Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Well, prepare to be nurtured,” Fran said. “I have five courses planned.”

  The Parrish kitchen was bright—Fran had painted the walls orange in an effort to draw attention away from the dated white laminate cupboards—and filled with the smells of dinner preparation. Will stood at the counter, also wearing an apron—his was green, with KISS THE COOK emblazoned across the front—chopping parsley.

  “Audrey, hey,” Will said, opening his arms. Will was balding, with a round, pink-cheeked face. He had kind brown eyes, an easy smile, and sideburns that he wore too long.

  “Hi,” she said, accepting his hug and peck on the cheek.

  “Do you know everyone? Mark and Jaime?”

  “Hi, Jaime. Hey, Mark,” Audrey said, smiling at the couple standing at the counter, both holding glasses of red wine. They were both tall and lean with fair hair and very white teeth, and probably could have passed as siblings. Audrey remembered Fran telling her once that Jaime had all of her body hair lasered off. Audrey eyed Jaime’s arms. They did look suspiciously smooth.

  “Hi, Audrey. I love your dress,” Jaime said, leaning forward and kissing the air over Audrey’s right cheek.

  “Thanks,” Audrey said.

  “And this is our neighbor Leland,” Fran said.

  Audrey turned to smile at an elderly man who was dressed jauntily in a blue blazer with gold buttons and a red handkerchief tucked in the front pocket. He was stooped and wizened, and reminded Audrey of a turtle who had escaped from his shell. He held out his hand and Audrey shook it gently. “Hello, I’m Audrey.”

  “Leland McCullogh. A pleasure to meet you,” he said. His grip was surprisingly firm.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Audrey said, taking an instant liking to the elderly man. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Fran and Will.”

  “None of it is true,” Leland said solemnly. “Except the part about my secret elopement with Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “What’s this about Elizabeth Taylor?” Fran asked, handing Audrey a glass of wine.

  “I never told you about her? Never mind. You don’t need to know all of my secrets,” Leland said, winking at Audrey, who laughed.

  “You’re really serving five courses? I’m impressed. What are we having?” Audrey asked.

  “All sorts of delicious things. We’re going to serve a course every hour, on the hour, until midnight,” Fran said.

  Audrey managed to suppress a sigh. So much for her hope to be safely at home, in bed, before the New Year’s Eve ball dropped.

  “That’s very ambitious,” Audrey said. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, that’s okay. Will’s making his famous tequila shrimp for our eight o’clock course, and then we’ll be having an arugula, fennel, and orange salad for the nine o’clock salad course, which I’m just finishing now. The scallops will cook quickly, so I won’t start them until after we have our salads,” Fran said.

  “Yum, I love scallops,” Audrey said, wondering if this meant they wouldn’t be eating anything substantial until ten o’clock. She helped herself to a cracker and cheese from the plate she had brought. “Where are the girls?”

  “Iris is at our house babysitting,” Jaime said.

  “And Rory is upstairs,” Fran said.

  “No, I’m not,” Rory said, appearing in the kitchen. She smiled shyly, showing off a mouthful of neon green braces.

  “Hi, Rory,” Audrey said.

  “Hey. Mom, can I watch Terminator?” Rory asked.

  “Didn’t you watch that last night?” Fran asked distractedly, as she whisked salad dressing in a Pyrex measuring cup.

  “No. I watched Terminator Salvation. It’s the newest one. Now I need the backstory,” Rory said.

  “You don’t think those movies are scary?” Jaime asked.

  Rory shook her head.

  “Rory has a special affinity for action movies. Especially if they involve blood, gore, and high-speed chases,” Will explained.

  Rory fixed herself a plate of cheese and crackers, added three olives, and then scampered out of the room.

  “She is such a cutie pie,” Audrey said.

  “We’re enjoying her while we can,” Fran said. “If she’s anything like Iris, she’ll turn surly and uncommunicative in about two and a half years.”

  Jaime glanced to make sure that Rory was gone, and then leaned forward slightly in the time-honored posture with which all good gossip is shared. “Did you hear about Allison and Michael Hart?”

