Of course, that didn’t stop Wilma from sulking the entire night, hunkered down in her chair-and-a-half, arms crossed, muttering heatedly with Travis, who stood close by. They were in the middle of an argument—probably about being at the party, possibly not. Avery and Adam sat side by side on the sofa, casting apprehensive glances at the squabbling couple a few feet away. Rick, still trying to wrap his mind around the notion that Avery and Adam were a couple and his matchmaking hadn’t worked out in the slightest, perched on the ottoman in front of them, awkwardly trying to make small talk.
The other guests, which included Annette and Martie and their husbands, were still to arrive. Emmie had been surprised to find that getting the foursome to her party was more of a challenge than she had expected.
Annette had called and asked abruptly, “Will John be there, honey?”
“Well, yes. Why?”
Annette hesitated—something she didn’t normally do, ever—then blurted out, “Because I don’t like him.”
Emmie’s first inclination had been to burst out laughing and tell her to join the (large) club, but instead she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Well, he . . . he’s making a mess of things! I’m sorry, but he is!” Annette had exclaimed in a rush. “I thought you were going to be redoing Michael’s room, and then he just . . . took over . . . and he isn’t using any of your ideas and I don’t like it! I want you to fix it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to fix it. He’s almost done, so I’ll try to keep quiet for now. But after, I want you to come in and do it the way we planned. He never has to know.”
“Annette, I can’t—”
“I’ll pay you under the table. Cash. Now promise me you’ll do it.”
Emmie thought for a second. “Only if you promise to come to my party.”
There had been silence on the other end of the line, then Emmie lost a few decibels of hearing when Annette’s peal of laughter pummeled her eardrum. “You drive a hard bargain, lady. All right, all right. We’ll come.”
But they weren’t there yet, and Emmie’s group was looking pretty skimpy. Graham hadn’t arrived yet, either, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she should have canceled the whole thing, as she nearly did when she received the Worst Text Message Ever. Several days after she had sent out her Evites, she’d been thrilled to see a text from Graham. Emmie had toyed with the idea of asking him face-to-face, but instead had decided to play it cool and send him the same Evite as everyone else.
When she saw the text with his name on it, she scrambled to open it up. Her stomach went into freefall when she read, Graham & I wd LOVE to come 2 ur party! C u then!—and then it collided with her coccyx when she saw XOXO, Juliet.
Damn her, Emmie thought, offended for Graham. That woman was snooping on his phone! Of course, as Trish, Ms. Voice of Reason, had pointed out later, Graham might have asked Juliet to reply for him, but Emmie preferred her own version of the story, so she could remain indignant. She had most certainly not invited Juliet, but Juliet had managed to worm her way in anyway. And now Emmie was going to be the only single person at her own party. Well, along with her dad (also not there yet), whom she had invited in order to show Graham that she was big on family . . . and because she couldn’t think of anybody else to invite. But being her dad’s “date”? Ugh. That smacked of middle-school father-daughter dances. No doubt about it, this night was a disaster already.
“Where’s my wine, woman?” Trish prompted with an elbow to Emmie’s ribs, adding with a snicker, “Or are you saving some for Kyle?”
Emmie glared at her. “Just for that, you can get your own.” And she shoved herself off the doorjamb and went back into the kitchen.
Yes, what was even worse was that Kyle had called—that very afternoon, in fact, while Emmie was sitting around, unshowered and still in her pajamas well after lunchtime, in a funk because of the text message from Graham/Juliet. She groaned aloud when Kyle’s name came up on the screen.
“What, Kyle?”
“‘Kyle! Nice to hear from you! It’s been a long time. How are you? I’ve missed you.’”
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Heck, I was just calling to see how you were.” Emmie remained silent. Kyle never called just to see how she was, not even when they were dating. And soon enough he drawled, “Well . . . you know that stuff I left at your house?”
“That crap? I boxed it up and put it in the garage. Except for your beer. I drank it.”
Kyle chuckled. “That’s okay.”
“I wasn’t asking your forgiveness.”
