Table for Seven (11 page)

Far more attractive than me
, Fran thought ruefully.
And single. And not married to his best friend
.

“She said she runs a day spa,” Coop said.

Fran nodded again. She selected a box of wheat crackers from the display on top of the cooler and wished she had changed out of her work scrubs and rubber clogs. She could have at least put on some lip gloss. Audrey never left the house with a bare face and tangled hair.

When did my personal grooming standards become so lax?
Fran wondered.

“Why are you making me dig for information? Come on, give me the scoop on her,” Coop said, sounding exasperated.

“What do you want to know exactly?” Fran asked, resigning herself to the conversation.

“I didn’t notice a wedding ring. Is she single?”

“Yes. She was married once, but her husband died,” Fran said.

“Really?” Coop’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the story there?”

“It was a car accident. Seven years ago,” Fran said, remembering that awful week. Audrey’s early morning call from the hospital, her voice hollow with shock. Accompanying Audrey to the funeral home. Sitting in the rocking chair, holding a four-year-old Rory and weeping into her baby fine hair, as she couldn’t break down in front of Audrey. “It was pretty horrible, actually.”

“That’s too bad,” Coop said. Then, after an appropriate pause, he said, “She’s not involved with anyone now?”

Fran looked at him directly for the first time since the
conversation had started off on this Audrey tangent. “No,” she said. “She’s dated a bit over the years, but she’s never met the right person. In fact, she’s convinced that there’s no such thing. At least, not since Ryan.”

Coop nodded thoughtfully. “What was he like?”

“Who, Ryan? He was great. Funny, smart, the sort of guy everyone likes,” Fran said.

“So she was married to Mr. Perfect?”

Fran exhaled a short laugh. “He was definitely not perfect. Ryan drank. A lot.”

“Had he been drinking the night he died?” Coop asked.

“Probably,” Fran said. “His car hit the side of an overpass on I-95. It was late, and there was a bad storm that night, but knowing Ryan, I’ve always assumed he’d been drinking. Audrey has never said much about it to me. She’s very protective of him. Of his memory.”

“I wouldn’t think many alcoholics have happy marriages,” Coop said.

“I wouldn’t, either,” Fran said. “And I don’t know that their marriage was necessarily that happy. But haven’t you ever noticed that sometimes when a person dies, the people mourning them start rewriting history? I’ve seen it with some friends who’ve lost their parents. I had one friend whose mother was emotionally abusive to her throughout her childhood, but once the mother died, my friend kept going on and on about some trip they took to New York City when she was little, and how her mother took her to tea at the Plaza like Eloise.”

“Eloise?” Coop asked.

“You’ve never heard of Eloise? It’s a picture book about a little girl who lives in the Plaza Hotel with her dog, Weenie. Anyway, my friend had this one good memory of her
mother—seriously one good memory in thirty-eight years of being her daughter—but it’s the one she clung to,” Fran said. She shrugged. “I guess it’s a way of protecting yourself from the pain.”

“The pain of the loss?” Coop said.

“Yes, partly. And partly from the pain that whatever went wrong in your relationship, whatever it was that was screwed up, can’t ever be changed. It’s over.” Fran looked in the cooler again, picking up a container of mixed olives. “Do you like olives?”

“What?” Coop seemed caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. “No, I can’t stand olives.”

“Really? I never knew that about you,” Fran said, putting the olives back. She was glad she’d jettisoned her original menu, which had included lamb chops piled with goat cheese, chopped tomatoes, and olives. It was delicious—Fran had made it for Easter dinner the previous year—but she ultimately decided it was too simple for the dinner party club.

“What can I say? I’m a man of mystery,” Coop said, grinning down at her again.

“An enigma wrapped in a riddle,” Fran said.

“Actually, I’m not,” Coop admitted. “Pretty much what you see is what you get with me.”

“And that’s why we love you,” Fran said, squeezing his arm.

JAIME SAT AT THE kitchen table with a pile of green netting, a coil of wire, and assorted craft materials set out in front of her. She was planning a Peter Pan and Tinker Bell party for Ava’s second birthday. All of the children from Ava’s play group were invited, along with a select few children from
her Music Babies class (although not Aidan, who once bashed Ava over the head with a maraca, and had the reputation of being a biter). Jaime was making a set of fairy wings for each of the little girls and felt Peter Pan hats for the boys.

