Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  But there was something else happening. Her solid world seemed to have come unhinged and for the first time in years she felt fragile, floating. The office reared up around her while Grant and Kate's laughter morphed into snickering in her ears. The smell of the new carpet was overpowering. She looked down and the carpet seethed, and she knew that if she was able to peel it back from the floor, she'd find thousands of trundling beetles and shiny slithering millipedes convulsing under it.

  Swallowing back the rising bile in her throat, she put out a hand and placed it on the reception desk to steady herself. "Ah, who…," she said, and took a breath before continuing. "Who can remember everyone?" She paused and took another breath through her mouth, careful not to breathe through her nose and smell the carpeting. Game face, now. This weird feeling would pass, but a first impression was forever. And she would prevail. She straightened, raised her chin, and plastered on a smile. "Thank you so much for meeting with me, Dr. Palmer."

  "Please, you can call me Grant. And it was a pleasure. We'll see you in a few weeks. I've got to get to my next patient, so I'll see you then."

  She widened her smile. "Of course. And I'll leave some samples and materials with Kate."

  "Do that. Thanks," he said, a hand briefly raised before turning away. No lingering gaze, no dragging out the conversation. What was Grant made of? Rock? And why was he so damn attractive? Sizzling, really. She remembered his touch, the shock and the pleasure of it. It had to be the old infatuation still at work. Or was it something more? Was she actually falling for him? She had no idea. She had never fallen for anyone; they fell for her.

  She turned to look at Kate, her game-face still plastered on, when an idea occurred to her. A brilliant idea, actually. “So, you two just moved back?”

  Kate nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, a couple months ago? Well, it’s back for him. I’m from Vermont. Where we lived before?”

  Bianca could imagine Kate in Vermont, her pale cheeks made rosy by the cold wind in winter, bundled up in a parka. Maybe that was when Grant had become attracted to her. But he couldn’t be now. “Well, this may seem a little forward, but I know what it’s like to be new in town. My family moved a lot when I was little,” she said. She had never lived anywhere but Fairfield County, with the exception of the disastrous stint in the convent. “I know how hard it is to make new friends, trust me. Anyway, a few of my friends are getting together tonight at seven for cocktails and I was wondering if you’d like to join us?” Other than Chelsea, who had invited her and was Bianca's only friend, a sweet little pushover she’d known since high school, Bianca didn’t know the other girls at all, but knew not to pass on that information and possibly scare this little mouse away.

  Kate’s pale blue eyes became huge and bright. “Really? That's so nice of you?”

  “Oh, no, it’ll be fun. We’re going to that new little tapas place, Ibiza, in downtown Stamford. Say you’ll come.”

  “Okay, really? I'd love to? I haven’t met anyone here yet. Outside of the office, I mean?”

  Her balance back, a curling warmth filled Bianca. Oh, this was going to be good. “Great. We'll see you there at seven. Okay, so let’s talk samples and that next appointment.”

  Bianca scheduled the appointment, loaded Kate up with samples and colorful shiny pamphlets, and then strode out of the office with her head swimming with a variety of different schemes, turning each over in her mind and examining them for holes.

  Chardonnay

  Lucie approached the customer service desk at Farmer's Day Market in Westport with trepidation and her typical uneven gait, her right hip having never healed properly from being shattered in a car accident when she was twenty-one. She stopped just in front of the rustic wooden desk where a slim older woman was bent over an open notebook, erasing something with a vigor that was almost violent. Lucie stood, waiting, but the woman did not acknowledge her, perhaps distracted by her attack on the paper with the pink end of a pencil.

  Finally, the woman put down the pencil and looked up, her grey-eyed gaze cool. "Yes? How may I help you?"

  "I...," Lucie said and swallowed. She would have to get over this fear. She was starting her own business, wasn't she? She had to be bold and confident. She had to do whatever it took not to end up being an administrative assistant again. Just the thought of returning to that living hell bolstered her. She straightened. "Yes, I see that you have a community board here and I wanted to find out about posting a flyer for my business."

