Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  “What? Did you know she was planning on buying them?” Fran exclaimed.

  Will was pretty sure that it wasn’t good dinner party etiquette to interrogate your guests about extravagant purchases your daughter bought with the babysitting money they had paid her.

  “Hon, why don’t we deal with this later. It’s really something we should be discussing with Iris,” Will said gently.

  Fran looked at him, and, after taking a deep breath and visibly unclenching, she nodded.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, Jaime. I didn’t mean to jump all over you like that,” Fran said.

  “It’s okay,” Jaime said. “I’m already dreading Ava’s teen years, and she’s not quite two.”

  “Be afraid. Be very afraid,” Fran said darkly. “Practically overnight, Iris has transformed from the sweetest, most helpful, most courteous girl you would ever meet into a demon from hell, complete with retractable horns and a forked tongue.”

  “She’s always very polite with me, and she’s great with the kids,” Jaime said.

  “So, she’s saving the bad attitude for when she’s home? I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse,” Fran said.

  “It’s better. At least when she’s home, she spends most of her time locked in her room, and only emerges at mealtimes to snarl at us,” Will said.

  Fran shook her head. “Four hundred dollars on sunglasses. I’m going to kill her. Then I’m going to make her take them back.”

  “Do you have children?” Jaime asked Leland.

  He nodded. “Two sons. One is an attorney with the Justice Department. He lives just outside of D.C. with his wife and seventeen-year-old fraternal twins. A boy and a girl,” Leland said proudly. “And my younger son is an architect in Ohio. He’s married, too, but no kids, although I think that’s just a matter of time.”

  “I don’t think I could have handled twins,” Fran said. She shot Coop a look. “And don’t make the easy joke, Coop.”

  “Why are you picking on me? Mark’s the one smirking,” Coop said. He looked at Audrey, raising one eyebrow. “And just for the record, I’ve never dated twins.”

  “And on that note,” Fran said, standing, “I’ll get the main course.”

  DESPITE FEELING PLEASANTLY CONTENT from the excellent dinner and accompanying wine, Coop was on edge.

  He couldn’t figure Audrey out. Was she interested in him or not? His opinion on the matter kept vacillating from course to course. Over the salad, she had been chatty and made lots of eye contact. But then she ignored him during the main course, choosing instead to chat with Will about the battle bot he was building. Coop was stuck listening to Mark drone on and on about some upcoming tennis tournament his daughter was playing in, which pretty much cemented Coop’s opinion that Mark was a bore. Just when the evening was starting to feel flat and tedious, and Coop was trying to conjure up a good excuse to leave early, Fran brought out coffee and a mixed berry tart topped with whipped cream.

  “I know, no coffee for you, Coop,” Fran said, as she set out mugs for everyone else.

  “You don’t drink coffee?” Audrey asked, turning back to Coop for the first time in an hour.

  “Nope,” Coop said. “Not a coffee fan.”

  “You strike me as more of a tea man. I can see you sipping a cup of Earl Grey,” Audrey said, flashing him a smile.

  “Really?” Coop asked, taking a bite of his tart. It was good—the crust was buttery and the berries were just the right mixture of sweet and sour.

  “No, not really. You’re too rugged for tea. I’d have guessed that you were not only a coffee drinker, but that you preferred it strong and dark. Preferably drunk out of a tin cup, like a cowboy,” Audrey said.

  Oh ho, Coop thought. And we’re back to the flirting.

  “Is this the point where I’m supposed to break out my John Wayne impression?” Coop asked.

  “Sure, I’d love to hear it,” Audrey said.

  “We all would,” Will said.

  “Thanks, man. Way to put me on the spot,” Coop said, nodding to Will.

  “Hey, you’re the one who offered,” Audrey said, her eyes shining.

  Definitely flirtatious, Coop thought. Not that I should be surprised. It was only a matter of time before I won her over.

