Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  Kate, who had been trying to forget her woes, focus on the positive, still couldn't miss Bianca's meaning. She was referring to Grant and his recent behavior. Because, while her husband was proud and puffed up about being a father, he was also acting strangely. Bianca suggested it might be the normal pulling away a man did when his wife became bloated and pregnant, but Kate had never heard of such a thing, and besides, she wasn't bloated, at least not yet. No, she thought it was something more serious.

  Grant had never adjusted to Kate's new glamorous look, preferring the plain milkmaid he'd married. And Kate, finally feeling as if she fit in, didn't want to change back. She wondered what he'd make of her new high heels. They were so awkward and uncomfortable, but even she had to admit that her legs looked amazing with them on. And Chelsea's cooing enthusiasm made them even more precious to Kate. She would wear them; let Grant disapprove.

  What was worse than Grant's continued disapproval was the way he'd reacted when Kate suggested that David move in with them. After her visit to Vermont and her failed attempt to find out what was going on with her brother, a whole afternoon of doing every little thing that David wanted and still a stubborn head-shaking when Kate prodded him, Kate was flummoxed. Even after interviewing the staff at the group home and then stopping by the Super Value Mart where he bagged groceries and corralled grocery carts to talk to his supervisor, Mr. Morey, as well as a few of David's coworkers, no one could shed any light on why her youngest brother had started calling in sick. And it hadn't stopped; Mr. Morey said he'd already hired David's replacement, though he would welcome David back. "That is, if he wants to come back. We're not going to keep calling him every day," Mr. Morey said, shaking his head.

  That's when Kate realized that the best solution was for David to come and live with her and Grant. There was a mother-in-law apartment he could live in over the garage that they'd been planning to make into a man-cave for Grant, but Grant already had his office and there was the small den he could claim in the main house that was originally going to be a sewing room but Kate would willingly give up. She would happily give it up, do anything - this was her dear David, suffering. David wouldn't be half the work of the other children, he could still be somewhat independent, and they'd look into getting him another job at a supermarket in Darien.

  But, when Kate brought it up, Grant's response wasn't what she'd assumed it would be: an assured nod and the comforting words: "You're right, we'll take care of it." Instead, he said, "No. Kate, we have too much going on to bring your brother down here. He's fine, I'm sure, just used to having you around to jolly him along and wait on him. But he has to grow up someday."

  "Grow up? But you know he's not going to grow up like that? The best he could do is that group home and it's not working out?"

  "Then let him go home. Your parents are perfectly able to take care of him. They have that big farmhouse and he can help out there, on the farm."

  "Oh? Grant? They never-"

  "That's right. They never. They put it all on you. Even now. Calling you and expecting you to come running. It's time to stop jumping when they say jump, time for us to have our own children. You have to stand up to them. We have to choose our family now."

  And what could she say to that? That was exactly what they agreed they wanted. Exactly what she promised in that rose garden wearing her grandmother's wedding gown, hands trembling as they held Grant's, their eyes locked together as they repeated the minister's words in turn.

  But if she was expected to keep her promises, wasn't he? The scent she'd picked up from time to time in their house, a spicy oriental perfume, wasn't hers. She only wore the L'Air Du Temps perfume that Grant had given her for Christmas two years before, a delicate floral scent. And there were smears of lipstick on his shirts, even his office coats, which Kate found every time she did the laundry lately. She didn't put them there, was always careful not to get makeup on Grant, particularly as he hated it so much. But did he? Or was it just who was wearing it? Was he one of those Madonna-whore-complex men? The new receptionist, though sweet, certainly fit the whore category in her appearance.

  Tiffany's clothes were far too tight and indecent for an office: skirts so short they practically displayed the girl's underwear, tops cut so low that her breasts popped up and out, threatening a show of nipple. But, still, Grant hadn't displayed even the slightest interest in Tiffany. In fact, he'd been incredulous when Kate had insisted on hiring her. He had met her, listened to her Long Island drawl, taken one look at her equally indecent interview outfit, and concluded the interview swiftly. But Kate begged, quoting Bianca's plea for Tiffany; yet more evidence of Bianca's selfless efforts to help others.