  The woman's expression remained stony. She put out a hand. "Certainly. May I see it?"

  Lucie smiled, hoping it would melt the woman a little. It didn't. She opened the manila folder she had placed the flyers in, only five remaining after an afternoon of canvassing local stores and community spots with bulletin boards, and handed the woman one. She took it and examined it. Then she started blinking. Then shaking her head.

  Lucie faltered. "I'm sorry. What's the matter?"

  The woman let out an exhausted-sounding sigh, her head still shaking as she looked up at Lucie. "We can't advertise a catering service. We have our own. It would be at cross purposes."

  "But, Whole Foods let me-"

  "Whole Foods can afford to let you. They're national. We're just a little local market," she said and thrust the flyer back at Lucie. "Thank you, but really, you should have thought a bit."

  Lucie felt heat rise in her face. She took the flyer and tucked it back in her folder, struggling to straighten it as the rip-off tabs with her company name and number on them caught on each other. They wouldn't straighten, remaining stubbornly tangled. She slapped the folder shut, the sheet still hanging halfway out. "I did think. It didn’t seem like it wouldn't matter to you. I just do little parties. 'Petite Soiree'? Little party? Nothing like the big weddings and corporate things that Farmer's Day caters."

  The woman sneered a little half-smile at her. "I assure you that we cater little parties, too. Anyway, we can’t allow competitive marketing on our board. But, please, shop! I’m sure we can provide some of your supplies," she said, gesturing toward the interior of the store.

  "Tu plaisantes!" Lucie found herself saying before she could stop herself. Her blush growing hotter, she nodded and turned away. She was really getting mouthy lately. If Mere was still alive, she'd be appalled. At that moment Lucie's cell starting ringing, her stepsister’s ringtone, and she hobbled out of the market as fast as possible to get away from the woman before answering.

  Coming to a stop just outside the door near a cluster of hand-woven baskets, she picked up. “Erin! How are you?”

  “I can’t believe you. Why do you always have to top me?”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about starting a catering business. I told you.”

  Lucie took a deep breath. Really? She didn’t remember this one. But Erin was always coming up with new ideas for starting her own business - or jumping onto the latest pyramid scheme - when she wasn’t job-hopping. Not that Lucie could point a finger. Lately she hadn’t been able to hold down an administrative job, her attitude so bad it got her fired only months after being hired. But she had held long-haul positions in her twenties where she had performed well; Erin had never held a job for more than two months. And that was why Lucie was frequently put in the position where she needed to help her stepsister get another job or had to call a creditor and make promises.

  She had also co-signed on Erin’s apartment lease and, recently, got a call from the landlord asking about overdue rent. Her next conversation with Erin was supposed to be about that, but now it was going to be about her new catering business. Lucie should have just kept her mouth shut last night when her father inquired about what she was doing career-wise over dinner at his and Florence’s house. Of course Flo would pick up the phone afterward and call Erin, probably to prod her daughter with it.

  Lucie shook her head to clear it. “No, you didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, I thought I did.”

  “I’m sorry.
Listen, this doesn’t have to be a competition. It’s not like that. You know how much I love to cook and-“

  “And your mother was some big French pastry chef, I know. Blah blah blah. But I’m the one with the business head, not you. You should just go to cooking school or something.”

  “I don’t have the money for that and, besides, this is what I really want. I thought you’d be thrilled for me. Do you want to be a part of the business?” Lucie’s shoulders jerked up. Why had she just offered that? Why did it seem as if her brain had become completely disconnected from her mouth lately?

  “No! I want my own business.”

  “What about that wedding planner business you were thinking about?”

  “I want to be a caterer.”

  “Okay, okay. We can both have catering businesses.”

  “No. It’s not fair!”

  “Are you seriously telling me not to pursue my dream? I’m always there for you, Erin. Can’t you be there for me?”

