Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  “Oh?” Kate burst out, a little sob trembling in her throat. All that excitement they’d shared that morning! Grant had held her so carefully when they embraced, as if already cradling his child. How worried he’d been about her outing tonight, already protective. And it could all be a mirage, a fantasy.

  Bianca was starting to lean across the table toward her when Kate’s cell phone rang inside her purse. It was her parent’s ringtone, Beethoven’s “Fur Elise”. She’d called them earlier that day to tell them the news, but they were out working with the animals as usual, leaving their kitchen by dawn every morning and not returning to the farmhouse until lunchtime. She’d left an excited message, not telling them why, but just to call her back as soon as possible. Now she would disappoint them, too.

  “I’m sorry?” Kate said, picking up her purse and standing up slowly. “I’ve got to get that? It’s my parents.”

  “Hey, you guys!” Chelsea called out, bouncing toward them across the pavement in a low-cut black and white polka-dotted dress that flattered her long curled blond hair. She looked just as Barbie-perfect as last time, only this time there were subtle dark circles shadowing her blue eyes.

  Kate turned toward her, clutching her purse to her chest and feeling hopeful, “Hi Chelsea?”

  Chelsea gave her a quick once-over before turning her gaze back to the other girls, “Hi Kate. You guys, so sorry I’m late. My boss is a jerk. Class-A.”

  Looking at the back of Chelsea’s head as she took a seat, Kate deflated. Well, that was that. Chelsea would never be interested in being her friend. Kate said to the group, “Be right back?” She didn’t like to take phone calls when she was out, thought it was rude, but this was important. Sharon was asking Chelsea something, and only Bianca looked up. She smiled kindly at Kate and gave her a nod.

  Kate felt warmth go through her. Thank God for Bianca. The phone rang again and Kate scuttled away while pawing through her purse frantically. Flipping open her old worn-out cell-phone that she couldn't bear to part with for a newer model, she gasped, “Hello?”

  “Kate, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Just got your message. One of those days, I’m afraid. What’s your news?”

  “I’m sorry? I called you too soon. We were excited because of one of those silly over the counter pregnancy tests?”

  “You’re pregnant? Well, that’s blessed news!”

  “But those tests are usually wrong?”

  “Oh? I didn’t know that. No…your sisters used them. No problem?”

  “Well, anyway...let’s wait and see what the doctor says? I’m probably not going to use those tests anymore. I’ve heard bad things?”

  “That’s news to me. But you probably have heard the latest, being married to a doctor,” her mother said, the usual swelling of pride evident in her voice. “It’s a good thing we’re talking though. I’d been meaning to call you. It’s about David.”

  “David? What’s the matter with David?”

  “That’s the thing. We’re not sure. He hasn't been showing up to work lately. Calling in sick a lot. We had him to dinner on Sunday, but he said everything was fine. He just won’t tell us. You know how he gets. Stubborn through and through.”

  Kate felt the world swirl a little, and stopping next to an empty table, she put a hand out to steady herself on it. David? What was the matter? And yes, when prodded, he closed up tight. You had to coax him, appease his need for independence through reassurance that it was his choice, that you would be waiting when he was ready. But her parents and siblings weren’t patient enough, got frustrated and pushed. “Yes? He is? But if you wait? He comes around? But how often has he missed work?”

  “A lot. Three weeks now. He’s going to lose his place at the group home if he can’t work. It’s a requirement.”

  “I know,” Kate said. This was bad. Three weeks wasn’t a head cold or a tummy ache. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, David! Her sweet David.

  “We were hoping that you could come home and see him? He’ll talk to you.”

  “Of course. I’ll talk to Grant later and try to figure something out.”

  “Soon as you can. Thank you, Katie sweetheart. We knew we could count on you.”

  The light-headedness was growing worse. Maybe she was pregnant. Kate lowered herself into one of the chairs at the table. “Okay? I’ll call you tomorrow. Anything else going on?”

