and picked up the lamb from the butcher. She was pairing the lamb with a heavy potato gratin—the sort of dish that made you gain weight just by looking at it, but that was always a big hit—and that, too, was something she had to do tomorrow.

  I’ll make the strawberry-rhubarb pie, Audrey decided. That’s a good Friday night project.

  She retrieved the strawberries and rinsed them well in a colander before slicing off their green stems and cutting each berry in half. She dumped the cut strawberries in a large bowl, and then, after first cutting it into quarter-inch chunks, she added the rhubarb. Audrey measured out sugar, vanilla, and tapioca into the bowl, and, as a final touch, added some lemon zest, which the recipe didn’t call for, but which always made pie taste better.

  Audrey left the filling to sit, while she turned her attention to the pastry. She pulled out the heavy base of her food processor and fitted it with its plastic bowl and metal blade. There were two rules when it came to making the perfect pie crust. First, you had to use the coldest possible ingredients. And second, you couldn’t overwork the pastry, which was always a danger when you used the food processor. Some pastry chefs insisted on using just butter or just shortening in their pie crusts, but Audrey had always found that a mixture of the two worked best, a one-to-three butter-to-shortening ratio.

  She measured out first the dry ingredients, then the fat, into the bowl of the food processor, and pulsed it with quick on-off motions, until the mixture resembled coarse crumbs. Then, a few tablespoons at a time, she dribbled in chilled water, taking care to only pulse three times after each addition.