  “You don’t understand. Mom said-“

  “Flo is unreasonable in her expectations about you. We’ve talked about this and you agreed,” Lucie said, remembering all the hours of tears she had endured, consoling Erin again and again every time her mother launched into her, calling her a failure. And if she wasn't attacking her daughter, she was pushing her toward some new career she'd decided her daughter should pursue. This, instead of leading to the dreamed-of achievement Flo expected, only made her daughter fail, and flail, more.

  There was a pause and a sniffle on the other end of the line. Finally, Erin said, "I know...well. You're right. Well, maybe I should help you. At least Mom would leave me alone then; I'd be doing something."

  "But you are doing something. You're at Candlewicks and you're learning so much! You really could have your own gift shop, all you have to do is work there a little longer, take some notes, learn the ropes. When you’re ready, I'll help you apply for a loan like we talked about. "

  "Well," Erin said in a rising apologetic tone. "See..." A loud sigh breathed into Lucie's ear.

  "Oh, no. What happened?"

  "I…, Anne just kept bossing me around-"

  "Yeah, she's your boss."

  "I quit."

  "No! Why? And now how are you going to pay your rent?"

  "Well...I was hoping..."

  Lucie slumped, leaning against the glass window of Farmer’s Day and looking down at the baskets at her feet. The whirls at the base of the baskets reminded her of her life, an endless go-nowhere circle. She had savings that she had stockpiled in order to be able to start her business, but they were going to disappear quickly if she kept rushing in to save the day with Erin. Yet she couldn't help herself. Flo had insisted on cutting Erin off two years before and her father agreed; her sister had nowhere else to go. "All right. How much do you need?"

  "Two thousand?"

  "That much! I thought you were saving?"

  "Well, that's another thing. I didn't want to tell you, but..."

  "But what?"

  Erin told her all about Liftique, a cream that she'd heard about through a customer at Candlewicks that was purportedly developed by a dermatologist and, applied twice a day, gave the effects of a facelift. The woman convinced Erin that it was essential that she sign on immediately, that the product was about to go viral and then everyone would want to jump on the bandwagon. Of course the woman was a sales manager for the product, and it turned out to be yet another pyramid scheme. Except this time, Erin had felt it was necessary to invest the entirety of her small savings in the product, snap it up before it sold out, which was sure to happen in a matter of weeks.

  "Well, does it work? Maybe you could sell it after all, now that you have the time?"

  Erin moaned a little and said, "No, I should have tried it out first. It makes your face all stiff and weird. I don't think anyone would want to use it. You can't even smile when you've got it on!"

  Realizing how late it was getting, Lucie pushed away from the window where she'd been leaning and slowly hobbled across the parking lot to her car while reassuring Erin that everything would work out. Sinking inside, she agreed to have Erin help her with her new business and they planned to meet the next morning at a local cafe to discuss what Erin's role would be over coffee.

  After saying goodbye, nodding quickly while Erin thanked her, Lucie hung up and climbed into her Audi, a high school graduation gift that had been given to her with much ceremony, a reminder of when they'd all had high hopes for her: that she would go on and become a brain surgeon or an astrophysicist or a lawyer. She’d been a straight-A student, top of her class, editor of the yearbook. In her father’s favorite words: “a winner”.

  And she’d done very well in college until her mother died in a freak accident, slipping in the shower in her little Paris apartment and hitting her head. It had happened only days after Lucie had left after visiting over Christmas break and Lucie found herself illogically blaming herself for not being there, not saving her mother. It had all been too much: her parents’ divorce earlier that year, Mere moving back to Paris and then dying just when she was getting her life back together.

  Things had seemed so hopeful when they toasted each other with glasses of champagne on Christmas Eve while sitting in her mother's cozy living room next to a fat tinsel-covered tree, Lucie exercising her rusty French under Mere’s patient but strict tutelage. Her mother had glowed from within that evening, speaking of a patisserie she and a friend were discussing opening on the Left Bank, her beautiful emerald eyes looking off into the distance as she spoke, as if seeing her dreams play out on the far wall. Everything was going to work out in the end. Except it didn't.

