Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  “I bet you were surprised to find me on your doorstep,” she said.

  Coop tipped his head to one side and shrugged. “Actually, not completely surprised.”

  The breath caught in Fran’s chest. “Really?” she asked.

  Maybe this would be easier than she had thought. Maybe rather than having to be the one to broach the exciting but incredibly uncomfortable topic of the feelings she’d developed for him, Coop would save her the trouble by announcing how he felt about her.

  Coop nodded, and for a moment, Fran thought he somehow knew what she was thinking, and was nodding along to say, yes, he had feelings for her, and yes, it would be incredibly awkward considering his relationship with Will, but like her, he knew they couldn’t be ignored.

  But then he continued.

  “I’ve been worried about Will,” Coop said, taking a swig of beer and looking at her closely.

  “You have?” Fran asked cautiously. If he was about to declare his feelings for her, this was an odd way to lead in.

  Coop nodded. “He didn’t seem like himself the night … well, the night that Leland …”

  He seemed unable to continue. Fran understood, shivering a little, even though it wasn’t chilly out. The sun was setting, wreathing the western sky in ribbons of orange and red. And for a moment, the night of Leland’s death loomed up, swamping them both with emotion. Fran felt like something had lodged in her throat, and she swallowed hard, trying to keep her tears at bay. Coop brushed something out of his eyes.

  A tear? she wondered.

  “It’s been tough,” Fran said.

  Coop nodded. “And then again, seeing him after the funeral. Will didn’t seem like he was in a good place.”

  “No,” Fran said. “He hasn’t been in a good place.”

  “He said you guys were having some issues, and something was going on with Iris, but he didn’t go into details. I figured that was why you stopped by,” Coop said.

  Fran froze. She kept her face in a neutrally pleasant expression, and moved her wineglass to her mouth, but the whole time, an alarm was going off in her head.

  He thinks I’m here to talk about Will. He thinks I’m here to get his advice as Will’s friend, Fran thought, and for a moment, she had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from breaking out into hysterical laughter.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” she said abruptly.

  “What?” Coop asked, wrinkling his brow.

  “I’m not here to talk about Will. Well, not to talk about him directly. It concerns him, I guess. But not in the way you think,” Fran said. She realized that she was babbling and took another sip of wine, hoping it would help her to compose herself.

  “What are you here to talk about, then?”

  Fran hesitated. Coop looked sexily rumpled sitting there in the hazy evening light. He had a very physical presence, taking up his space unapologetically. She tried not to stare at the flat of his tanned neck, which she had spent so many hours fantasizing about kissing.

  “Franny?” Coop asked. He frowned again and leaned forward. “Are you okay?”

  Fran nodded and took in a deep breath. It is now or never, she thought. It had taken all of her nerve to drive over to Coop’s apartment. She might as well get it out.

  “The thing is,” Fran said. Her mouth suddenly felt bone dry, as though all of the moisture had been sucked out. She craved a glass of ice water, but thought it best not to delay this any further. Instead, she took a sip of her wine, her hand shaking. “I have … well, I have feelings for you.”

  There. The words were out. She waited, her nerves vibrating with tension, as she anticipated Coop’s reaction. He looked at her, apparently clueless.

  “What do you mean?” Coop finally asked.

  Fran’s stomach seemed to fold over on itself. Part of her wanted to say, No, never mind, and scuttle back to her car. But she forced herself to stay calm and finish what she had come here to do.

  “The thing is,” she said again, wondering when the thing is had become her big lead-in. “I think … well. I think I’m in love with you.” She stopped abruptly, not believing she’d actually just said it out loud.

  Coop stared at her, apparently absorbing the weight of these words. She looked back at him, half relieved that she’d had the nerve to go through with it after all and yet half terrified at what his response would be.

  Coop had gone very still and behind him, the sky had darkened. Fran leaned forward and placed a hand on his forearm. She’d read somewhere that touching someone’s forearm made them more likely to do what you wanted. She waited and watched as realization dawned on Coop’s face. His pale eyes widened.

  “Oh, Christ,” he said. He shook his head slowly. “Oh, Franny.”

  “I’ve felt this way for a long time. Pretty much since you moved to Ocean Falls. Although actually, that’s not entirely true. I think I’ve been in love with you for years. We’ve always had … well, I don’t know how to explain it. A connection. Haven’t you sensed that, too?” Fran knew she was babbling, but seemed unable to stop herself. Coop’s arm felt hot under her hand, but now that she was touching him, she didn’t dare move it. Coop leaned forward, and Fran wondered if he was going to kiss her. She felt almost sick with excitement, and her heart was beating so hard in her chest, she was amazed Coop couldn’t hear it.

  Coop’s hand closed on hers.

  This is it, Fran thought, thrilling at his touch. This is it.

  But then she realized that he was gently moving her hand away. Away from him.

  “No, Franny,” he said softly. “No.”

  A starburst of embarrassment exploded inside Fran. She closed her eyes, trying to block out Coop, to block out everything that had happened in the last twenty seconds.

  “It’s not that I’m not flattered,” Coop said.