“Anyway, I was thinking I could come by and pick it up.”
“When?”
“I dunno. Now?”
Emmie flopped her head back against the couch cushions. What, he needed his chicken-wing-eating trophy right then? “Not today, Kyle. I’m busy.”
“Yeah, you said. C’mon, it’s Saturday! What’re you doing, painting your toenails?”
“As a matter of fact,” Emmie burst out, irritated at his guffaw that implied she had no life without him around, “I’m cleaning and decorating. I’m having a party tonight.” As soon as the words were out, she winced. She knew what was coming next.
“Oh, yeah?” Suddenly Kyle sounded quite intrigued.
“No, Kyle, you are not invited.”
“Aw, c’mon, Emmaline, for old time’s sake?”
“Absolutely not. And you’re not coming over here today to get your stuff, you got that?”
“But—”
“No. I will call you and let you know a day when I’ll be out—I’ll leave the garage unlocked and you can get it then.”
“You hold a mean grudge, girl.”
“Gee, I wonder why.” And she had clicked off, longing for the days when phones had nice, heavy receivers that could be slammed down on cradles, eliciting a satisfying ding from deep within the rattled phone base.
But she had to give him credit—the threat of him coming over even when she had told him he couldn’t, likely during the party so he could snag some free food and booze, had gotten her up off the couch and out of her flannels. By the time Trish had come over with extra cookie sheets for heating up the frozen hors d’oeuvres, Emmie had finished decorating and was working on making herself look halfway decent.
She had been tempted to do the bare minimum and just look presentable, but Trish had somehow convinced her that she had the chops to combat Juliet’s Power of the Über-cute if she just made a bit of extra effort. So Emmie had decided to fight Über-cute with Soft and Cuddly. She dug out her black velvet miniskirt (but not too mini—no need to be trashy) and her softest, clingiest cashmere boat-neck sweater in a warm, subdued shade of deep cranberry. A pair of black tights and some suede heels later, Emmie almost—almost!—had herself convinced that she might just have her own particular talents in the attraction department.
And now they were going to be put to the test. The doorbell rang, and Emmie practically knocked over Rick, who was making a move for the door, most likely to escape from the conundrum that was Avery and Adam, to get there herself. This had to be Graham. It had to be. She opened the door, a bright smile on her face . . . but it was Juliet, bundled up in a pale shearling coat, collar turned up to her rosy cheeks while fine, sparkling grains of snow whirled around her head. Emmie felt her best foot forward take a step back, overwhelmed by All That Was Juliet.
Juliet bustled in, shivering, and Emmie tried hard not to peer past her, looking for Graham. She caught a glimpse of Juliet’s Land Rover parked on the street.
“Graham’s coming later,” her unwanted guest explained cheerfully, as she took off her coat and fluffed her hair.
“Oh, of course!” Emmie responded, matching her nemesis cheer for cheer. Well, sure—what did she expect? That Graham had driven to Juliet’s house and said to her husband, “Hi, I’m here to take Juliet out on a date”?
Emmie directed Juliet to the food and drinks—she noticed Rick was
standing by the alcohol, eager to serve, and she wanted to slap that goofy look off his face. Judging by the glare his wife was delivering from across the room, so did Trish.
But instead, Juliet gravitated toward the sofa; she had spotted two young, good-looking men. Emmie fought down a snicker. If Graham hadn’t told her about Avery, Juliet could just figure it out for herself.
Trish came up beside Emmie and gave Juliet the once-over. The Über-cute was out in full force. She was playing the petite darling for all she was worth, clad in tight white pants and a clingy cherry-red top, like a life-sized lickable candy cane.
“Where’s the guest of honor?” Trish murmured.
“‘Coming later,’” Emmie muttered as the doorbell rang again. She trudged back to the foyer, not really caring who was behind it at this point.