  Evidently, Tiffany, though having led a rough life, had overcome her drug addiction and was trying to start over. She needed a good reliable job and was more than willing to work part-time. And Kate had to admit the girl's work was good even if her appearance wasn't. But Grant wasn't happy. He complained about Tiffany's lack of class and intelligence and begged Kate to look for someone else after Tiffany had only worked for them one week. Kate had held firm: they had to help the girl.

  Now, she wondered if she should have given in. Perhaps Grant had really been begging because he was tempted. If so, Kate couldn't tolerate the thought of it, pushed it away with both hands, mentally covered her eyes and hummed. But now Bianca was looking at her, challenging her, reminding her of their conversation where Kate had let her fears slip out into open air, making them all the more real.

  The last time Bianca had visited their office Grant had been backed up with patients and didn't have time to meet with her, so Kate and Bianca sat down in their office's little kitchen for a chat, the waiting room having emptied out at last and the day coming to an end.

  Bianca shook her head and blew on her tea, "I don't know how you do it. You're like a saint."

  "What do you mean?" Kate said, her hands around her mug of tea, warming them as they had lost all feeling due to the blowing air conditioning overhead. She wished their office had its own control, but the whole building was kept at a chilly sixty-eight degree temperature no matter what the weather was outside.

  "You're so trusting."

  "Of who?"

  "Grant, silly. He's back there right now with a gorgeous blonde. Alone."

  "Oh, pshaw. He wouldn't?" Kate realized, though, that Bianca was right, Grant was alone with a patient. Janice was in a separate room with the other last patient of the day administering a chemical peel. Still, it was impossible, ridiculous.

  "How can you be so sure? I wouldn't be. I'm so glad John works with almost all men in his office."

  Kate shrugged. "It's just...it's not like him? He's not like that. He's solid as a rock?"

  "Wow," Bianca said, making an impressed face. "I've never heard of a man that's that solid. All the men I've ever met have a weak spot and it usually involves beautiful women. That one he just went back with is gorgeous."

  "You're gorgeous, and you and Grant meet alone in his office all the time? No, I trust him," Kate said with a nod and leaned down to take a sip of her hot tea, a nice safe chamomile for the baby.

  "Sweet. I love when you lavish me with compliments. But...so you never get a hint of his straying? No odd texting behavior? No lipstick on his collar?"

  At the mention of lipstick marks, Kate startled and her tea sloshed in her mug, a droplet hitting her hand and burning it. She looked up. "Well....no, I shouldn't...it's nothing?"

  Bianca's dark eyes widened. "What? What's 'nothing'?"

  Kate sat back in her chair and looked down at her mug. "No, really?"

  "Kate. Don't you trust me?"

  Kate looked up. "Of course I do! I just...," she said and sighed heavily, looking down at her mug again pensively. "It's true? I found something? But it probably means nothing." She gave her head a little shake and looked back at Bianca.

  "Well, why don't you tell me and I can try to help you decide. It seems like it's troubling you," Bianca said, her to
ne soft, head tilting to the side.

  Kate looked at Bianca for a moment, deciding. Bianca might be able to dispel her nagging fears. At least it would help to talk, release the pent-up tension of avoidance. "Okay? This is all it is. A little lipstick on his shirts and his office coats? I found the marks for the last so many weeks. Never before. I just don't know how it got there? I'm so careful about not getting my makeup on his clothes? But I was thinking: maybe one of my lipsticks fell into our hamper. That's possible, right?"

  Bianca shook her head slowly. "Maybe. Seems unlikely. Is that all? Is there anything else?"

  Kate cringed a little and said, "Well, I keep smelling this perfume in our bedroom. It's not mine. But, I realized, I'm pregnant? And I've heard that your sense of smell changes? I'm probably imagining it."

  "Oh, sweetie," Bianca said, leaning across the table and putting her hand on Kate's wrist. "I wouldn't dismiss your fears that quickly. This could be really serious. You need to confront Grant. Have it out with him. If he's doing something, going around behind your back, you need to know. You're going to be a mother and you're going to need a faithful husband, someone you can trust."

  "But I do trust him! I just...no, I can't believe it."