  “Don’t,” Fran said.

  Fran opened her eyes and allowed herself one long, level glance at Coop. He looked embarrassed. She closed her eyes again and shuddered. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, worse.

  “I should go,” Fran said. She set her wineglass down with unnecessary force—it was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter—and stood. Coop caught her arm, stopping her.

  “It’s not that I don’t think you’re lovely. I do. I always have,” Coop said.

  Fran hesitated, suddenly unable to turn away until she heard the rest of what he had to say. “But?”

  “But you’re married,” Coop said. “To Will.”

  “What if I wasn’t?” Fran asked.

  Coop rested a hand on her shoulder. And for a moment, Fran wondered if he was going to kiss her, after all. She’d imagined the scene so many times. Coop’s pale unfathomable eyes searching out hers, the palm of his hand against her skin.

  “It wouldn’t make a difference,” Coop said gently.

  Fran stepped back, and Coop’s hand fell away from her. She swallowed hard and tried to focus all of her will on not crying in front of him. The danger signs were already there—her throat felt thick and pinched, her lips were quivering, tears burned at her eyes.

  “I have to go,” Fran said, turning away.

  “Wait,” Coop said.

  Fran shook her head and began walking on leaden legs, heading for the front door. She knew Coop was following after her, although thankfully he didn’t try to touch her again. She couldn’t take any more of his kindly, commiserating pats.

  “You don’t have to go,” Coop said, just as Fran finally—mercifully—reached the door.

  Fran took a deep breath, willing away her tears. She had one last chance to get out of there still clutching the tattered remains of her dignity. Miraculously, when she turned to face Coop, her eyes were dry and her voice was surprisingly steady.

  “I think it would be a good idea if we didn’t see each other for a while,” Fran said.

  Coop leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is. And
I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Will,” Fran said.

  “Of course not,” Coop said.

  “Thank you,” Fran said.

  She pulled open the door and walked out. The good news was that she didn’t look back, not once, to see if Coop was watching her. The even better news was that she waited until she was safely in her car before she started to cry.

  WILL WASN’T SURE HOW he felt about anything anymore. It was like he’d been in a fog for weeks. One thought kept coming back to him, over and over again, until it had become a sort of mantra: I thought we were happy.

  And we were happy, Will thought, as he sat at his workbench, shoulders hunched with misery, fiddling with the motor on his combat bot, Brutus, getting him ready for the upcoming competition in Miami. He didn’t care at this point whether he won or lost, but Rory was enthusiastic about their chances, and he didn’t want to let her down.

  He and Fran hadn’t told the girls yet about the looming separation, but their daughters were not stupid. It had not escaped their attention that Will was sleeping on the couch, and that their parents were avoiding spending time together when possible.

  Rory didn’t say much about it, but she had started sleepwalking again, which she hadn’t done in years. Will had to believe that it was a manifestation of the stress.

  Iris was more forthright.

  “What’s going on with you two?” she asked sharply one night after dinner. Will had politely offered to do the dishes, and Fran had just as politely thanked him. Iris had turned on Will. “Why aren’t you and Mom speaking?”

  “We are,” Will lied.

  “No, you aren’t. You never talk anymore. Are you getting a divorce?”

  Will’s eyes had slid to Fran, waiting to see what her response was. Fran shook her head.

  “No, of course not,” Fran said briskly. “You’d better go get started on your homework.”

  But Iris hadn’t been convinced. Will didn’t blame her. The problems in their marriage were taking up too much house space to ignore.

  The door to the garage opened. Will glanced up, expecting to see Rory, who had promised to come help him with Brutus when she had finished her math homework. But instead, it was Iris. She was wearing a black and gray striped cardigan and dark too-tight jeans.

  “Hi,” she said. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “I got back a few minutes ago,” Will said. “Where’s Rory?”

  “She’s in her room,” Iris said. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Out,” Will said. The word felt as heavy as a rock in his mouth.

  Iris pulled the cuffs of her sweater down over her hands and she stood with one foot twisted over the other. Will felt a wrench in his heart. Iris always wanted to look older, act older, dress older, but sometimes she still stood and moved like the little girl she had once been. It always made him want to pull her into a bear hug, to whisper in her hair that there was no reason to rush, that growing up took time, but he knew that she would just pull away and roll her eyes, often adding a “Da-ad,” the word drawn out into two contemptuous syllables.

  “Do you, like, need some help?” Iris asked. She nodded at Brutus. “You know. With your robot thingy.”

  “Seriously?” Will asked.

  Iris nodded.

  Will frowned. “Come over here and let me see your head,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Come on, I need to make sure you haven’t suffered any recent head injuries.”

  Giggling, Iris stepped closer. Will peered at her head, looking at each side.

  “I don’t see any obvious bumps or blood. But you do have a lot of hair. What’s your name? Who’s the president? How many fingers am I holding up?” Will asked, making a V sign with his fingers.

  “Dad,” Iris said, still laughing. “I’m fine. Stop being such a goofball.”

  “I’m a dad. Being a goofball is part of the job description. Anyway, what’s prompting this sudden interest in Brutus?” Will asked.

