Slice by William Patterson Page B

you so much. Though I must admit that I was hoping you might bring those red velvet cupcakes I remember so well.”
    The older woman made a face that looked as if she’d suddenly sucked on a lemon. “I only make those at Halloween time. Can’t risk making them more often. You see, Arthur is at risk for diabetes if he doesn’t lose some weight.”
    â€œI am not at risk for diabetes and I am not overweight,” Mr. Gorin said, approaching them now, a little out of breath. “Do I look overweight to you, Jessie?”
    He did indeed look a little paunchy, but not any more than most men his age; Jessie estimated both Gorins to be in their mid-sixties. “I think you look just fine, but I guess it’s good to have your wife watching out for you,” Jessie said diplomatically. “Please, both of you, head around back and grab a glass of punch. I’ll be around momentarily.”
    She noticed Gert eying the house through the front door. “Don’t we get a tour of the place?”
    â€œOh, sure, in a bit. We’ve only just started the renovations. Inga is starting on the kitchen—”
    â€œInga?” Gert’s penciled eyebrow arched up at Jessie.
    â€œYes. Abby’s nanny. She’s really become part of the family.”
    â€œI see . . .” Gert Gorin said, insinuatingly, as she nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow. She didn’t think Jessie saw, but she did.
    As the Gorins headed around to the backyard, Jessie greeted the next visitor up the hill. Oswald Thayer was probably past eighty now, though he was far better preserved than Arthur Gorin. Still slim and trim, with a full head of bright white hair carefully combed and slicked into place, Mr. Thayer wore his perennial white twill pants under a blue blazer with gold buttons, finished off with a bright red ascot tie bulging from a crisply starched, open-collared white shirt. Jessie didn’t think she’d ever seen him dressed any other way, except in the wintertime, when his twill pants were gray. A broad smile of dazzlingly white dentures bloomed on his face when his blue eyes met Jessie’s.
    â€œWelcome home, my dear,” he said, extending his hand. “Your dear mother and father would be so happy to know you were back in the family homestead.”
    â€œHello, Mr. Thayer. Thank you so much for coming.” Jessie shook his hand warmly, balancing the casserole dish in her other hand. “And thank you for the lovely flowers. They arrived this morning. They’re in the living room on the mantel.”
    â€œI felt flowers were the better alternative, as I don’t have Gertrude Gorin’s culinary skills in being able to whip up a tuna casserole,” he said, dropping his gaze to the dish in Jessie’s hands.
    Jessie laughed. “I’ve never been all that good in the kitchen myself. That’s why my daughter and her nanny are handling the grill this afternoon.”
    Mr. Thayer had fixed her with a serious look. “I meant it when I said that your parents would be glad to see you here. You know that your father was a dear friend of mine. Rather like the son I never had.”
    Jessie smiled. She had never been as close to Dad as she had been to Mom; Monica had tended to be their father’s favorite. But she had still loved him, and respected him; they had just been very different sorts of people. Dad had been a banker and a broker, and a Republican; Mom had been a hippie and a poet, and a Democrat. Yet somehow they’d always made their marriage work, right up until the day Dad died, much too young, of a heart attack at age forty-four. Their long, happy, successful marriage had always inspired Jessie, but also intimidated her. She’d never been able to find the kind of relationship her parents had enjoyed.
    Monica had, of course.
    â€œI remember,” Mr. Thayer was saying, seeming to warm to his purpose for coming over here today,