  “No, what about them?” Fran asked, pouring Leland more white wine.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Leland asked.

  “Absolutely,” Fran said.

  “Why do I know her name?” Audrey asked.

  “Because we live in a small town,” Fran said, pouring some wine into a glass and thrusting it at Audrey. “I’ve known Allison forever. Rory was in Music Babies with Josh Hart. How do you know Allison, Jaime?”

  “She works out at my gym,” Jaime said. “We have the same trainer.”

  “Who’s your trainer? I’ve been thinking of going to one. I seriously need to firm up,” Fran said.

  “Dina Martin,” Jaime said. “She also runs a boot camp that meets at the beach a few mornings a week. Lots of squats and lunges. Hard, but great for your rear end.”

  Will and Mark exchanged an exasperated look.

  “How did we go from Allison Hart to squats and lunges at the beach?” Will asked.

  “That’s nothing. We’re probably going to have to hear about a dress someone bought or how many calories there are in that block of cheese before we get to the good gossip,” Mark said.

  “Mark! That is so sexist!” Jaime said, looking indignant. “Although,” she continued, turning back to Fran and Audrey, “there is supposed to be a great post-Christmas sale going on at Nordstrom right now. Have either of you been?”

  “Wait, don’t change the subject. I want to hear about Allison and Michael,” Fran said.

  “I want to hear more about the squats and lunges you ladies are doing on the beach in bikinis,” Will said.

  “We don’t wear bikinis while we work out,” Jaime said.

  “Don’t ruin it for me,” Will said.

  “Anyway,” Jaime said, leaning forward again, and lowering her voice to a loud whisper. “Allison and Michael are getting divorced. Apparently, Allison was having an affair with one of the fathers at her kids’ school. At least, that’s the gossip. She claims that nothing happened, and that she and Michael split up because they’d grown apart.”

  “Wow,” Fran said. “Her kids go to St. Andrew’s, right? I wonder which dad it was?”

  “The rumor is that it was Joe O’Keefe, but so far that’s unconfirmed,” Jaime said.

  “Unconfirmed? What, are you suddenly a reporter?” Mark teased her.

  Jaime shrugged, unrepentant. “I just don’t want to spread a rumor.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” Mark asked.

  Jaime’s mouth thinned into a line. “Okay, fine, I won’t say any more.”

  “No, tell us the rest. What do your unconfirmed sources tell you?” Will asked.

  Jaime glanced at her husband, but Mark just shrugged and drank his wine. “Apparently Allison and Joe were flirting pretty intensely at the St. Andrew’s ball. And I saw them at the gym a few times,” Jaime said.

  “What, they were there together?” Fran asked.

  “No, I don’t think they went there together. But when I saw them they were talking in a way that just seemed … intimate. Like they were close. Very close. And Allison was very affectionate,” Jaime said.

  “Allison’s like that, though. She can’t talk to you without touching your arm or stroking your hand,” Fran said. “But Joe O’Keefe? I don’t know. He doesn’t strike me as being the sort of guy you’d leave a marriage for.”

  “Not your type?” Will asked, nudging his wife affectionately.

  Fran shook her head. “He wears man jewelry,” she
said.

  “Never a good look,” Jaime agreed.

  “Man jewelry? Like watches and wedding bands?” Mark asked.

  “No. I’m talking gold chain necklaces. And those awful chunky link bracelets. And pinky rings,” Fran explained.

  “Good God. It sounds like you’re describing a Vegas mobster,” Mark said.

  “Yes, exactly. Also, Joe wears black button-down shirts,” Fran said.

  “Ick,” Jaime said.

  “A guy gets dinged for a black button-down? Wow, you women are tough,” Mark said. “Poor Joe.”

  “I’d feel more sorry for him if he didn’t wear so much cologne,” Fran said.

  “Or cheat on his wife,” Jaime added.

  “His wife is a client at my spa,” Audrey said, feeling a pang for the quiet, pretty brunette with the quick smile.

  “Don’t say anything to her,” Jaime said quickly. “Like I said, I’m not one hundred percent sure he was the one she was having an affair with.”