  Kate half-listened to her mother’s flannel-soft familiar voice telling her about the usual problems: the ever-falling prices per hundredweight of milk, issues with the feed and various animals, and the ongoing war for prime real estate at the local farmer’s market. Kate was distracted, hit by the fact that what her mother had just said was true. They had always counted on Kate to help when it came to David.

  Her parents hadn’t been prepared for their late-in-life “surprise” and even less prepared to take care of a special needs child. So, as the youngest child who was able-bodied and able-minded, who carried the lightest load on the farm, Kate had been the one to really mother David. She had been the one to change his diapers even when he grew too big for them and graduated to adult diapers, to teach him how to feed himself and actually get food in his mouth when he should have been learning how to ride a bicycle without training wheels, to still be laboring over basic single-number addition and subtraction with him when he was a teenager.

  Staring at the little brown birds that were hopping around on the pavement nearby, Kate realized that she had abandoned David by moving away. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time. Family was nearby; he had his job and his group home. But Kate had been the one he had always counted on, looking to her whenever confused, asking her to sing Cat Stevens' song, “Moonshadow” over and over to him when he was anxious or scared, the tune and rhythm of the song soothing to him. As if in echo to the lyrics of that remembered song in her head, the little birds leapt and hopped about closer to Kate’s feet.

  She swallowed hard. How could she have done this to David? But that's not what mattered now. She had to make it right and care for him somehow, help him. She said goodbye to her mother and ended the call, her hand once again reaching for her belly and hoping for the reassurance of roundness there. It was, as always, resolutely flat.

  Mojito

  Half-listening to Chelsea and Sharon's conversation, Bianca took another sip of the proffered champagne. It was okay, but nowhere near as good as even the least expensive champagne she served at her largest parties. But they were giving, so she was taking. Or maybe not. What she really wanted was a mojito.

  She put her glass down and looked over toward where the waiters still hovered near the potted palms flanking the door of the restaurant. Seeing her look, two of them rushed forward and stumbled a little over each other trying to be the first to reach her side. It was a comical display and a clear sign of the dregs that usually dined at this second-tier restaurant.

  "Yes, miss?"

  "Madam?"

  Bianca said, "I'm sorry, but I'm really in the mood for a mojito after all. Do you serve them here?"

  The first waiter furrowed his brow. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, but-"

  "Of course we do!" The second waiter insisted, his chest puffing out. "Coming right up," he said and then ran back inside with the other following and whispering urgently at his back.

  While she was waiting, she tuned back into the conversation. Chelsea was saying something about a man named Travis. Aha! Bianca perked up out of habit. Ever since high school it was an unspoken rule between them that Bianca had first dibs on any man of interest, Chelsea taking the leftovers. Whenever Chelsea forgot this, Bianca kindly reminded her by actively stealing the man in question away from her. With the lone exception of John, she always had a brief fling with Chelsea's love interest during which Bianca made sure the guy fell in love with her, and then tossed him away like used Kleenex. Although she had no use for Chelsea's men anymore, she still felt the need to see Chelsea jump.

  "Travis, huh? Tell me more, Chelsea. I'm ve
ry interested," Bianca said, leaning in.

  Chelsea's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Oh, but Bianca! You're married? To John?"

  "I doubt you need to remind me. But tell."

  "I...Travis is a guy. No one special! From work?"

  Sharon said, "Bianca, I'm surprised Chelsea hasn't told you about him. He's-"

  Chelsea was saved in that moment by the waiter arriving with Bianca's mojito and presenting it with a flourish. "Your mojito, madam?"

  He placed it in front of Bianca and then stood there, hands behind his back as if at attention. She looked at him and waved her hand in dismissal, tired of the over-service at this restaurant already. She certainly hoped the food lived up to Lucie's high praise.

  Once he left, she sipped it. This was not a mojito. The ingredients – rum, mint, sugar, lime juice, a splash of soda water - were right, but that's where it ended. No one had muddled it, that was evident by the intact and nearly tasteless mint leaves stuffed in the glass that were supposed to be crushed to a pulp. She took another sip. And it had been vulgarly sweetened with syrup instead of superfine sugar. Obviously, the Luna in Cafe Luna was the luna-tic behind the bar that thought this hot mess was a mojito.

