Table for Seven: A Novel

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Otis is going to smell like a fish after this,” I said, lowering the camera.

  Jeremy was in the middle of attempting to get the charcoals on the hibachi to catch fire. He looked up in Otis’s direction and grinned. Jeremy had an appealing, open face with a high forehead, long chin, and oversized, Jimmy Durante nose.

  “Maybe he’s part fish. He’s always loved to swim,” he said, running a hand through his short red-brown hair until it stood up on end.

  “It’s good to see him active. His arthritis has been so bad lately,” I said.

  “Otis and I are both getting to be old men,” Jeremy agreed. He sat back on his heels, admiring the charcoal, which was now smoking nicely. It had been a warm day—typical weather for West Palm Beach in the late spring—but there was a breeze blowing off the water.

  “Not so old,” I said, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. I settled down on the plaid blanket we’d spread out over the sand, and began to rummage through the cooler.

  “What gourmet delicacies are we cooking up tonight? Breast of duck in a sour cherry reduction sauce? Beef tenderloin with roasted shallots?” Jeremy asked, settling down next to me on the blanket. He lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head, and closed his eyes.

  “Hot dogs,” I said, holding up the plastic-wrapped package. “Followed by marshmallows.”

  Jeremy opened one eye and squinted at me. “God, I love you,” he said reverently.

  “Because I brought hot dogs?” I asked, smiling down at him.

  “Partly because of the hot dogs. But mostly because of the marshmallows,” he said.

  “Not just marshmallows,” I said. I rummaged in an oversized tote bag and pulled out a box of graham crackers and a six-pack of chocolate bars. “We’re going to make s’mores. Your favorite.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “I’m already married to you.”

  “Good thing. A woman who serves me processed meat products and s’mores. What more could any man want?” Jeremy said. He sat up, propping himself on bent arms. “Should I call the wild bunch up here?”

  “Give them a few minutes. The hot dogs still have to cook,” I said, pulling a bunch of bamboo skewers out of the bag. I looked at them doubtfully. “Do you think these are long enough to roast the marshmallows on? I don’t want one of the kids to catch fire.”

  “Yeah, we’d have a hard time explaining that to Mimi and Leo,” Jeremy said.

  “They’d never let us babysit again,” I agreed.

  The children belonged to my best friend, Mimi, and her husband, Leo. They were on a romantic overnight getaway to South Beach, so Miles, Rose, and Luke were spending the night with Jeremy and me.

  “Are the coals hot enough?” I asked.

  “They should be,” Jeremy said, reaching for the shrink-wrapped package of hot dogs. He pulled the dogs out and, one by one, dropped them on the grill.

  While the hot dogs sizzled, I got out paper plates, napkins, mustard, and a bag of potato chips. The children, sensing food was imminent, abandoned the stick-tossing game and ran up the beach toward us. Otis, soggy but triumphant, followed them at a trot, proudly holding the stick in his mouth.

  “I’m starving,” Miles announced, tripping just as he reached us. He tried to cover his embarrassment over this clumsiness by flopping down on the blanket, but his cheeks flushed red. Miles, ten, had recently gone through a growth spurt and was still getting used to his new longer legs and arms.

  “You’re always hungry,” Rose said, daintily brushing the sand off her bare legs before sitting down cross-legged next to me. Rose, age eight, was our goddaughter. She was her mother in miniature—the same slanting dark eyes and full lips, an identical cloud of dark hair. The only traces of Leo were evident in her long nose and slightly squared chin.

  “Look who’s talking,” Miles retorted. “Mom says that you eat more than you weigh on a daily basis.”

  “Liar,” Rose said, but without much rancor.

  Six-year-old Luke, who’d been unsuccessfully attempting to convince Otis to part with his stick, sat down next to his sister. He had a sturdier build than his lanky big brother and still had baby-rounded cheeks. His small, square feet were caked with sand. I considered brushing them off, but then decided it was a lost cause.

  “What are you making for us?” Luke asked. He regarded me with large, suspicious brown eyes.

  “Hot dogs,” I said as I handed out plates with rolls and chips on them. “There’s mustard here. Does anyone want ketchup? Or relish? I have chopped onions, too.”

  “Dinner is served,” Jeremy said, setting a paper plate full of hot dogs down on the blanket. Miles and Rose fell on their dinners as though they hadn’t eaten in days, but Luke frowned and poked his hot dog suspiciously.

  “I don’t like hot dogs,” he said.

  Otis perked up at this. He sat down at the edge of the blanket and stared meaningfully at Luke’s hot dog.

  “Yes you do,” Rose, Miles, and I said in unison.

  Luke was going through a stage where he claimed not to like anything served to him, including foods he’d happily eaten since he was a baby.

  “I don’t,” he insisted.

  “Just try a bite,” Jeremy suggested.

  Luke looked doubtful. Otis licked his chops.

  “Hot dogs are really unhealthy,” I said.

  “They are?” Luke asked.

  I nodded solemnly. “In fact, your mom probably wouldn’t approve that I made them for you. I bet she’ll be really mad at me when she finds out.”

  “That’s okay, we won’t tell,” Miles assured me. I winked at him, and he grinned.

  Luke was intrigued. He picked up the hot dog and took a microscopic bite. Deciding that it was acceptable, he took another, larger bite. Otis drooped with disappointment.

  “Do you know what hot dogs are made of?” Rose said conversationally. “They make them out of—”

  I cut her off before she could complete her thought. “It’s probably better not to talk about it while we’re eating.”

  Rose giggled. “But it’s really gross,” she said temptingly.