She was just finishing up her fifth set of tulle wings—not bad for an afternoon’s work, considering she had to keep stopping to assist Logan, who was building a complicated train track in the playroom, or Ava, who was ignoring the wooden puzzles and basket of board books Jaime had set out in favor of playing with the Tupperware—when she heard the front door open.

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

Jaime tensed.

Mark’s ex-wife, Libby, had—yet again—walked right into their house without bothering to knock.

Sure, she was dropping Emily off. But still. It was one of those touchy blended family issues. God, Jaime hated the word
blended
, as though the people involved were a fruit shake. Their house was Emily’s home, or, at least, her second home. So of course Emily had her own room and her own key, and she was free to come and go as she pleased. But sometimes, like today, when her mother was with her, it meant that Libby also felt free to breeze in, unannounced. It was, Jaime thought, completely inappropriate. Not to mention incredibly annoying.

“I’m back here,” Jaime said, getting to her feet.

“Mommy, up,” Ava demanded.

Jaime obligingly scooped her up and headed out to meet Libby and Emily. Maybe if she was quick, she could intercept Libby in the hallway.

“Hello, Jaime. Hi, Ava,” Libby said, smiling brightly at the little girl, her head tilted to one side.

Libby was short and curvy, with short dark hair and very tan skin. She was attractive, but not beautiful, Jaime had always thought with a certain amount of satisfaction.

“Hi,” Jaime said, smiling back with equal wattage.

“Hey, Jaime,” Emily said. She was wearing a navy blue tennis dress, and had her pink backpack slung over one shoulder. She came over and dropped a kiss on her half-sister’s head. “Hi, Ava. I like your bow. I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”

Emily headed back toward the kitchen. Libby followed her, not waiting for an invitation. Jaime swallowed a sigh.

“What’s going on here?” Libby asked, her eyebrows arched, as she looked at the piles of fairy wings and green tulle.

“Ava’s birthday party is next weekend. We’re having a Peter Pan themed party for her,” Jaime said.

“Cool,” Emily said, picking up a set of the wings. “Can I help?”

Jaime smiled at her stepdaughter. “You really want to? I’d love that,” she said.

“You’re going to an awful lot of work for a bunch of two-year-olds, aren’t you?” Libby said with a laugh. “It’s not like Ava will remember it when she’s older.”

Jaime’s teeth clenched. That sounded like something Mark would say. In fact, it was exactly what Mark had said when she began planning the party. What was so wrong with wanting to make their daughter’s birthday special? And even if Ava didn’t remember it, she’d see the pictures, which were certain to be adorable.

“Did you have a lesson this morning, Emily?” Jaime asked.

“No, I have one this afternoon,” Emily said.

“You do?” Jaime asked and wondered why Mark hadn’t mentioned this to her. “Does your dad know?”

“Yep.” Emily grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and bit into it. “He’s taking me. We’re going to go early and hit for a while before my lesson.”

Jaime had been hoping Mark would hang out with the kids for a few hours, so she could run errands. She wanted to go to the mall and look for something to wear to the dinner party that evening, and she’d also promised Fran she’d swing by the fish store to pick up a container of smoked fish dip. And she couldn’t put off a Target run for one more day—they were running dangerously low on paper towels, toilet paper, and laundry detergent. If Mark took off to the tennis club with Emily, it would scupper her plans. She could just about make it through Target with Ava and Logan, as long as she got one of the huge, tank-like carts that sat two kids and were impossible to steer, but there was no way she could go clothes shopping with a two- and three-year-old in tow. The last time she’d brought Logan to the mall, he’d crawled out under the dressing room door, just as Jaime was trying on a strapless dress. She’d had to chase after him into the store, barefoot and unzipped, holding the dress up around her.

“He didn’t mention anything about it to me. Your dad’s at the gym right now, and when he gets back, I have some errands to run,” Jaime said, making sure to keep her voice pleasantly neutral.

“Emily needs to get the extra practice time in. She has a big tournament next weekend.” Libby smoothed a hand over Emily’s head. “Mark knows. He and I talked about it last night.”