Through the triple-paned window across the top of the door she saw a familiar snow-white head—her dad. Oh well. At least now she could check out just how tan he’d gotten, as this was the first time she’d actually seen him since he got back from his Thanksgiving cruise. Dad knew how to lie low when he figured he was in hot water with her, she had to admit. Emmie fought the urge to dig out her color fan before opening the door so she could greet him by holding up one of the beige-to-brown cards alongside his face to check his shade. Instead, she just yanked open the door with a smile pasted onto her face . . . and then stopped. Yes, there was her father . . . and in front of him, shielded from the wind and snow by her father’s tall frame, was a tiny, birdlike woman with a sleek auburn bob and bright, glittering eyes.
“Hello, Emmaline,” her father boomed. “You going to let us in? Getting pretty nasty out here.”
Emmie jumped a little. “Uh—sure, Dad. Come on in.”
Bob Brewster ushered his delicate companion into the foyer and helped her take off her coat while Emmie stared, open-mouthed, at the woman. Her father handed her both their coats, which Emmie accepted automatically. Then she bugged her eyes at him, silently demanding an explanation.
“This is Concetta,” he said in a warm voice, his hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“. . . Nice to meet you?” Emmie didn’t mean to sound like she wasn’t sure, but heck, she wasn’t. Her father had brought a date to her party?
“Hello, dear,” this Concetta woman said with a gentle smile, the lines around her mouth deepening. Emmie shook her hand, which was cold despite the fact that she had been wearing gloves and felt so fragile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Your father has told me so much about you!”
“Has he?” Emmie returned the smile, although hers was forced. She wasn’t angry at the tiny woman before her, but she was going to have a few choice words for her father when she could corner him. How long had this been going on? And where—
“Concetta and I met at the senior center,” Bob said as if he could read his daughter’s mind. “She’s a mean euchre player.”
“I’ll bet,” Emmie murmured.
Bob looked around. “Well, Emmaline, this is quite nice.”
Still with his hand on Concetta’s shoulder, he gently steered her across the room while Emmie hung up their coats. She leaned into the closet and closed her eyes. Where was a doorway to Narnia when you needed one? Her dad. Had brought. A date. To her party. Even her dad had somebody. Somebody he obviously knew well and had been seeing for a while, by the looks of things. And he hadn’t even told her. Not that she expected him to ask permission, but . . . maybe she did. But he hadn’t. So now it was, “Hello, Emmie—meet your new mommy.” She didn’t like surprises like that. Not at all.
Of course, she realized, she was behaving exactly how an adult child of a single parent should not, under any circumstances, behave: like a petulant, self-centered brat who expected her parental unit to remain frozen in time, perpetually alone and missing his spouse, just because the child preferred him that way. She knew darn right well that widowed people—yes, even her father—had every right to move on. But so quickly? And so . . . abruptly? And in time for her party?
No matter the timing, though—emotionally, she couldn’t get past the belief that the only woman who should be by Bob Brewster’s side was her mother. If that was because it was what she was used to, so be it. She just always pictured her parents as an indivisible unit, and she was going to have a hard time dealing with a different woman in her mother’s place.
Especially tonight, in the middle of her Very Special Party Disaster. Which she was deeply regretting, all over again, at this point.
She took a deep breath, got a noseful of somebody’s perfume drifting off a coat, and sneezed. She rubbed her nose on Juliet’s shearling. What had she been thinking? A weird selection of friends, family, and hangers-on (Juliet!) did not a party make. All to impress a guy who wasn’t even here.
Emmie heaved herself back into the room, toward that nice bottle of pinot grigio she had been planning on rationing. Keeping herself stone sober was now officially off.
Between sips of wine, Emmie busied herself with swapping cookie sheets of finger foods in the oven—to have something to do, to avoid having to make small talk, to dodge her father, to distract herself while waiting for Graham to show up. Every once in a while she took a peek at the action in the living room—not that there was much, mind—and noticed Juliet was glancing at the front door just as often as she was, downing quite a few gin and tonics, and trying desperately to get Avery and/or Adam to flirt with her.