  Luke looked up, his mouth full of hot dog. “What’s gross?”

  “I can touch my eyeball,” Jeremy said quickly.

  “Ewww!” Rose said, safely distracted.

  “Let me see!” Luke said.

  Jeremy—who’d worn contacts for twenty years—obliged, touching his right index finger to his eyeball.

  “Don’t you think you should wash your hands before you do that?” I asked.

  “I want to try!” Luke said, stuffing the last of his hot dog into his mouth.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said, with a sudden vision of calling Mimi with the news that we were in the emergency room having Luke’s scratched cornea tended to.

  “Don’t worry,” Jeremy said, lowering his voice so Luke wouldn’t hear. “When I first started wearing contacts, it took me forever before I could put the lens in without blinking.”

  Jeremy was right; there was nothing to worry about. As soon as Luke’s finger was an inch away from his eye, his eyelid snapped shut.

  “I bet you a billion dollars you can’t do it,” Rose said.

  “You don’t have a billion dollars, half-head,” Luke retorted, trying—and failing again—to touch his eyeball.

  Half-head? Jeremy mouthed at me. We both swallowed back laughter.

  “I won’t need it,” Rose said smugly. “But you will.”

  Miles, the pacifist in the family, was rarely drawn into arguments with his bickering siblings. Ignoring Rose’s taunts and Luke’s attempts to touch his eyeball, he stood, pulled a Hacky Sack out of his pocket, and began kicking it.

  “Are Hacky Sacks back in? I haven’t seen one since high school,” Jeremy said.

  “My soccer coach says it’s a good way to improve your ball control,” Miles said, shaking back his long hair. He’d talked his mother into letting him grow it out and was i
mmensely proud of its shagginess.

  “I used to be pretty good with a Hacky Sack,” Jeremy said. He stood, and Miles passed him the ball. Jeremy kicked it once off his heel and sent the small beanbag flying. Miles chased after it.

  Used to being the operative words,” Jeremy said sheepishly.

  “Let me try,” Rose said, springing to her feet, always eager to join in a game.

  Miles kicked the Hacky Sack to her, and Rose juggled it expertly before kicking it back to her brother.

  “Good job, Rose,” I said.

  “She’s better than me,” Jeremy said.

  “Rose is the star of her soccer team,” I reminded him. “She gets more practice than you.”

  “Girls rule and boys drool,” Rose crowed.

  Miles passed the ball to Jeremy again, but Jeremy wasn’t able to catch it and it fell to the sand.

  “Whoops,” Jeremy said.

  “You just need some practice,” Miles said supportively.

  “Why don’t you have kids, India?” Luke asked.

  The question caught me off guard. It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard it before. Jeremy and I were in our mid-thirties and had been married for seven years, so I’d gotten used to being asked about our baby plans. Acquaintances at cocktail parties, clients of my photography studio, even cashiers at the grocery store. I suppose asking someone if they have kids is pretty harmless. Unless, of course, you happen to be infertile.

  Normally, I give an abbreviated version of the truth: that we very much wanted a baby, and were hoping to get pregnant, but it hadn’t happened for us yet. I never mention the grittier details—the extensive medical exams, the hormone injections, the failed IVF cycles. Repetition had made this little routine nearly painless.

  But I hadn’t been expecting to hear the question from Luke, in these idyllic surroundings, while relaxing with the kids. Instead of my usual, measured response, I found myself stuttering, “W-why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that if you had a kid, Jeremy would have someone to practice Hacky Sack with,” Luke explained, as though it were the most logical thing in the world. Which, to a six-year-old, it probably was. “And I’d have someone to play with when we visit you,” he added.

  Jeremy looked sharply at me, his face etched with concern. I smiled at him, and shook my head slightly to let him know it was okay.

  “If we did have a baby, it would be a long time before he was old enough to play with you. And by then, you probably wouldn’t want to play with him, because you’d be so much older,” I explained to Luke.

  Luke considered the wisdom of this argument. “But I wouldn’t be the youngest anymore. And I’d have someone to boss around.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  “If you had a girl, it would almost be like I had a sister,” Rose said.

  “Yeah, and if it was a boy, it would be like I had a brother,” Luke continued.

  “You already have a brother,” Rose informed him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Yeah, thanks, Luke,” Miles said mildly, still juggling his Hacky Sack.

  “Besides,” Rose continued, “India and Jeremy are my godparents, not yours. So if they had a baby, it would be my sister or brother, but it wouldn’t be yours.”

  Rose liked to lord her superior claim to Jeremy and me over her two brothers whenever possible. It had the desired effect now. Luke swelled with outrage.

  “That’s not true! Take it back!” he demanded.

  “It is too true. Right, India?” Rose said.

  Both kids looked at me, as though I were the referee. I tried to remember what Mimi did at moments like this, and had a vague recollection of her saying that if there wasn’t actual bloodshed, she stayed out of sibling warfare.

  “Okay, everyone simmer down. I promise that if Jeremy and I ever do have a baby, you can all be official big brothers and sisters. Yes, Rose, that includes Luke,” I said. “Now, who wants to toast a marshmallow?”

  ALSO BY Whitney Gaskell

  Pushing 30

  True Love (and Other Lies)

  She, Myself & I

  Testing Kate

  Mommy Tracked

  Good Luck

  When You Least Expect It

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WHITNEY GASKELL briefly—and reluctantly—practiced law before publishing her first novel. This is her eighth novel, all published by Bantam, and she lives in Florida with her husband and son. You can visit Whitney’s website and read her blog at www.whitneygaskell.com.