  Bianca put the drink down, utterly disgusted with this evening out, and turned her attention back to Chelsea, who had wisely steered the conversation away. Now they were complaining about TMB. Oh, yawn. Boring, boring, boring corporate-slave-talk. Why was she here again?

  But of course: John. He was the one that required her regular attendance at all-female nights out. If she didn't attend, the questions started and where they led was dangerous. When she and John were first married, he frequently referred to Chelsea as Bianca's "friend". So much so, she tried to correct him once, only to find out that this would be the stumbling place between them.

  "Oh, don't forget," he said, hurrying to dress for work one Wednesday morning after one of their more torrid sessions in bed, making him late again. "Poker tonight with the guys. I'll be home by midnight."

  "Again?" Bianca asked, lounging nude on the bed, posed provocatively and hoping for round two. This was before she got bored with the house and John, before Sebastian was conceived and born and the nanny moved in down the hall, when she still enjoyed sex with her freshly-acquired husband. "Why? Aren't I enough of a diversion?"

  Knotting his tie, his black hair still wet from the shower, John looked over at her. "Oh, you are. And you're trouble. Look at you. I know what you want," he said and grinned wickedly at her.

  "Then why don't you come back here and give it to me?"

  "Because I'll lose my job if I'm late for this meeting," he said and sighed, turning to the mirror on the opposite wall and adjusting his tie. "I'll just make it if I fly."

  Bianca looked at her husband. God, he was good looking. And rich. Well, he had to be rich or she wouldn't have married him. Imagine that, little dumb-bunny Chelsea scooping up a winner like John and then holding on to him long enough to introduce him to Bianca. And what was he talking about? He couldn't be more secure. She'd met his employers, saw how they drooled over him - right before they started drooling over her. "You're dreaming. They'll never fire you. You're the best they've got and they know it."

  John laughed. "I love it when you talk like that. Could I have a better wife, or what? So, are you going to be all right tonight? Why don't you have a girl's night with Chelsea?"

  "Chelsea? Why?"

  "She's your best bud, right? Why don't you two get together tonight? It would get you out of the house?"

  "Chelsea's more of an acquaintance. She's not-"

  John had sat down on a chair near his closet to tie his shoes, but he stopped with the laces still in his fingers and looked at her from across the room. His expression was incredulous. "What? Chelsea was your maid of honor at our wedding?"

  Bianca opened her mouth, but then couldn't think of what to say. "I...," she said and stopped.

  John's eyes narrowed. "I didn't want to say anything, sweetheart, but...it's not natural. I mean, you never go out with your friends. You never talk to them on the phone. Every girlfriend I ever had couldn't get off the phone, for God's sake. Not you. But I thought that Chelsea and you were really close, you know, just the two of you, and- "

  "She is my best friend! You're right," Bianca said, rushing to fix it. Okay, if she had to hang out with Chelsea again, she would. Just erase any doubts from John's mind. "I guess I just feel distant from her lately. She's always busy."

  Chelsea had called Bianca many times since the day of the wedding, asking to get together, hit the bars as a team again, although Chelsea admitted it would be different now that Bianca was married. But Bianca hadn't seen why she should accept. Chelsea had served her purpose: wing-woman while they hunted the local hot spots for eligible men, the same role she'd served in high school trolling parties. But she didn't need Chelsea anymore. Well, until now.

  She went out with Chelsea once, thinking it would appease John, suffered through the "catching up" and then the idiotic conversation with Chelsea and one of Chelsea's friends for a full two hours before she was finally able to go home. The only enjoyable part of the evening was the steady warm rain of male attention at the bar where they'd met. She knew she needed it - it charged her batteries. But there was nothing else to gain from the whole thing, no real challenge, and she had other, less annoying, ways of getting attention. What really interested her these days was the exciting high-stakes game of money, status, and achievement.

