Table for Seven (10 page)

But just when he had finished moving all of the furniture into the center of the room and taping off the trim, and was about to pour the paint—an unremarkable shade of white that the paint manufacturer called “Crescent Moon”—he’d decided his new battle robot—nicknamed Iggy by Rory—needed a lighter casing to help with mobility. Will figured he could sneak in a few minutes’ at his workbench and still have plenty of time to get the painting done before his family returned home. But he hadn’t counted on the rain.

Will now considered giving a smart-ass answer to Fran’s question.
I’m baking a blueberry pie
, or,
I’m contemplating the unbearable lightness of being
. But Fran didn’t seem like she was in a very jokey mood at the moment, so he decided to go with the truth instead.

“I’m reworking Iggy’s outer casing,” Will said.

“What I meant was, why aren’t you painting?” Fran asked.

“I was just taking a short break,” Will said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it done. The living room will be painted by the end of the day. You have my word.”

“It’s not just painting the living room! The dinner party is next weekend. This is our last chance to get everything on
the list taken care of,” Fran said. “I was just looking at the front hedges, and I think they’re practically dead. We’re going to have to dig them up and replace them.”

Will contemplated how he would fit this new chore—which sounded simple enough, but would almost certainly entail hours of dirty, sweaty, back-straining work—into a weekend that he was already scheduled to spend painting and steam-cleaning all of the carpets in the house. It was time to take a stand.

“There’s no way I’m going to have the time to tackle the front shrubs,” he said, shaking his head with what he hoped looked like regret. “Not with everything else you want me to do.”

“It’s not what I want done,” Fran said. “It’s what needs to be done.”

Will didn’t agree. The living room certainly didn’t
need
to be repainted. Although Fran might have a point when it came to the carpets, which had been in the house when they bought it and were now worn and tatty.

“Honey, these are our friends who are coming over. The house doesn’t have to be perfect.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Fran’s face hardened into the stubborn expression.

“Yes, it does,” she said. “I want everything to look nice.”

“It
will
look nice. But I don’t think you should get so worked up about this,” he said, convinced that Jaime’s perfectionist insanity was rubbing off on Fran.

“I’m doing all of the shopping and the planning and the cooking,” Fran said. “The least you can do is help with everything else. There’s no way I can get it all done on my own.”

Will stood and went to his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’ll be fine,” he said soothingly. “Don’t
worry, we’ll get the house shaped up and you’re an amazing cook. It’s going to be a great night.”

Fran turned, moving out of his embrace. “Maybe I can dig up the hedges myself,” she said. “Do you have a shovel in here?”

IT WAS STILL EARLY—too early to be awake, he could tell from the weak light just beginning to stream in through the blinds—when Coop woke up. The girl lying beside him had insisted on spending the night, and Coop never slept well when he had to share his bed. And this girl
—wait
. What was her name again? Mena? Mindy? Coop felt a surge of panic. He didn’t want to be
that
guy, the one who couldn’t remember the names of the women he brought home. Then, with a surge of relief, Coop remembered.
Misha
. That was her name. He remembered mentioning, when he’d first been introduced to her the night before at a wine tasting, that he’d heard Misha was Mikhail Baryshnikov’s nickname. She’d looked at him blankly.

“The Russian ballet dancer?” he’d said. “He was also in that movie
White Nights
. Although that might have been before your time.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” Misha’s friend had said. Coop also couldn’t recall the friend’s name, but as he hadn’t slept with her, he felt no guilt about this. “He was on
Sex and the City
. He was Carrie’s boyfriend. The old guy who asked her to move to Paris with him.”

“Oh,” Misha had said, comprehension dawning on her pretty face. “I know who you mean. That guy’s a ballerina?”

Perhaps Coop hadn’t used his best judgment when he took her home with him. She was awfully young, still in her
twenties. She taught kindergarten, she’d said. He’d imagined her wearing a full-skirted dress, reading a picture book aloud to her class, while they stared up at her with wide eyes and slack mouths, riveted by the goings-on of Peter Rabbit. And even though this was as nonsexual an image as possible, the picture had charmed him, and he’d spent the rest of the evening at her side as they compared the finish on a selection of Chilean wines. The more wine they tasted, the less it seemed to matter that she wasn’t much of a conversationalist—her topics of interest focused heavily on who the current contestants of some reality dancing show were and whether or not two Hollywood stars were really dating or if it was all just a publicity stunt—and the more he admired her long, shiny dark hair and shapely legs.

