Table for Seven (25 page)

Audrey stared at Coop for a long, level moment. “How long has this plan been in the works?”

“I got the call this morning. The director they had slated to handle the shoot broke his ankle. I told them I’d think about it because I wanted to talk to you about it first.” Coop shot an unfriendly look at Audrey. “But in light of today’s discussion, I guess I’ll just go ahead and take it.”

Does he want me to beg him to stay?
Audrey wondered, her own anger swelling.
Well, that’s not about to happen
.

“Good. I think you should,” Audrey said coolly.

“Okay, then,” Coop said, his tone equally chilly.

“I should get back to work.” Audrey raised her head, squared her shoulders, and turned, preparing to leave with as much of her dignity intact as possible. “And if I don’t see you before you leave, have a nice trip.”

“I’ll see you Saturday,” Coop said.

Audrey turned back. “Saturday?”

“The dinner party club.”

“Right. See you Saturday,” Audrey said. “Thanks for the burger.”

And with that, she turned and strode out of Coop’s apartment, wishing she’d managed to make her exit without tripping over the door jamb and also that she’d been clever enough to come up with a better exit line. The sort of zinger that Katharine Hepburn—wearing a fabulous trouser suit with padded shoulders—would say to Cary Grant, just before sweeping out of a room.

Somehow
thanks for the burger
didn’t quite cut it, Audrey thought, clutching her car keys so tightly her nails dug into her hand. She’d have to have a better exit line than that ready for Saturday night.

“SHOULD WE BE AFRAID?” Will asked when Coop opened the door to Will, Fran, and Leland.

“Of eating the best meal of your life?” Coop retorted.

“Just so you know, if you give me food poisoning, I will sue,” Will said, swatting Coop on the shoulder in greeting and handing him a bottle of wine. “I have no idea if this is any good, but it cost thirty bucks.”

“Will!” Fran said. “You’re not supposed to tell him how much you paid for the wine!”

“Why? I want to get credit for it,” Will said.

“Hey, Leland,” Coop said, shaking the older man’s hand.

Leland handed him a bottle, too.

“Bourbon,” Leland said succinctly. “The good stuff, to
have after dinner. Will and Fran drove me over, so I can indulge.”

“I like the way you think,” Coop said.

He began dispensing drinks—champagne for Fran and Leland, a beer for Will—and just as soon as he was done, the doorbell rang again. This time it was Jaime and Mark.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jaime said.

“It was my fault. I had to try on five outfits before we could leave,” Mark said. “Oh, wait, no—that was Jaime.”

Jaime rolled her eyes. “As if. I was ready ages ago. You were the one who insisted on showering at the last minute.”

“I didn’t want to offend our friends with my post-tennis stinkiness,” Mark said.

“A fact that we are all grateful for,” Coop said. “Come in and get a drink.”

“Is everyone else here?” Jaime asked.

“Everyone but Audrey,” Coop said, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.

He hated to admit it—even to himself—but he was nervous about seeing Audrey again. Their last meeting had not gone at all as planned. He’d meant to tell her that he was going to turn down the directing job, that he was enjoying their time together too much to leave. But then she’d become defensive and prickly, and suddenly he heard himself announce out of nowhere that he had decided to take the job. It had all gone pear-shaped, he thought, remembering this favorite line of his mother to describe any situation that got mixed up.

Jaime handed over a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. “I didn’t know what you’re serving, but the wine store guy said this is versatile and goes with just about everything.”

“Thank you,” Coop said. “What can I get you to drink?”

He went to get wine for the Wexlers while they joined the rest of the small group in Coop’s living room, munching on the cheese and crackers, watched intently by Bear.

“Come here, Bear,” Fran said, and the dog sidled over to her, his whole body wagging. Bear hooked his nose over her knee while she stroked his ears.

“Where are we eating?” Mark asked after Coop had returned with his wine. The small dining table wasn’t set.

“Out on the patio,” Coop said.

He’d moved the patio furniture into his bedroom for the evening and rented a long table and chairs from a party supply company. They’d also supplied linens and dishware, which meant that he wouldn’t have to deal with dirty dishes. He’d actually planned on having the dinner catered, too—that was the reason he hadn’t sent the menu out ahead of time, as he and the caterer had been trading phone calls—but at the last minute, he changed his mind and decided to cook. Having it catered would have been cheating. Why it mattered, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason it did.