  “Of course not,” Audrey said, wondering if Jaime thought she intended to interrogate Melissa O’Keefe about the state of her marriage the next time she came in for a pedicure, and feeling mildly insulted by the insinuation.

  “I wonder how Allison and Michael’s kids are taking it,” Fran said. “Josh is eleven, like Rory, which means Sidney must be what? Nine?”

  Jaime nodded. “Allison said the kids are taking it all in stride, and that they just want her to be happy.”

  At this, Jaime and Fran exchanged a dark look.

  “What?” Audrey asked. Her childlessness rarely bothered her, but sometimes, when she was around mothers, they would do this—communicate with a knowing raised-eyebrow look, as though they were speaking in a silent code you only got the key to after a period of gestation.

  “Children would always rather their parents stay married than be happy,” Jaime said. “I mean, I suppose if there was some sort of domestic abuse going on, that might be a different story. Otherwise, there isn’t a nine-year-old out there who would want her parents to get divorced just so her mom could be happy.”

  “I think that might be an overstatement,” Audrey said, taking a sip of her white wine. It tasted thin and overly sweet. She set her wineglass down on the counter, and wondered if she could covertly switch to red without first finishing the white.

  “No, it’s true,” Fran said. “I know the girls could care less if I’m happy or not. It would never occur to them to care. Children are terribly self-centered.”

  “What if the parents are fighting all the time? I would think that, at least in some cases, the children would be relieved to have that end,” Audrey said. Will picked up the bottle of white wine and gestured to her glass. Audrey shook her head, and held her hand over the top of the glass. “No more for me, thanks.”

  “Do you like the wine? My guy at the wine store recommended it,” Will said.

  “You have a wine store guy?” Audrey asked.

  “Yes. He’s great. He looks like a biker—shaggy beard, covered in tattoos—but he never steers me wrong,” Will said.

  “I was devastated when my parents divorced,” Jaime said suddenly. “They didn’t fight—at least not in front of my brothers and me—but looking back, I don’t think they’d been in love for years by then. At the time, all I knew was that my life was being turned upside down. Having to spend weekends at my father’s depressing apartment, my mother dating again, every holiday becoming a power struggle between them. I never felt … safe.” Everyone fell silent at this admission, and Jaime flushed. She waved her hand. “Never mind me. I didn’t mean to kill the party.”

  “You? Never,” Will said, pouring her another glass of wine. “If it weren’t for you and Fran, I wouldn’t have known that I need to get rid of my black button-down shirts and gold necklaces.”

  “Please. Like I would ever allow you to leave the house like that,” Fran said. She looked at the clock. “It’s almost time for the first course.”

  “Do you need any help?” Audrey asked.

  “No, not at all. Just take a seat,” Fran said, gesturing toward the small dining room just off the kitchen.

  “And prepare to be amazed,” Will added. “My tequila shrimp has won awards.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Fran said.

  “It should,” Will said with a shrug. “Let’s eat.”

  WILL’S SHRIMP DISH WAS delicious, as was the salad course, but by the time the scallops were served, it was already ten o’clock, and everyone had consumed too much wine and not enough food. Audrey was starting to feel light-headed, and happily accepted the plate of seared scallops Fran passed to her. The scallops were swimming in a butter sauce, and nestled next to a mound of tarragon-scented rice.

  “Yum,” Audrey said.

  “That smells so good it must be fattening,” Jaime commented, taking a sip of water.

  “Like that’s something you have to worry about,” Fran said, setting down the last of the plates, while Will refreshed everyone’s water and wine. “Does everybody have everything they need?”

  The scallops were amazing—tender and perfectly complemented by the delicate sauce. There was a lull in the conversation as everyone ate.

  “Fran, you have outdone yourself,” Leland said. “What a lovely meal.”

  “Absolutely wonderful,” Mark said.

  Fran looked flushed but pleased. “Would anyone like more scallops?”

  Jaime leaned back in her chair, sighing with contentment, one hand resting on her flat stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “We still have two courses to go,” Will reminded her.

