Lucky Thirteen by Melanie Jackson

to see if you like it?” I asked out of curiosity.
    “No, I do not,” was her frank reply.
    “And you, Missy?” I asked, quickly moving on to Hillary’s mousy wife.
    Missy was about to reply; in fact, she was about to say the first words I was to hear from her mouth when Hillary replied to the question for her.
    “My Missy is a stay-at-home mother.”
    “Would you like more soup?” Jose asked at my side.
    Being famished, I’d finished my soup and concluded by sucking on the spoon. Jose must have noticed this in his overattentiveness . The truth was that the soup was delicious and I could have made a meal of it. But I realized that I should continue to play the part of a lady of manners.
    “No thank you, Jose.”
    “If you should need for anything, you let me know. Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    Fortunately, our soup bowls were soon whisked away and replaced by our dinner serving consisting of Cornish game hen, asparagus, and baby red potatoes. I had to hold myself back from attacking the contents of my plate like a wild hyena.
    “Perhaps we should discuss what I’m sure is on all of our minds but has remained largely unspoken: namely, the race tomorrow in which Soft Spoken Hal will leave that Slippery Weasel behind in his dust,” Jerry Dietz suggested.
    “Mr. Dietz!” Miss Hightower protested.
    I wondered if every meal was like this.
    “More likely break a leg at the quarter-mile post,” Harrigan countered.
    “Father!”
    “You forget, Harrigan, I’ve seen your horse run. Trust me when I tell you he doesn’t have a chance.”
    “More of a chance than your worthless sack of dog food.”
    “Mr. Harrigan!”
    “Just why did you have this man to dinner tonight?” Jerry asked with temerity.
    “Mr. Dietz, it is not your place to question whom I have to dinner.”
    “Yes, why did you have me to dinner this evening, unless it was to discuss plans for the merging of our fine facilities?” Harrigan wanted to know.
    “Father!”
    “I was hoping that we could iron out our differences and get to know each other socially,” Miss Hightower explained.
    “Well, I have no intention of remaining to be insulted,” Harrigan bellowed, rising from his chair and throwing his linen napkin down on his seat. “Come, Wayne. We’re leaving.”
    “Please, Mr. Harrigan.”
    But Miss Hightower’s plea was no use. Harrigan strode from the room and was gone. I for one hadn’t stopped eating for one moment. The game hen was cooked to perfection and marvelously seasoned. I considered asking Miss Hightower if she would mind me eating Mr. Harrigan’s serving since he hadn’t touched his plate, but thought better of it.
    “I apologize for my father,” Wayne said, rising from his seat. “It appears I must be going. Good evening, Miss Hightower,” he said, bowing. “Sissy,” he added, nodding his head to her.
    Then he too was gone. Sissy began to cry openly. Before long she dashed from the room. Her mother scurried after her and after another moment Hillary rose , his expression indignant, and followed at a moderate pace.
    “Mr. Dietz, you may excuse yourself from my table,” Miss Hightower suggested.
    “As you wish, madam,” Jerry said, rising.
    And then he was gone along with the others. Jose said nothing when he rose, dropped his napkin on his seat, and followed. I realized that I could easily slide his plate over to my place, though it was half-eaten, but still resisted the urge to look like a pig in front of the others. Lord knows I was hungry enough.
    That left only the four of us—Miss Hightower, Alex, Mark, and me.
    “Well now, that was interesting,” Mark commented.
    “Interesting is hardly the word for it, Mr. Halifax. In fact, I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to apologize for my guests, family, and employees.”
    “Nonsense, Miss Hightower,” Mark countered. “The food and company have both been sensational.”
    “Perhaps we should retire to the parlor for our after-dinner