  "Don't be blind," Bianca said. "It will only hurt you and your baby."

  But Kate had remained stalwart. She really couldn't imagine Grant straying. It was like imagining a cow laying an egg. Bianca had been almost frenzied in her concern and had left shortly afterward. This was the first time they had seen each other since. And now Bianca was staring her down, saying those words about her marriage, and the whole thing scared Kate. Maybe Bianca was right? And if she was, Kate's life was built on quicksand, ready to sink.

  Kate looked at Bianca, lifted her chin a little and said, "No one's perfectly happy. That's only in fairytales."

  "Holy crap!" Sharon exclaimed. "Kate, did you really just say that?"

  "Yes, I did. But I do have a wonderful husband? And I'm lucky. And I still say, Chelsea, you can meet your Prince Charming?"

  "Thank you so much, Kate," Chelsea said, smiling at her. "I hope so, more than anything."

  "Well, speaking of fairytales," Bianca said, turning to Lucie. "Finally having your dream-business must be like living one. I can't wait for you to cater my dinner party, it will be so fabulous. In fact, all of you are invited. Friday, the fifteenth of June, at my house in Belle Haven. We're on for then, right Lucie?"

  Lucie, whose face had grown wary and still when the subject of her business came up, swallowed and nodded. "Yes, we're on. Definitely! I'll email you some menus and we can talk, but I need your email address. It's too hard to put it all in a message on Facebook."

  Kate watched Bianca paw through her purse for a pen and felt the clinking sound of too many clues falling into place, all of them pointing at Grant. The perfume, the lipstick, the behind-her-back arrangement of this dinner. When Kate had brought it up, Grant had acted far too innocent, saying that he thought Kate knew about it. Kate had countered by asking what would give him that impression. Then he blamed Bianca, and Kate lost her temper. She was tired of his critical attitude toward Bianca. All Bianca had ever done was befriend and help Kate, yet Grant couldn't seem to see that. Instead it was as if he was looking for flaws in her friend. It had resulted in the first real fight they'd had in their marriage, one that left them both cold for days toward each other.

  Hearing discussion of the planned dinner at Bianca's brought that coldness back now like a wind, icy at her back. Kate shivered.

  Strawberry Daiquiri

  Kate said, "Yes, I did. But I do have a wonderful husband? And I'm lucky. And I still say, Chelsea, you can meet your Prince Charming?"

  "Thank you so much, Kate," Chelsea said gratefully. "I hope so, more than anything." But she had her Prince already. Prince John, her one and only.

  A wave of guilt followed and she glanced over at Bianca. Bianca was inspecting her, dark eyes sharp and inquiring. Chelsea smiled at her, widening her eyes innocently. Bianca turned away, refocusing on Lucie and asked her about her catering business, and Chelsea relaxed a little. Finally. She was out from under the microscope. She still couldn't believe how badly her conversation with Bianca had gone. Bianca had even started to question her more directly when Kate, Chelsea's savior and good fairy, showed up.

  Looking at Kate now she was shocked again by the poor style choices Kate made. That hair color! And that hideous dress! At least Bianca had been kind enough to help Kate and buy her a pair of beautiful and very expensive heels, which made Kate's stick-like legs look shapely and long. Chelsea was glad to see that Kate had followed her instructions and was wearing her makeup properly at last. The next thing was to help her with the rest.

  Sharon, who was sitting next to Chelsea, leaned over. "Hey," she said in a soft voice, "How's it going with the job hunt?"

  Chelsea felt heat fill her face. Sharon was asking a reasonable question and now Chelsea would have to lie to her. "Good," she said, nodding and hoping that would be enough.

  "How many interviews have you been on?"

  "Uh," Chelsea said, trying to decide how many would be normal. "One?"

  "Oh. Too bad," Sharon said. "I'll let you know if I hear about any openings. Not at TMB, of course. Now, I have to ask you something: did Molly say anything weird to you when she did your exit interview?"

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. "No. She never acts weird. I really don't know why you guys hate her so much."

  Sharon rolled her eyes, too. "You just don't know, Chelsea. Obviously, you haven't seen the real Molly."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  At that moment, Bianca raised her voice, saying, "So, you can all make it to my dinner party?"