  But John didn't let it go. It was constant after that: when was she going out with Chelsea again? He also insisted on inviting Chelsea and a date to their annual Christmas party as well as their Midsummer's Eve bash. Bianca started catching John giving her appraising looks, which worried her because John and his huge income were absolutely necessary to her luxurious lifestyle as well as her plans to dominate Fairfield County socially. She had learned: it wasn't enough to have too much money, or a big house on the water, or a successful husband and adorable child. It wasn't even enough to be a success herself, sweeping awards and sales at Mennon. No, what really made a woman a success was to be on the innermost circle of society, a woman with enough social power to decide who would be allowed in and who would be crushed, a woman who the other rich bitches would bow down to in fear. Bianca couldn't wait for that day.

  Looking at Sharon and Chelsea, Bianca wanted to chuckle and shake her head in disbelief. She never thought that women would be the hard ones. Men had been the object of her ambition for such a long time, but they had always been fairly easy to manage and manipulate. Women, on the other hand, were far more slippery, far more keen-eyed, and they had one frightening advantage: female intuition. The problem was, while men rarely saw through Bianca, women sometimes did. Sharon seemed to be one of those intuitive women, which made Bianca wary. She would have to work harder with this one. Even the little digs, usually a sure-fire way to put a woman on the defensive, seemed to be backfiring by increasing Sharon's critical inspection instead of diverting it.

  Kate returned to the table and sat down next to Bianca with a sad shuddering sigh. At that moment, another insect - a beetle, she was sure - crawled up inside Bianca's throat.

  She coughed again, covering her mouth and half-expecting to discharge the black-legged wriggling thing, but only air came out, hot and dry on her hand.

  "Are you okay?" Kate asked, peering at Bianca.

  "Fine," Bianca managed. "Just a little something in my throat."

  "Oh? Do you want a Tic Tac?"

  "No, thank you, though," Bianca said and made herself smile warmly at Kate. The tickling crawl started again in her throat just looking at Kate. Of course there was no bug. There were no bugs. It was all imaginary.

  The bugs started crawling, choking her, as soon as Kate said she was having a baby. Grant's baby. But that wasn't supposed to happen, wasn't part of Bianca's plan. And now Kate had opened her little mouse mouth and said the impossible: that a baby, a real threat, might be in the pictur
e. For a moment, Bianca had wanted to simply reach over and strangle Kate, watch her turn red, then blue, then black. She might have done it, too, if they'd been alone, so it was good they weren't. Things like that got messy quickly she had learned. There were cleaner and easier ways to resolve problems. If the baby existed at all, Bianca would find a better way to deal with it.

  Nothing could get in the way of her plans for Grant. Her need for him to see her, want her, only grew every time she visited his office, every night she spent in his company at the parties and dinners to which she had started inviting the couple. Even the slightest social touch between them - which she initiated often - sparked electricity that coursed through her and aroused her slumbering passion, making her feel truly alive again. She imagined it was Grant she was pressed up against when John insisted on having sex these days.

  The fact that Grant seemed to be impervious to Bianca and her charms only heightened his desirability. She had to have him, would have him; she knew it. Even the bad moment with him in his private office a few days ago was just a rock in the road. She brushed it aside, refusing to think about it. No, she would get him. Grant would be her first lover, one of many "good" married men who, because of their idealistic morals and pointless shame, could be counted on to be discreet. John would never know and she could have the excitement she craved.

  Part one of her plan had gone swimmingly as evidenced by not only Kate's worsened glammed-up appearance - one engineered to disgust Grant, who obviously preferred the homely yet natural look of his wife - but also by the wondering looks she had caught Grant shooting at Kate lately when she wasn't looking. Those looks betrayed the new doubts that were starting to cut a chasm between the two, a chasm Bianca intended to jackhammer wide open with parts two and three of her plan.

  "Hi everyone," Lucie said, interrupting Bianca's reverie and limping up to their table. "Sorry I'm late. Time got away from me."