  He waited until everyone was leaving—Jaime had told Iris that she and Mark would be home by ten-thirty, Leland was looking sleepy—to make his move. He rested a hand on Audrey’s arm and, smiling his most charming smile, said, “Can I walk you out to your car?”

  Audrey seemed surprised, but said, “Sure.”

  The farewells at the door took a while, with all of the women promising to call one another the next day, and Fran urging Mark to walk Leland home, which Leland was vigorously protesting the need for. Coop had to wait for the group to clear off before he finally had the chance to get Audrey alone.

  “The short ribs were great,” he said.

  “They were amazing. Fran’s always been an amazing cook,” Audrey agreed. She stopped in front of a silver Honda Accord parked at the curb. “This is me.”

  She hesitated and looked up at Coop. This is it, he thought. She’s hoping I’m going to kiss her. He leaned one hip against her car and shot her his sexiest grin.

  “How would you like to have dinner with me sometime?” Coop asked, keeping his voice low and warmly intimate. “Just the two of us, I mean.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so,” she said. She pressed her key ring remote, and the Accord unlocked with a loud click.

  Coop blinked. “What? Why not?”

  Audrey walked around and opened the driver’s door.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said.

  “Why not?” Coop asked again.

  “You’re just sort of …,” Audrey began and then stopped. “Look, there’s no point in getting into it. I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “Now you have to tell me,” Coop said. “You can’t just leave it at that. ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings.’ I mean, what the hell is that?”

  “See, you’re already getting defensive,” Audrey said.

  “Yeah, imagine that,” Coop said. “Just tell me. What’s the problem?”

  “Okay, fine.” Audrey sighed. “You’re just … well … you just seem really full of yourself.”

  “Really full of myself,” Coop repeated.

  “Self-centered,” Audrey said.

  “Self-centered?”

  “I don’t want to sound mean, but I get the feeling you think you’re God’s gift to women.”

  “God’s gift to women?” Coop said, wondering why it was that whenever people said they didn’t want to be mean, it was a lead-in to saying something really, really mean.

  “Are you going to just keep repeating everything I say?” Audrey asked. She crossed her arms, her keys still dangling from one hand.

  “I just don’t know where you’re getting this from. I’m a good guy,” Coop said, thinking, Aren’t I?

  “I’m sure you are. I just don’t think we’re a good fit,” Audrey said soothingly. “And I really should get going. Have a good rest of your night.”

  Coop stared after her as she disappeared into the car, her words ringing in his ears. Full of himself? Self-centered? Okay, maybe he was self-confident. Which could possibly read as cocky. But he certainly didn’t think he was God’s gift to women. That was laughable.

  The engine started, and then, a moment later, the passenger side window rolled down.

  “Hey, Coop?” Audrey called out.

  “Yeah?” Coop was wary, wondering what was coming next. Would she tell him he had an annoying laugh? Or insult the size of his penis?

  “I can’t drive while you’re leaning on my car,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” Coop straightened and stepped back to the sidewalk. “I didn’t realize I was.”

  “Good night again,” Audrey said.

  “Good night,” Coop replied. But she was already pulling away,
and there was a good chance she hadn’t heard him.

  april

  WATERCRESS VICHYSSOISE

  S & M CHICKEN

  CHEESE AND BACON POTATOES

  CREAMED SPINACH

  COCONUT LAYER CAKE

  WILL SOMETIMES WONDERED IF sons would have been easier than daughters.

  “I hate you,” Iris had screamed on the day after the dinner party, when Fran informed her that she’d have to return the four-hundred-dollar sunglasses.

  “That sort of language is unacceptable, young lady,” Fran had said.

  But Iris had simply turned and run upstairs to her room, slamming her door.

  Will turned to Fran. “Young lady?”

  “I know.” Fran sighed. “I sound like my mother. In fact, it’s entirely possible that I’ve morphed into my mother, as horrific a thought as that is.”

