The Whole Enchilada by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

dining room table was crowded with offerings. A pool of steaming cheese floated atop a tamale pie, while an inviting scent wafted from the enchiladas. A large tossed salad tantalized with its sweet cherry tomatoes and crunchy chips. But it was Julian’s gorgeous colorful chile relleno tortas that had most of the guests oohing and aahing.
    At Marla’s insistence, I went through the line with the other parents. Julian, meanwhile, moved quickly and purposefully around the buffet and the guests’ tables. He filled serving dishes, removed empty bowls, and asked if people needed something else to drink. Really, I wondered, how had I managed the past few years without him?
    Drew seemed to recover from his father’s unexpected appearance, followed by his swift disappearance. He and Arch blew out all the candles on the sheet cake. Julian and I scooped out dulce de leche ice cream until my arm ached. Julian’s swimming-strengthened arms never appeared to be bothered by anything.
    Even Holly, who had seemed unsettled by the appearances of the uninvited stranger, then George and Lena, began to laugh and enjoy herself. To be honest, I would have been upset, too, if my ex-husband had made a scene and I were being stalked by a “nutty manipulator.” I did notice that Holly conscientiously gave Warren Broome a wide berth, even walked away when he leaned down to talk to her. I made a mental note to ask Marla about that. Could he be the one with whom she was having the relationship mess? For Patsie Boatfield’s sake, I certainly hoped not.
    Before I could stop him, Bob Rushwood, holding one of the red Pails for Trails, made the rounds of the parents, asking for donations. He’d given one to Ophelia, who stood resolutely beside Marla’s fireplace. Well, I didn’t blame her for refusing to be so rude. Several of the parents, including Holly, crossed the room to avoid being hit up for cash. I started across the room toward Bob, to ask him to stop trying to raise money at a birthday party for someone else. But Marla beat me to it, snatching the pail from him and taking the one Ophelia gladly handed her.
    Holly giggled with friends and said no thanks to cake topped with ice cream. Then I realized I hadn’t seen her eat any dinner. Maybe this was how she kept her svelte figure. When the boys tore into their last gifts, twin boxed sets of masculine soap and cologne, I noticed Holly spoon up a minuscule amount of Mexican food. Well, at least she wouldn’t go home hungry. I still hadn’t heard what the source of her financial problems was, or the nature of the relationship mess.
    Summer nights in the mountains can be quite cool. Perhaps it was the chilling of the air that made the party break up early. Arch put on a mask of happiness, but I knew he was disappointed that it hadn’t been more fun. Bob and Ophelia’s presentation and panhandling, the bizarre appearance of the balding stranger, and the arrival of George and Lena had made the party develop a layer of unease. Even I had been unable to relax completely.
    Holly and Drew were the first to leave. Holly looked a little green around the gills, but I put it down to the effort she’d had to put into avoiding the manipulator, George and Lena, Bob and Ophelia, and finally, Warren Broome.
    â€œGoldy,” she said, “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have invited George and Lena. I just . . . Let’s . . . We’ll get together soon, and talk.”
    â€œSure,” I said. I hugged her. She clung to me, just like in the old days. Then she turned away.
    Sometimes parties go well, sometimes they don’t, I reminded myself, as I helped people into their jackets. And then I and everyone at the party, everyone who lived on or near Marla’s street, heard Drew screaming.

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    M om!” Drew yelled. “Mom, what’s wrong? Wake up! Somebody help me! Mom!”
    A human wave erupted down the driveway. Some