  After the funeral, Lucie had returned to school in body only, her heart and mind elsewhere. As a result, her grades were plummeting the following spring when she’d been sitting in the back seat of her friend’s car on the way to a party on a Thursday night, her two best friends in the front. They’d been t-boned at an intersection only minutes from their destination, the other driver running a red light. Michelle had died almost instantly, crushed in the driver's seat. Lucie, not wearing a seatbelt, had been airborne before she slammed into the opposite side of the car's interior, breaking her hip in three places. Jenny, who’d been in the front passenger seat, had been wearing her seatbelt and was the only one who was able to walk away from the wreck. After a year of surgeries and physical therapy it was clear that Lucie would never walk normally again.

  Lucie had started the car and was saying her usual prayer before backing out when her phone rang again. This time, it was Ryan’s ring-tone and she grabbed at the phone gratefully. “Hi!”

  “Hey, you. How’s it going?”

  Lucie leaned back and smiled. This was the best part, the thing she loved most about living with Ryan and not just dating each other: telling him the mundane details of her day. And the crazy thing was that he actually wanted to hear it all. “Great! Well, except for Farmer’s Day. The woman there was such a mega-bitch, you would not believe.”

  “I’m not surprised. I don’t like that place. Too snooty.”

  “Good. Let’s boycott it forever.”

  “Done. The hell with them. Sooooo, I was wondering… any chance you’re in the mood to cook tonight? I was fantasizing about your coq au vin and I thought you might make my dreams come true and actually make it. Please? I’m willing to get down and crawl, seriously.”

  Her soft smile turned into a wicked grin. “Really? Too bad, I’d like to see that. No, don’t you remember? I’m going out with Chelsea and some other girl she knows for drinks at that tapas place in Stamford. We’re probably going to get something to eat, too.”

  "Damn! Forgot. I guess I'll have to suffer. But consider my desperate situation next time you decide to cook. I will grovel if necessary."

  "All right. You're on! This weekend: grovel-fest. Bring it."

  "In the inimitable words of Kendra Wilkinson, 'It's been broughten'."

  "Can’t wait. A
dieu ma chérie!"

  "Stop that talk. You know it makes me crazy, you sexy French minx."

  "Je tiens à vous rendre fou!"

  "Agh! Stop!"

  Lucie burst out laughing. Recovering after a minute, she said, "Okay, I'll stop. I better go; I don't want to be late."

  "Okay. See you later. And don't let Chelsea keep you out too late."

  "I won't. Love you!"

  "Love you, too."

  She hung up and put the phone back in her purse, suddenly seeing their apartment in her mind’s eye and wanting to be there, go there now and finally relax. The earthy elemental colors of their furnishings, the paintings on the walls that they’d found on their Saturday scavenging's at local flea markets and garage sales, the sweet scent of the lavender wreath that hung near the front door – they gave her comfort and a sighing peace. She loved their place, her and Ryan’s combined sensibilities. It was the opposite of the ornate showplace she’d grown up in, a home that fed her father's need to display how successful he was and ignored her mother’s simpler down-to-earth ways. At first, after her parents' divorce, Lucie decided she didn’t want to marry, afraid of having to sublimate herself to a man. That was what marriage was, right?

  But then Flo came along, her father’s perfect counterpart, and showed her that a good marriage was possible with two birds of a feather. Her parents had simply been polar opposites. Like Lucie's father, Flo was an unstoppable powerhouse, a woman you couldn’t help but admire. Lucie’s mother was strong, but subtle, careful, quiet. Flo didn’t know what quiet was. She was a force to be reckoned with, someone that didn’t take no for an answer. Her real estate business was evidence of that, still kicking along and turning a profit while the recession pushed others into bankruptcy. And, in spite of Flo’s fraught relationship with her own daughter, she had been a great help to Lucie, always cheerleading and giving advice: advice Lucie knew she would have suffered without if it hadn’t been for her father remarrying.