The sex had been fine, although once it was over Coop felt nothing more than a sense of weariness and the beginning of a red wine–induced headache. Now he wondered how long she’d stay. Some women bolted, while others hung around, lingering over coffee and dropping hints about going out to brunch together.

Misha showed signs of life. She stretched and sighed, and then sat up.

“Good morning,” Coop said.

“Hi,” she said. “What time is it?”

Coop checked the clock by his bed. “Ten to seven.”

Misha threw her legs over the side of the bed and padded off to the bathroom, where she proceeded to spend an inordinate amount of time. When she finally emerged, she was wearing Coop’s bathrobe. She plopped down on the edge of the bed and turned to face him, leaning back on her arms.

“God, I was so wasted last night,” she said conversationally.

“Oh, yeah?” Coop said.

She nodded her head enthusiastically. “I haven’t been that drunk since the Kappa Spring Fling last year.”

This information clanked around in Coop’s head—still rusty from too much wine and too little sleep—for a few beats before it dawned on him what she was saying.

“Spring Fling?” he repeated. “Kappa? What’s that? It sounds like a sorority.”

Misha nodded. For someone who claimed to have been “so wasted” the night before, she was looking offensively bright eyed and chipper. “Kappa Kappa Gamma,” Misha said. “University of Florida.”

Coop stared at her. “Please tell me you’re not still in college,” he said.

Misha laughed and tossed her hair back. Coop noticed that she played with her hair a lot. She was constantly stroking it or twisting it around one finger. “Of course not.”

Thank God
, Coop thought.

“I graduated last year,” Misha continued.

“Which would make you, what … twenty-four? Twenty-five?” he asked hopefully. Maybe she had been on one of those six-year plans.

“Twenty-three,” Misha said.

Twenty-three. He had brought home a twenty-three-year-old girl, fresh out of college. Popular culture instructed that this should give him a rush, that it was proof he was still virile. But instead it just made Coop feel old and even more tired.

“Why? How old are you?” Misha asked.

She had very large, very round eyes, set wide on her face. Coop had spent the night before trying to figure out who Misha reminded him of—an old girlfriend, maybe, or a
movie actress. But suddenly it hit him—she looked like Veronica from the old
Archie
comics. He opened his mouth to tell her this, but then decided against it. She had probably never heard of the
Archie
comics. It was probably before her time. Hell, it was before his time.

“I’m forty-five,” Coop said.

Misha’s mouth dropped open and her eyes grew even wider. “Are you
serious
?” she asked.

Coop wasn’t sure if her disbelief was flattering or not. He nodded, warily.

“God, you’re so
old
,” she said.

Okay, definitely not flattering.

“I’ve never been with someone so old before,” Misha continued. “I mean, you’re practically as old as my
father
.”

“Thanks for that. I have to say, I’m really enjoying this conversation,” Coop said.

But Misha wasn’t listening to him. Instead, she’d hopped off the bed again and was rummaging through her purse. He had a momentary flash of hope—maybe she was so horrified, she would turn into a bolter—only to have it dashed a moment later, when he saw she was just retrieving her phone. She returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged, and began to tap on the phone at lightning speed.

“What are you doing?” Coop asked.

“Texting Marissa. She’s not going to believe that I just had sex with someone who’s forty-five,” Misha said. She paused. “Or maybe I should just tweet it. I haven’t had anything good to tweet in ages.”

“You’re going to tweet that we had sex?” Coop asked. He had a vague idea that this had something to do with posting messages on the Internet. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Misha nodded happily. “Yeah, this is great.” She hit another
rapid succession of buttons on the phone, and then looked up at him. “I’m starving. Do you want to go get breakfast? I can tweet that, too.”