Emmie caught her breath as Rick sidled up to one of the windows, tugged aside the curtain, and peered outside. Emmie sauntered over to him as unobtrusively as possible. She smiled. Rick smiled back. Emmie positioned herself between him and the others in the room . . . and then abruptly slapped his hand holding the curtain, with a small but vicious whap.
“Ow!” Rick cradled his red, smarting hand.
“Stop that!” she hissed.
“But it’s starting to snow really hard—”
“Well, don’t telegraph it! You’ll start scaring the prisoners—I mean guests. Worse comes to worst, you and Trish get a sleepover here, away from the kids. Win-win. So cut it out, you hear me?” Rick nodded. “Good boy. Step away from the window, real casual like, and there’s an extra mini-quiche in it for you.”
“One of the ones with bacon?”
The doorbell rang again, and Emmie ran for it. Annette and Martie and their husbands stood on her doorstep, coated in a layer of white that had accumulated in their short walk from the car. Emmie was slightly disappointed that it wasn’t Graham, but she was happy that the foursome would at least reenergize the party.
Sure enough, Annette bellowed, “Let us in, darlin’! It’s effing freezing out here!”
Emmie was more than happy to comply and, as she found herself mobbed by three short, wide individuals and one tall, lanky, stooped one, she whispered to Annette, “Where have you been? I’ve needed you!”
“Oh, we had to go to the holiday dinner at the Moose lodge first. We go every year. It’s a good time—an all-you-can-eat pasta bar.”
“And they had some fantastic entertainment!” one of the husbands, the short one, whom Emmie assumed belonged to Annette, added. “Great stuff—I bought their CD!”
Sure enough, Annette said, “Emmie, honey, this is my husband, Artie. Artie, this is Emmie.”
Artie was even shorter and wider than Annette and looked remarkably like his sister, Martie (Martie and Artie? Seriously? she marveled), but with a shining dome covered by several hairs arcing overhead. He stuck out a beefy hand. “Emmie! Heard a lot about you! A lot! Annette just loves you!”
“Oh! Well . . . thanks!”
“Yep, sure likes you a whole lot better than that jackass of a boss you work for—”
Emmie suddenly developed a very loud, consumptive cough. She caught a glimpse of Wilma glancing over, so she kept coughing until Artie, alarmed, clapped her heartily on the back. Then she found herself coughing for real, her eyes watering.
“You all right?” Artie asked, wh
ile Annette, Martie, and Martie’s husband, who was yet to be named, grouped around her, concerned.
She gulped for air and nodded. “Please,” she choked, “go on in and make yourselves comfortable. I think you know lots of people already.”
“Yes, I think I see your boss,” Annette commented, elbowing her husband in the side in case he didn’t catch the hint.
Emmie recovered enough to usher everyone into the living room, making the acquaintance of Martie’s husband, Stan, on the way, and suddenly, she realized, her house was full. She retreated to the bathroom, fixed whatever makeup had smeared during her coughing jag, then sat on the edge of the tub for a few minutes, her head in her hands. It was going to be all right, wasn’t it? Sure it would. Of course it would.
She took a deep breath and returned to her party. As soon as she entered the living room, she could sense something was wrong. And then she saw it: Annette was talking with Wilma. Heatedly. She was fairly quiet—as quiet as Annette was capable of being—but Emmie could pick up the bad vibes from across the room.
Annette was saying sharply, “Really, John? Polka dots? What were you thinking?”
Wilma had plastered a condescending smile on his face, but it wasn’t sticking very well. “Now, look here, Annette—”
“That’s Mrs. Polschuk to you, you con artist—”
Oh crap, Emmie thought, she’s lost it. So much for Annette’s promise to be civil. Emmie started heading toward them to defuse the situation before it turned into a rumble, the Polschuks against the Wilmans . . . and then she was body slammed from the right. She glanced over and saw an inebriated candy cane sticking to her. How many drinks had this ten-pound Christmas elf downed in the brief time she’d been here? Juliet’s empty glass was tipping sideways in her hand, melting ice cubes nearly sliding out onto the floor.
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