  Will had to agree. Fran’s mother, Inga, was a dour, disapproving woman. Her great ambition in life had been to be an opera singer, but an unexpected pregnancy—followed by a hasty marriage—stymied her career plans. Inga never recovered from this disappointment and set about running her household with a humorless, absolute authority.

  “Are you going after Iris?” Will asked. In their family, the role of disciplinarian had always fallen to Fran. It was the way they’d always done things. He took out the garbage every Monday and Thursday morning, and Fran grounded the girls. But, to Will’s surprise, Fran threw up her hands and shook her head.

  “I can’t deal with her anymore,” Fran said.

  “Don’t you think we should talk to her about her behavior?” Will asked. When he said we, he really meant you. But he was pretty sure Fran got that.

  “What’s the point? She’s been hideous for months. I don’t think a stern talking-to is going to turn her around now,” Fran said. She turned on the kitchen faucet, filled the sink with warm, soapy water, and began to wash the wineglasses from the night before.

  Will looked at his wife. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just don’t see why I’m always the one who has to deal with Iris. You heard her. She hates me. I think it’s time for you to be the bad guy for once.”

  Will did not like the sound of this. He didn’t want to be the bad guy, and he certainly didn’t want Iris to start hating him, too. It was vastly preferable to be the fun, easygoing parent. But he had a feeling this was not an argument Fran would find persuasive. At least, not in her current mood.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to her, but I still need your input. How about …” Will hesitated, trying to think. “No cellphone for a week?”

  “I vote for sending her off to a convent. Is that still a viable option these days? Can you send an unwilling daughter off to the nuns?”

  “No, I don’t think the nuns want to deal with back-talking teenagers. Plus we’re not Catholic, so there’s that,” Will said. He hesitated, hoping for a last minute reprieve. “You really want me to go talk to her?”

  “Yes,” Fran said, rinsing dish soap off a glass.

  Will headed upstairs, moving slowly in case Fran suddenly remembered she was far more competent at handling these sorts of parenting issues and stopped him. But she didn’t.

  The door to Iris’s room, the first on the right, was closed. Will knocked.

  “Go away!” Iris shouted, her voice muffled through the door.

  Will knocked again. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Dad?” There was a pause and then the door opened. Iris’s face was puffy and splotched with red. “I thought you were Mom.”

  “May I come in?” Will asked politely. He always hesitated entering either of his daughters’ rooms without express permission.

  “Sure,” Iris said.

  He opened the door. Iris sat cross-legged on her bed, a fuzzy, purple, heart-shaped pillow clutched in her arms.

  “I’m not taking the sunglasses back. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and I don’t.” Iris’s chin rose up stubbornly.

  “Why can’t you take them back?”

  “Store policy. They don’t accept returns.”

  Will wondered if this was really true. Iris was not above lying to get her own way. This was why Fran should have been the one to come up and deal with talking to Iris. She probably knew the return policy of every store in the mall.

  “Your mother really doesn’t think you should keep the glasses,” Will said, in an attempt to invoke Fran’s greater authority.

  “God, I hate her! Why does she have to control everything in my life?”

  “First of all, I agree with your mother,” Will said, thinking that he probably should have led with that. “Those glasses are too expensive.”

  “But it was my money! I earned it!”

  “And that’s something you should be proud of. I think it’s great that you’ve been working hard and saving your earnings. And you certainly should have some freedom to spend your money as you want. But you have to exercise good judgment,” Will said.

  “Everyone at school wears those glasses,” Iris retorted.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Will said.

  “It’s true! Hayley has a pair just like the ones I bought!”

  Actually, this Will did believe. Hayley Adams was spoiled rotten. The major drawback of sending the girls to private school—along with the staggering tuition—was that nearly all of their classmates came from privileged backgrounds and had lifestyles he and Fran could never provide for their daughters. The girls’ friends were always going off on expensive vacations or spending time in second homes in places like Nantucket or Mackinac Island. Iris and Hayley had taken riding lessons together, right up until Hayley had gotten her first horse. Iris had been impossible to live with for weeks afterward—she cried constantly about how unfair it was that she couldn’t have a horse—and finally gave up riding altogether.