The doorbell rang again.

“That must be Audrey,” Fran said.

Coop went to answer the door, trying to ignore the fact that his palms were suddenly sweaty. It didn’t help that Audrey was looking especially lovely. She had on her usual red lipstick and ridiculously high heels, which Coop found both silly and endearing.

“Hi,” Coop said.

“Hi,” Audrey said. She, too, held out a bottle in greeting.

“Thank you,” Coop said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Yes, thank you. Red, if you have it.”

They both sounded so stiff, and so formal, Coop almost laughed. This was the woman he had been tangled up in bed with a few days earlier, licking the saltiness of the sweat off her neck. She smelled amazing he noticed, as she passed by him into the apartment. He considered kissing her cheek in greeting, as he had with Fran and Jaime, but there was something in the set of her shoulders and the tightness of her mouth that kept him from leaning in.

“Audrey!” Fran called out.

Coop escaped for a moment to get Audrey’s wine, while she headed into the living room to greet everyone. He poured himself a glass of wine, too, reminding himself that he had to keep his head clear if he was actually going to cook dinner.

“Thank you,” Audrey said when he handed her the glass.

“Don’t mention it. Cheers,” Coop said, clinking his glass against hers. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

For a moment, Audrey looked as though she might laugh. But then Will came up—Audrey readily accepted
his
cheek kiss, Coop noticed resentfully—and said, “Couldn’t you find higher shoes? Those are only, what? Four or five inches tall?”

“Five,” Audrey said.

Will made a face. “That’s no fun. You need to branch out. Go for a pair of those enormous platforms that drag queens wear.”

“How do you know what kind of shoes drag queens wear?” Audrey asked.

“I’m a fountain of knowledge,” Will said.

Coop laughed. “Make that a fountain of bullshit.”

“That, too,” Will said. “Or, better yet, Aud, you could start walking around on stilts.”

“That would be an interesting fashion choice,” Audrey said, turning away to greet Leland, who was sitting on the sofa next to Jaime.

“Why do women wear those things?” Will asked. “They look like torture devices.”

“I don’t know,” Coop said, although as he admired Audrey’s legs, he thought that might be the answer. He glanced at Fran, who was chatting with Mark. She looked over at Coop and gave him a surreptitious wink. Coop smiled back at her.

“Franny looks great,” Coop said.

“Does she?” Will asked, glancing at his wife.

“You hadn’t noticed? Jesus.” Coop laughed. “And that right there is the reason I’m not married. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make some magic in the kitchen.”

“Are you seriously going to cook?” Will asked. “I was hoping you were going to order in and try to pass it off as though you’d cooked it yourself.”

“Like I would do something so devious and underhanded. I’m shocked you’d even think it,” Coop said, shaking his head.

“Do you need any help, Coop?” Fran asked. “I did promise to be your sous chef.”

“No, I’ve got it under control,” Coop said.

He headed back to the kitchen, where he had a huge stockpot full of water already running on a gentle boil. He turned up the heat a bit, and then turned to the Styrofoam cooler that contained seven squirming lobsters. He had never cooked lobster before—much less a live lobster—and had to steel himself.

“Time to cowboy up,” he told himself, picking up the first lobster. It waved its bound claws at him. “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. Actually, that’s not true. But know that you’re dying for a good cause.”

“Are you talking to our dinner?” a voice said behind him.

Coop turned and saw Audrey at the door. She again looked like she was suppressing a smile.

“That depends on what you heard me say,” he said.

“Something about dying for a good cause. And cowboying up,” Audrey added.

“You may not want to be present for what I’m about to do,” Coop said. “I don’t want to offend your delicate lady sensibilities.”

She took a sip of wine, studying him over the brim of her glass. “I think I can handle it.”

Great
, Coop thought. He was already nervous about the lobster slaughter that was about to take place, and now he had to do it in front of an audience.

“Go ahead,” Audrey said, nodding at him.