Jaime tried to swallow back her irritation. Libby just assumed that Emily’s tennis was going to trump all other plans
for the weekend. But that was Libby. She was just so self-centered, so sure that she’d get her way at all times.

“Yes, but apparently Mark forgot to talk about it with
me
,” Jaime said evenly. She shifted Ava to her right hip.

Libby flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “I know how that goes. Mark was the same way when we were married. I swear, that man is incapable of keeping track of his schedule.”

Jaime refused to be drawn in. “Yes, well, we’ll figure it out when he gets back from the gym.”

“I have to go to the tennis club. I have a lesson with Coach Sarah at two. I can’t just
not
show up,” Emily said. Ever since Emily had turned twelve, it seemed she was incapable of saying anything without that snotty edge to her voice, Jaime thought.

“Emily’s right,” Libby said. “She shouldn’t have to miss out on her lesson just because you and Mark haven’t communicated well.”

“You won’t miss your lesson,” Jaime said. It took considerable effort to keep her voice calm. “But I don’t know if your dad will have time to hit with you before your lesson.”

“But he promised!” Emily said.

“Emily, why don’t you go see what Logan is doing,” Libby suggested.

“He’s in the playroom,” Jaime said.

“Let me guess. Trains?” Emily said. Jaime nodded, and Emily rolled her eyes in affectionate exasperation. “Come on, Ava, let’s go find Logan.”

Ava was happy enough to be transferred from her mother’s arms to Emily’s—both of the little ones adored their big sister—and the two of them set off for the playroom.

Once they were alone, Libby turned to Jaime and, lowering
her voice, said, “I didn’t want to say anything about it in front of her, but you should know Emily has been having a hard time lately.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Jaime asked, instantly concerned as all of the problems that plagued young girls flashed through her thoughts. Mean girls, eating disorders, school-work pressures.

“She’s been having a crisis in confidence ever since her tournament in Fort Lauderdale last weekend. She lost to a girl she’s always beaten in the past, and now she’s convinced that she’s not training hard enough.”

Tennis
, Jaime thought.
It’s always tennis
.

“It was just one match. She wins all the time,” Jaime said.

“A lot of the kids she plays against are homeschooled so they can spend more time training. Emily wants to do that, too,” Libby said.

“You’re going to homeschool Em?” Jaime asked, surprised. Somehow she couldn’t picture Libby as a teacher. And although Libby didn’t really work—she didn’t need to—she did occupy some sort of position at her family’s company that involved frequent trips to the headquarters in Tampa.

“I need to talk to Mark about it,” Libby said. “Obviously, I couldn’t do it on my own. He’d have to be on board.”

“Wait, you want
Mark
to homeschool?” Jaime asked. She shook her head. “He’d never take the time off work. He’s at the office so much as it is, we barely see him.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jaime wished she could cut her tongue out. She was a big believer in always putting on a good front with everyone, and this was even more important when it came to her husband’s ex-wife.

“We’ll figure something out. Emily could always go to his office, and do her studying there,” Libby said smoothly.

Jaime knew that when Libby said
we’ll figure something out
, she meant herself and Mark. They wouldn’t ask for Jaime’s input, even when it came to this sort of big decision, one that would certainly affect Jaime and the two younger children.

But before Jaime could say anything, before she could assert herself, Libby glanced at her watch and said, “It’s already eleven-thirty? I have to run. I have a lunch date.”

“A date? Are you seeing someone?” Jaime asked.

Libby smiled and her dark eyes sparkled. “There is someone I’ve been seeing quite a lot of lately.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Believe it or not, he’s my dentist. Wes Thompson. Do you know him?”

Jaime shook her head. “Did he ask you out while he was examining your teeth?”

Libby laughed. “No. I ran into him at the produce section. He asked for help picking out a melon.”

“A likely story,” Jaime said, grinning despite herself. At times, she could almost imagine that, under different circumstances, she and Libby might have been friends. Almost.

“I know, right? I bet he was just hanging out there, waiting for someone he could use his melon line on,” Libby said. “I’ll have to tease him about that.” She shouldered her large, calfskin bag. “Tell Mark I’ll call him later. We need to go over Emily’s upcoming tournament schedule. I can take her to the tournament in Tampa, but I need him to cover Jacksonville in two weeks and Miami at the end of the month.”