  Iris looked blank. “Brutus?”

  “My combat bot,” Will said, pointing to the robot with a game-show-hostess flourish. “Iris, meet Brutus.”

  “He looks different from the other robots you’ve made,” Iris said.

  Will nodded. “I thought it was time I went into the ring with some power behind me. Ka-pow!” Will karate-chopped the air. “Are you really serious about wanting to help?”

  “Yep,” Iris said.

  “Excellent. Take a seat.” Will patted the stool next to him. “You can hold the motor casing, while I tighten these screws.”

  They sat side by side, working quietly.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Iris said.

  “No, I can’t get you an early parole on your grounding sentence,” Will said. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  After her driving stunt, Iris had been grounded for two months, including a ban on all phone and socializing privileges. Because she was a first time offender, the district attorney had arranged a deal where Iris had to perform two hundred hours of community service and in return, her record would be expunged. Three days a week after school and all day every Saturday, Iris worked at the local animal shelter. She walked dogs, cleaned out cages, basically did whatever the shelter employees needed her to do. At first she hadn’t been enthusiastic, but after the first few weeks, it seemed as though she’d started to look forward to her time at the shelter. Just last week, Iris had brought home a flyer for a course that taught volunteers how to train Seeing Eye dogs.

  “It’s not that,” Iris said.

  “No? That’s good. Your mom and I have been really proud of how you’ve been working so hard on your community service hours,” Will said.

  Iris’s head bent forward, her hair falling in two curtains on either side of her face.

  “Really,” Will said, patting her back.

  “I can’t believe I got caught,” Iris said suddenly. “Hannah and Ashley drive all the time, and they never get caught. I do it once and end up getting arrested.”

  Will hated these types of conversation. He knew that, as a concerned parent, he should immediately contact Hannah’s and Ashley’s parents, and repeat what Iris had just said about their joyriding. He also knew he’d never do it. In the past, this was the sort of thing he’d tell Fran, and let her handle. She was hooked into the mom network, and after years of serving on the PTA and manning bake sale tables, Fran knew the low-down on every family their daughters’ friends came from.

  Will suddenly had the uneasy sensation that this, his willingness to dump anything uncomfortable relating to the girls into Fran’s lap, had contributed to her discontentment with their marriage. He suddenly remembered the advice Leland had given him over the summer—about how he shouldn’t take Fran for granted, about how important it was not to let the connection between them fray.

  When was the last time I took Fran out to dinner? Will wondered. When was the last time we went away for a weekend, just the two of us? Is that why she’s leaving me, because I’ve lost the ability to connect with her?

  He’d always rationalized that money was tight. He didn’t earn a high salary, and they had two daughters in private school. They somehow managed to get by, but never actually got ahead.

  Then Will remembered their younger days, back when they were first married. They’d had even less money then. But they had found ways to get away, ways to be together. They’d taken picnics to the beach, spent weekends camping, Will had given Fran spontaneous back rubs.

  “What’s, like, going on with you and Mom?” Iris asked, startling Will out of this uneasy realization. “And don’t tell me everything’s fine. I know it’s not.”

  Will put down the pair of pliers he’d been holding. “No, it’s not,” he admitted.

  “I knew it,” Iris said, although any triumph she felt at being right quickly gave way to worry. “Is everything going to be okay?”

  “This—well, this problem—it’s between your mother and me. It’s no
t something I can talk about with you,” Will said.

  “Why not? Rory and I are part of this family, too. If you guys get divorced, it will affect us,” Iris said.

  Will wanted to tell her that no one was getting divorced, that everything would work out, that everything would, in fact, be fine, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, he knew the words wouldn’t come out. The truth was that he had no idea what was going to happen. And he didn’t want to lie to Iris.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Will said instead. “But no matter what, your mother and I love you and Rory more than anything in the world. Nothing will change that.”

  Iris’s eyes filled with tears. “So you are getting a divorce.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Will said.

  “Yeah, but that’s what parents always say when they’re getting a divorce. About loving the kids still. Well, it’s just a crock. If you really loved us, you’d stay together. You’d make things work,” Iris said.

  “Iris,” Will said, reaching out an arm to put around her thin shoulders.

  But Iris shook him off. She jumped to her feet. “Don’t,” she said. And then she turned and ran out of the garage, leaving Will alone in the dim light.

  He rested his elbows on the workbench and put his face in his hands. He had not handled that well. Iris was at such a difficult age, and Rory wasn’t far behind. And now, on top of all of the usual struggles teenage girls faced, they’d have to deal with this, the dissolution of their family, as well.

  “I screwed up,” Will said out loud.

  “What?”

  Will started. In his fog, he hadn’t heard the back door open, hadn’t heard Fran come in behind him. And these days, it was rare for her to seek him out. They had only short, businesslike conversations about bills to be paid, the children’s schedules, household tasks.

  “Nothing. I mean … actually, it wasn’t nothing, I think I just handled something with Iris badly.” Fran moved closer to him, her arms wrapped around her body. Will peered at her in concern. “Have you been crying?”