Coop took a deep breath and took the lid off the enormous stockpot, purchased especially for the evening. Unfortunately, just as he was about to drop the lobster inside, it—perhaps sensing its fate—began to squirm.

“Ack!” Coop said, panicking. He dropped the lobster inside, causing hot water to splash out, and clanged the lid on.

“Good job,” Audrey said dryly. “Way to cowboy up.”

“Like you could do any better,” Coop said.

Audrey set down her glass of wine, headed to the cooler, and, then—with a terrifyingly cold-blooded efficiency—she quickly transferred the six remaining lobsters to the pot, and replaced the lid. The lobsters let out an awful high-pitched screeching sound that made Coop’s stomach turn.

“They’re screaming,” he said, swallowing hard.

Audrey looked at him in disbelief. “I thought you were supposed to be some sort of master fisherman? Lobsters can’t scream. They don’t have vocal cords.”

“What’s that noise?”

“I think it’s steam being released from their shells, or something like that,” Audrey said.

Coop contemplated if this was any less gruesome than screaming, and decided that it was. Slightly.

“I think I’m officially scared of you,” Coop said. “You just committed six counts of lobstercide and seem completely unaffected by it.”

This time, Audrey laughed. “You know that ground beef you cooked the other day came from a cow that was, once upon a time, alive and well and unaware of its future as a hamburger.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because I got that meat from Butcher Bob, already dead and wrapped in plastic,” Coop said.

They smiled at each other, and for a moment Coop wondered if everything might be all right between them, after all. But then Fran stuck her head in the kitchen.

“What are you two doing in here? Coop, do you need any help?”

“There’s a salad and a bowl of potato salad in the fridge. You could bring those outside,” Coop suggested, hoping to get rid of her quickly.

But Audrey said, “I’ll help you, Fran.”

“Thanks.” Fran opened the fridge and handed a large green bowl to Audrey. “Here’s the potato salad. Does the green salad need dressing, Coop?”

“Yes. The dressing should be right there next to it,” Coop said, watching Audrey depart with the potato salad.

Fran took out a Pyrex measuring cup that Coop had mixed the vinaigrette in and then covered loosely with Saran wrap. “You made your own dressing? I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Coop said. “I like to underpromise and over-deliver.”

“Is that your personal creed?” Fran asked, twinkling up at him.

“No, my personal creed is Every Man for Himself,” Coop said.

She whacked him playfully with a dish towel.

By the time the lobsters were steamed, and the melted butter divided into seven mini soufflé dishes, Fran had herded the dinner party club out to the patio. Coop thought the setup looked nice. The table was decorated simply with a row of votive candles—also provided by the party supply company—and you couldn’t beat the view.

“Everything looks wonderful,” Jaime said.

“Do you know what you need out here?” Fran said, surveying the table.

“What?” Coop asked, as he set the platter of lobsters in the middle of the table to general murmurs of approval.

“Twinkle lights,” Fran said.

“Excuse me, what?” Coop said.

“Twinkle lights,” Fran repeated. “Those little white lights that you string on your house at Christmas.”

“I think it’s safe to say that I’m not going to involve myself with anything called ‘twinkle lights,’ ” Coop said. “It wouldn’t be manly.”

“If you were really manly, you wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not things sound manly,” Fran retorted.

Coop smiled. “Too true. Shall we eat?” he said.

Audrey chose a seat as far away from Coop’s as possible—
On purpose?
he wondered—and spent most of the remaining evening discussing films with Leland. They both had a fondness for small English period dramas, the sort of movies that acted as instant Ambien on Coop. Every once in a while a date would drag him out to see one, and he’d fall asleep ten minutes into the film. Maybe this was another sign that he and Audrey weren’t meant to be. That, and the fact that she didn’t seem to like him very much.

Toward the end of the meal—which everyone said was delicious, although Coop personally thought the potato salad was too bland and the salad dressing too vinegary; clearly he wasn’t about to have a future as the next big celebrity chef—Audrey and Leland seemed to move off the subject of movies and into relationships. Coop perked up and turned away from Fran—who was flushed from the wine and kept going on and on about some boat trip they’d all taken together twenty years earlier—and tried to listen in on what Audrey was saying to Leland.