AFTER WORK, FRAN STOPPED by Uncorked to browse through their selection of Cabernet Sauvignons. She’d decided she wanted to make short ribs for the dinner party club, and the recipe she’d selected called for two bottles of Cabernet, which the ribs braised in for several hours.

What was the rule about cooking with wine? Fran tried to remember. Were you supposed to use wine you would serve with dinner, or was it okay to use the cheap stuff? Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up, and her heart gave a lurch.

“Hey there,” Coop said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Mmm, you smell good.”

Fran felt a thrill of excitement.
He thinks I smell good
, she thought. She wondered if his lips had actually lingered on her cheek, or if she was just imagining it.

Even though Coop looked tired and hadn’t shaved that morning, he still managed to look sexy. Fran suddenly pictured pressing her lips against his neck, which was smooth and deeply tanned. This mental image caused her to flush a deep, hot red.

This is ridiculous
, Fran thought.
I’m suddenly forty going on fourteen
.

“Hi!” Fran said, hoping Coop didn’t notice how flustered she was. “What are you doing here?”

“Probably the same thing you are—buying wine for your dinner party,” Coop said. “Your email said we’re having short ribs, right?”

Fran nodded. “I’m braising them in Cabernet,” she said. “So I thought I should probably serve a Cabernet to go along with the meal.”

“Good thinking.” Coop looked over the selection of wines, and grabbed a bottle that the wine store was advertising as having received a ninety-three rating from
Wine Spectator
. “I’ll bring two of these, as an extra backup for you.”

“Thanks, that’s so nice of you,” Fran gushed.

Then she looked at the price tag, and her heart sank. The wine Coop had selected cost nearly fifty dollars a bottle. Will would kill her if she spent that much, especially since she had planned to buy four bottles of red, along with a couple bottles of white, in case someone didn’t drink red. But if she went with the thirteen-dollar bottle she had been about to put in her cart, it would look like she was being cheap, especially in comparison to the wine Coop would be bringing.

“This Chilean Cabernet is excellent. Have you tried it?” Coop asked, pointing at a bottle priced at fifteen dollars. “It was featured at a wine tasting I went to last night, and I really liked it.”

“I’ve never tried it.” Fran picked up the bottle and examined the label. “Do you think it will pair well with short ribs?”

Coop nodded. “It’s perfect.”

Fran felt a rush of gratitude as she loaded four bottles of the Cabernet into her cart, next to the two bottles of Chardonnay she’d already selected. She had a feeling that Coop was steering her toward the less expensive wine because he knew she and Will were on a tight budget. But he’d done so in a way that didn’t make her feel small. He was such a good guy, Fran thought, with a rush of affection.

“Thanks,” Fran said, squeezing his arm.

“No problem.” Coop grinned down at her, which caused Fran’s heart to start skittering around again. “How’s Will doing?” he asked.

“Will? He’s fine.” She shrugged. “You know Will. Same as always.”

“He knows there’s going to have to be payback, right?” Coop said.

“For what?” Fran asked. Then, remembering the last dinner party, she said, “Oh, you mean for the whole telling-Audrey-that-you’re-gay thing?”

Coop nodded. “That was a serious violation of the Guy Rules.”

“Guy Rules?” Fran rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not serious. Besides, I’m the one who actually told her.”

“But I know he was the one behind the lie,” Coop said, undermining his statement with another grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t cause any permanent damage to him.”

“I’ll tell him to be on his guard,” Fran said. “Did you have fun at the dinner party?”

“Sure. What’s the story with your friend Audrey?” Coop asked. Fran thought that he posed this question with the sort of casual tone that belied a deeper interest, and, instantly, jealousy snaked through her.

“What about her?” Fran asked, turning to inspect a cooler with a display of gourmet food. Olives, cheeses, pâtés. She picked up a wheel of brie and placed it in her cart. She’d slather it with raspberry preserves then bake it wrapped inside puff pastry, and serve it with drinks before dinner.

“She seemed nice. Very smart,” Coop said.

Fran nodded. “She is both of those things,” she said. She might not love the direction this conversation was going in,
but even so, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—run Audrey down. Besides, it should hardly be a surprise that Coop would be interested in Audrey. She was attractive, elegant, and smart.