  Jaime groaned. “I should have paced myself. I’m going to start off the New Year twenty pounds heavier.”

  “This is a treat for me. It’s the first time I’ve been out on New Year’s Eve since my wife died,” Leland said.

  Audrey turned to the older man. “I was just thinking the same thing on my way over here. I’m a widow,” she added, although the word still felt awkward on her tongue even after seven years.

  Leland’s face creased with distress, and Audrey instantly regretted her words. Why was she bringing up Ryan now? And at a party?

  “I’m so sorry. You’re too young to already be widowed,” Leland said.

  “A car accident,” Audrey said. Then, anxious to change the subject, she asked, “What did you and your wife used to do on New Year’s Eve?”

  “We always got dressed up and went out dancing,” Leland said.

  “That sounds like fun,” Jaime chimed in.

  “Oh, it was. Penny loved to dance. Me, I have no rhythm, but she was a natural. But she would have loved this, too,” Leland said, indicating the remnants of their dinner with a sweep of his hand. “She always adored throwing dinner parties.”

  “I do, too,” Jaime said. “I was just thinking we should get together like this more often.”

  “We definitely should,” Will said, helping himself to more wine.

  “Why don’t we?” Fran asked. “I was just reading an article in a cooking magazine about how popular dinner party clubs have become.”

  “Dinner party clubs?” Mark echoed. “That sounds very official. Would we get to wear a fez like the Shriners?”

  “It’s like a book club, only instead of discussing a book each month, you have a group of friends over for dinner. Everyone takes a turn hosting,” Fran said.

  “Eating in is the new eating out?” Will suggested.

  “I love this idea,” Jaime said. “Count us in.”

  “How would it work? Would it just be the six of us?” Mark asked.

  “I’m not sure. Should we invite one more couple?” Fran said. Her eyes cut to Audrey. “Or it wouldn’t have to necessarily be another couple.”

  Audrey pointed a finger at her friend. “No matchmaking. You promised.” She turned to Leland. “Fran is forever trying to set me up, and she has the absolute worst taste in men.”

  “Hey now,” Will said.


  “Other than you, of course,” Audrey said.

  Fran held her hands up. “I promise. No more set ups. So should we keep it to just us? What do you all think?”

  “How about the Ferrers?” Jaime suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” Fran and Will said together.

  Jaime looked bemused. “What’s wrong with the Ferrers? Christine’s a sweetheart.”

  “Yes, Christine is lovely. But Adam’s an ass,” Fran said.

  “Is he? I’ve never really talked to him. I usually see Christine on her own. We take yoga together. What’s wrong with him?” Jaime asked.

  “Me, me, me,” Will said.

  “You?” Jaime repeated. Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. “You’re what’s wrong with him?”

  “Adam’s a narcissist. Everything is always about him. What he likes to do, the music he likes to listen to, whatever hobby he’s currently into. He’s incapable of having a conversation that doesn’t focus on him. And God forbid that you should ever disagree with him,” Fran said.

  “And did you know that he went to Yale?” Will said.

  “No, I didn’t. Why? Is Yale a bad thing?” Jaime asked.

  “No, but it proves that you’ve never really talked to him. Because if you had, you would have known that Adam went to Yale,” Will said.

  “Seriously. I’ve known Adam Ferrer for ten years, and even after all this time, he still makes a point to tell me he went to Yale every single time I see him,” Fran said.

  “Oh, the Yale guy!” Mark snapped his fingers. “Now I know who you’re talking about. He’s sort of short, with a thick neck and mostly bald?”

  “Hey, watch it. There’s nothing wrong with being bald,” Will said. “In fact, I have it on good authority that my style is going to be all the rage six months from now. I like to call it the ‘Friar Tuck.’ Just wait, you’ll see George Clooney shaving his head to imitate the male-pattern baldness that I come by naturally.”

  “Just keep telling yourself that, honey,” Fran said, reaching over to pat his hand. “I think we should come up with a name for our dinner party club. Any ideas?”

  “How about the Hungry, Hungry Hippos?” Mark suggested.

  “How much have you had to drink?” Jaime asked him.