  “We’ve talked about this before. You’re going to constantly meet people who are richer than you, or who have nicer cars or clothes than you. You’ll also meet plenty of people who are prettier, and smarter, and more talented,” Will said.

  Iris gaped at him. “Is this your idea of a pep talk?”

  “The point is you can’t expend your energy being jealous. There’s no point,” Will said.

  “So basically, you think I’m dumb and ugly on top of being poor? Thanks a lot!” Iris burst into tears again and flopped down on her stomach, burying her face in her pillow.

  Will blinked. He’d been trying to teach Iris a life lesson that he’d always found invaluable.

  “Of course I don’t think you’re dumb or ugly,” Will said. “I was just trying to explain that jealousy is a useless emotion.”

  “Just go away,” Iris said, her voice muffled.

  Will patted Iris on her shoulder. Her sobs grew louder, more dramatic, and less believable. Finally, Will gave up and left her to her tantrum. As he left her room, he closed the door gently behind him.

  That went well, he thought. Only a matter of time before I get a Father of the Year award.

  Downstairs, Fran had finished washing the glasses and was getting out leftover short ribs to reheat for dinner. This perked Will up—short ribs were always better on the second day. He wondered if there was any polenta left. Sometimes Fran shaped leftover polenta into a log, chilled it, and then sliced it into pale yellow disks which she fried in olive oil. His stomach gave a rumble of anticipation.

  “Did she agree to take the sunglasses back?” Fran asked.

  “What?” Will had been distracted by thoughts of fried polenta. “Oh. She said she can’t.”

  “Can’t?”

  “The store she bought them from has a no-return policy.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t fall for that,” Fran said, fixing him with a bold stare. “She bought them at Nordstrom. Of course they accept returns.”

  “They do?”

  “Of course they do!”

  “How was I supposed to know?” Will asked, stung. “You know how manipulative Iris can b
e.”

  Fran snorted. “The understatement of the year. You didn’t tell her she can keep them, did you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that,” Will said, trying to remember if he had. No. He definitely hadn’t said that. Instead, he’d told her that she was stupid and ugly. He wondered if he should mention this to Fran, but then decided against it. His wife was in an odd mood. “But she’s going to be impossible to live with if we make her take them back.”

  “So? She’s not exactly a delight to live with now,” Fran said.

  “I did tell her that she should have some latitude to buy things with the money she earns,” Will said.

  Fran looked up from the leftovers she’d been arranging on the counter. “Why on earth would you tell her that?”

  “We want her to have some free will,” Will said mildly. “But I also told her she’d have to make better choices.”

  Fran lifted her arms and then let them fall, slapping her thighs in irritation. “You just completely undermined me.”

  Will blinked. “How did that undermine you?”

  “Because I told her she had to put the money in a savings account, and that from now on she’d have to talk to one of us before she spent it. It’s not just the sunglasses. I don’t want her frittering her money away on makeup or clothes, either,” Fran said, tearing plastic wrap off a Pyrex dish with more force than necessary.

  “You did? When did you tell her that?”

  “You were standing right there!”

  “I was?” Will tried to remember back to the conversation that ended with Iris storming out of the room, yelling that she hated Fran. It had gotten a bit repetitive at one point—Fran telling Iris she would be returning the sunglasses, Iris’s insistence that she never had anything nice—and so his mind had wandered to Iggy the Rammer bot and the problems he was still having with its mobility.

  “Jesus, Will!” Fran turned away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that bit. But, look—Iris thinks that we’re trying to control her. That’s not a good dynamic to get into with a teenage girl,” Will said gently.

  “We should just stand back and let her make stupid decisions?”