  Chelsea blinked, realizing she'd tuned out the general conversation the minute Bianca looked away. "What?"

  "My dinner party," Bianca repeated, looking exasperated. "On June fifteenth? You can come, Chelsea? Oh, I know you can. What are you doing? You don't even have a job. What about you, Sharon? Lucie's catering."

  Sharon pooched her lips and said, "Sure. Sounds great. Hey Lucie, I finally get to try your famous food."

  Lucie laughed. "Not that famous. I wish!"

  Bianca leaned forward. "What? What do you wish?"

  "Oh," Lucie said, shrugging a little. "My father has big dreams for me, a la Martha Stewart. I doubt I'll ever achieve that, but I would love a cookbook or two. I was thinking of something dedicated to my mother, a French-American cooking guide. You know, help and recipes for the average American on the go: simplified sauces, shortcuts, shopping advice for the people who can't market every day. But still, excellence, delicious meals."

  "Wow," Bianca said, "That sounds fantastic."

  Chelsea, starting to finally relax and enjoy the evening now that the focus was off of her, felt a light bulb go on in her head. "Wait, Lucie!" Chelsea said. "Oh, my God. I have the perfect solution for you."

  "Really?" Bianca said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

  Chelsea glanced at her friend. Bianca was always discounting her, diminishing whatever Chelsea did, making light of things that mattered to her. It made her feel small, stupid. And, this time Chelsea really had something important she could do to help Lucie. Relishing the feeling, Chelsea straightened and said to Lucie, "I used to work in the city for Crescent House, the publisher? I was executive assistant to the senior editor there, Edie Ward. She's still there, we talked recently."

  Chelsea glanced at Sharon, who was paying close attention. Chelsea's conversation with Edie had taken place the week she was let go, back when she could see the writing on the wall, as well as in her personnel file, and was trying to get her references in order in case she found herself without a job. Then they talked again, a week ago. When she'd called originally, Edie had been overjoyed to hear from her and apparently desperate for a sympathetic ear.

  "Hold on, Chelsea. I just need to shut my door," Edie said, and there was a pause, a muffled click and then
she was back on the line, letting out a sigh before she said, "It's so nice to hear your voice, you have no idea. God, remember sneaking out for cocktails on Thursday afternoons? The good old days. Really, I know you won't believe it, but when you worked here, things were good. We complained all the time, but things were good. Now, not so much. Actually, we're all in deep shit. This whole ebook thing is screwing us coming and going. But, no, we've come up with some solutions. You should see the contracts now. We get everything. Anyway, I miss you. I wish you still worked here. Oh, and I wish I had a million dollars. Or at least a good stockbroker. You know, Madoff-like returns sans the Ponzi scheme. Know anyone like that? Ha! Who am I kidding? I am so screwed if I get kicked from this place. There are less than zero jobs. Minus sign."

  Chelsea had demurred about knowing anyone at the time, but last week, after starting to hear all about John's work on a daily basis and knowing that he had the magic touch when it came to money, she called her old boss back. "Edie, it's Chelsea. I had to call you. Guess what?"

  "Chelsea baby! How are you?"

  "Great, excellent."

  "So, you didn't lose your job after all. Good."

  "Uh...anyway, remember how you were talking about a stockbroker? A really good one?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I can hook you up. I know someone, and he has the Midas touch in a big way. One hundred percent legit, too."

  "Wait a sec, I'm closing my door." Then, Edie was back on the line, breathless, "Seriously? Oh, Lord! Thank you! Who is he? Tell, tell, tell!"

  And so she had, and now Edie had John Rossi managing her money. So, yes, they had talked very recently. But not about a job. None of the girls knew that, though, so maybe she could use their reported conversation as evidence she was job hunting.

  Turning back to Lucie and seeing her expectant face, Chelsea continued, "Anyway, Edie is always looking for the newest hottest book. Yours could be it, Lucie! You'll need a book proposal, and I can help you with that, and I can even set it up so she can try your food! That would impress her, I think. She loves French food. Anything French, actually. She's such a Francophilly."