darling.”
“Maybe…maybe I saw him fiddle with them. I’m not sure. He might have knocked some over and needed to right them again.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Mitch is always righting things.”
“I feel like I’m tattling,” Nat said. “Please don’t tell your husband I said anything.”
“Of course I won’t, dear. This is between us. I can promise you that Mitch will hear nothing about it.”
Nat looked relieved. “Thank you,” she said. “Here, let me start carrying these out.”
Jeannie waved her off with her giant injured finger. “No, no. You go sit down. I’ll take everyone’s orders first and then bring out what we need.”
Nat nodded, gave an uncertain smile, and returned to the dining room. Jeannie leaned against the countertop, peeking inside the layers of paper towel on her finger and noticing with relief that the red spread had slowed. She rewrapped her finger with tunneled, tipsy focus.
No more vodka for you, ma’am!
The blueberry juice on her bodice was driving her to distraction, so she fetched a small, pearl-trimmed bolero jacket from her bedroom and slid her arms into that, hurt finger first. Changing her whole dress would be far too noticeable, even among this group of clowns. Her mood was becoming quite foul. Gathering a small piece of notepaper and a dull golf pencil, she went into the dining room to take down the dessert orders.
Her guests chatted and lounged and readjusted their napkins. Brownie Franks looked at her brightly, as if Jeannie were about to lead them verbally through a long and elaborate procedure.
She forced her gaze to her husband and saw that, surprise, surprise, Mitch had turned his high beam of attention back onto Nat Collier posthaste. He was leaning against the poor woman, telling her that there was something on her shirt while he brushed imaginary lint from her collarbone. “That’s better,” he said. Then he clucked, “Let’s tuck this in here,” took the napkin on her lap by two corners and, like a perverted maître d’, nestled it down on either side of her thigh as if her leg were a sleeping infant. Nat’s face reddened; she glanced around and then in a quiet voice, preposterously, thanked him.
At the far end of the table, Paul Collier was watching this with an expression of strangled horror. He hopped, in a spasm, to his feet.
Thank God Jeannie was on top of things. She slipped around the table to stand behind Nat, putting one hand on each of her shoulders. Nat’s clavicle jumped, and Jeannie petted her gently as she smiled at the other guests, her oversized, bundled finger pointing obscenely at the opposite wall. “Everyone,” she said in her most genteel voice, “we have two choices for dessert.”
The guests’ eyes turned to her; they chortled, patted their engorged bellies, geared up for another round. Nat, under Jeannie’s palms, sat silently and Paul Collier eased back down into his seat.
“We have angel food cake with blueberry filling, and key lime pie. Of course,” and she smiled down into Mitch’s sleepy eyes, “you can always have both.”
I t was nearly eleven when the Colliers got home from the Richardses’ party, having walked the three blocks back in the brisk night air. Sam piggybacked on Paul’s shoulders while Nat carried Liddie against her chest. She watched Paul; his silence made her anxious.
What a strange party that had been. The home, the setting, and the people (well, most of them) had been so attractive, but between Mitch and Jeannie, Nat felt she should have brought a small club to defend herself with, and the whole event seemed to have jammed all Paul’s inner workings and left him speechless.
The girls, on the other hand, were elated. Sam couldn’t stop babbling about the other children at the party, the nanny Martha, and the endless supply of Cracker Jack, which had left them blissfully wired and twitching. They clutched handfuls of flimsy plastic prizes: a chicken, an army soldier, a
“Maybe…maybe I saw him fiddle with them. I’m not sure. He might have knocked some over and needed to right them again.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Mitch is always righting things.”
“I feel like I’m tattling,” Nat said. “Please don’t tell your husband I said anything.”
“Of course I won’t, dear. This is between us. I can promise you that Mitch will hear nothing about it.”
Nat looked relieved. “Thank you,” she said. “Here, let me start carrying these out.”
Jeannie waved her off with her giant injured finger. “No, no. You go sit down. I’ll take everyone’s orders first and then bring out what we need.”
Nat nodded, gave an uncertain smile, and returned to the dining room. Jeannie leaned against the countertop, peeking inside the layers of paper towel on her finger and noticing with relief that the red spread had slowed. She rewrapped her finger with tunneled, tipsy focus.
No more vodka for you, ma’am!
The blueberry juice on her bodice was driving her to distraction, so she fetched a small, pearl-trimmed bolero jacket from her bedroom and slid her arms into that, hurt finger first. Changing her whole dress would be far too noticeable, even among this group of clowns. Her mood was becoming quite foul. Gathering a small piece of notepaper and a dull golf pencil, she went into the dining room to take down the dessert orders.
Her guests chatted and lounged and readjusted their napkins. Brownie Franks looked at her brightly, as if Jeannie were about to lead them verbally through a long and elaborate procedure.
She forced her gaze to her husband and saw that, surprise, surprise, Mitch had turned his high beam of attention back onto Nat Collier posthaste. He was leaning against the poor woman, telling her that there was something on her shirt while he brushed imaginary lint from her collarbone. “That’s better,” he said. Then he clucked, “Let’s tuck this in here,” took the napkin on her lap by two corners and, like a perverted maître d’, nestled it down on either side of her thigh as if her leg were a sleeping infant. Nat’s face reddened; she glanced around and then in a quiet voice, preposterously, thanked him.
At the far end of the table, Paul Collier was watching this with an expression of strangled horror. He hopped, in a spasm, to his feet.
Thank God Jeannie was on top of things. She slipped around the table to stand behind Nat, putting one hand on each of her shoulders. Nat’s clavicle jumped, and Jeannie petted her gently as she smiled at the other guests, her oversized, bundled finger pointing obscenely at the opposite wall. “Everyone,” she said in her most genteel voice, “we have two choices for dessert.”
The guests’ eyes turned to her; they chortled, patted their engorged bellies, geared up for another round. Nat, under Jeannie’s palms, sat silently and Paul Collier eased back down into his seat.
“We have angel food cake with blueberry filling, and key lime pie. Of course,” and she smiled down into Mitch’s sleepy eyes, “you can always have both.”
I t was nearly eleven when the Colliers got home from the Richardses’ party, having walked the three blocks back in the brisk night air. Sam piggybacked on Paul’s shoulders while Nat carried Liddie against her chest. She watched Paul; his silence made her anxious.
What a strange party that had been. The home, the setting, and the people (well, most of them) had been so attractive, but between Mitch and Jeannie, Nat felt she should have brought a small club to defend herself with, and the whole event seemed to have jammed all Paul’s inner workings and left him speechless.
The girls, on the other hand, were elated. Sam couldn’t stop babbling about the other children at the party, the nanny Martha, and the endless supply of Cracker Jack, which had left them blissfully wired and twitching. They clutched handfuls of flimsy plastic prizes: a chicken, an army soldier, a
Similar Books
