Siobhan had catered at Isabelle’s house before and had gotten all of her ogling out of the way the first time. The house was technically on the “wrong side of the street”—not on the harbor, that is, but situated on a little hill overlooking the harbor. It wasn’t a huge house, but it was spacious and airy and perfectly appointed. There was a koi pond in the front foyer, which would have shouted overstatement in anyone else’s house, but in Isabelle’s house it was a delightful surprise. She had a bright, well-equipped kitchen, which opened onto the enormous room she normally used for entertaining. The
soirée intime,
however, would take place out on the sunporch, where two gaming tables had been set up side by side and topped with smooth brown leather surfaces. Isabelle had ordered floral arrangements of purple and white irises, white gerbera daisies, and fragrant Asiatic lilies that were as big as dinner plates. One wall of the sunporch was screened windows overlooking the water, and Siobhan was to set up the buffet along the back wall. She had made the fried chicken, as well as potato salad, marinated string beans, corn fritters, deviled eggs, and . . . the pickles. The pickles had been a snap, and they turned out perfectly (Siobhan was keeping the recipe to use again). She had also baked chocolate chip cookies and peach and blueberry hand pies. The all- American picnic had taken all day to prepare, but the first thing Isabelle did when Siobhan arrived was to hand her the check. Three thousand dollars.
“Thank you,” Siobhan said.
“Thank you!” Isabelle said. She leaned over and kissed Siobhan on the cheek, which took Siobhan by surprise. Isabelle was holding a rather full glass of wine, though she didn’t seem drunk, just excited and nervous. Was the invitation stuffing a big deal? Siobhan had called Claire while she was filling the deviled eggs to give her the update. Claire was aghast to find that the invitation stuffing was being catered at all.
“She’s calling it a
soirée intime,
” Siobhan said. “An intimate evening chez French.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Claire said. “Well, thank heavens I didn’t offer to have it at my house. It would have been crying children and a bag of Fritos. And Jason kicking us out at nine o’clock so he could watch
Junkyard Wars
.” Siobhan had laughed at this; they had laughed together. Siobhan wanted to ask Claire if Lock would be attending the
soirée intime,
but she hadn’t been able to mention Lock’s name even once since the day Claire confessed they were having an affair.
Siobhan did not bring any help to Isabelle’s house; Carter was doing a dinner party for forty people in Sconset—an event they now jokingly called “La Grande Soirée”—and he’d taken Alec and two Dominican busboy-dishwashers with him. Isabelle gamely pitched in, helping Siobhan carry dishes from the van to the buffet table on the sunporch.
When they were finished, Siobhan stopped to look at the invitations. They were set up on one of the gaming tables, a box of invitations, response cards, envelopes, a dish of water, a tiny sponge, and a roll of stamps at each place. Siobhan lifted one of the invitations carefully from the box; it was as heavy and creamy as a wedding invitation. Siobhan felt her ire rise up. The amount of money spent on these invitations (how many were there—two thousand?) was enough to pay for day care for one of “Nantucket’s Children” for a year.
“Lovely,” Siobhan said.
“Mmmmm,” Isabelle murmured. She sipped her wine, then picked up a sheet of vellum printed with names and waggled it in the air. “These are the committee members,” she said. “I notice your name is on here.”
“Is it?” Siobhan said. She checked the vellum—
Mrs. Carter Crispin
—and gave a little laugh. “Well, I told Claire I’d help out, but I haven’t done very much.”
“No,” Isabelle said. “Half the people on the list are people I recruited, and most of them don’t even speak to me. They won’t help, won’t lift a finger, they might not even
attend
—but because they agreed to serve on the committee, they will send a check. And they lend their name to our event. But they’re ghosts.”
“Ghosts,” Siobhan said, eyeing the vellum.
“I know it drives Claire mad, having people on the committee who aren’t willing to roll up their sleeves, but that’s the way the game is played.”
There were footsteps—and a woman entered the sunporch, lugging a large instrument trapped in a black body bag.
“I’m playing in here?” the woman said to Isabelle.
“Dara! Hello! Yes, over there, in the corner, I think, don’t you?” Isabelle turned to Siobhan. “This is Siobhan, the caterer. Siobhan, this is Dara, the cellist.”
“A cellist!” Claire said. She had been inside for fifteen seconds, just enough time to take a glass of champagne from Siobhan’s tray and catch strains of cello music floating in from the other room. “She hired a
cellist?
”
“Flew her in from New York. She plays with the symphony.”
“No!” Claire said, but Siobhan didn’t answer. It was her rule, strictly enforced, not to fraternize with guests of any event, and that included Claire.
“Let’s go out after?” Siobhan whispered in an attempt to end the chitchat.
Claire said, “I can’t.”
Siobhan gave her a scowl, which Claire did not see, because at that moment Lock Dixon walked in. He smiled warmly at Siobhan.
“Hello, Siobhan.”
“Hello, Lock. Champagne?”
Claire was smiling, too, and drinking her champagne, and fidgeting with the straps of her sundress. Isabelle swooped in from God knows where.
“Lock!”
They kissed on the lips as Siobhan and Claire watched. There they were, Siobhan thought—the cook, the thief, his wife, her lover. Or something like that.
Lock said, “Do I hear music?”
Isabelle said, “Dara is here! I know how you love the cello!”
Claire turned to Siobhan. Siobhan looked into the koi pond, which babbled happily at their feet. Gavin Andrews walked in—stiff and smarmy as ever—followed by Edward Melior. Siobhan ground her molars together. Three thousand dollars was not enough compensation to deal with Edward. If she had thought for one instant that he would be here, she would never have taken the job. It seemed amazing to her that she had ever,
ever
kissed him, hugged him, rubbed his feet, chewed his ear, ruffled his hair, slept with him, declared her love for him, agreed to marry him. She flashed back to the instant that she had flung his engagement ring at him, screaming,
It’s over, Edward!
His face had screwed up in pain. That memory she found satisfying.
But because caterers were, among other things, actors, she smiled. “Champagne? Gavin? Edward?”
Gavin took a glass with a sniff. Edward took a glass, then reached out, grabbed Siobhan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her flush on the mouth. Siobhan would have slapped him had she not strictly enforced the “No hitting guests at any event” rule.
“Hello, beautiful,” Edward said.
She would have stabbed him in the gut with a serving fork. Regrettably, the taste of him lingered on her lips—gin, he had been to a party before this—and she didn’t have a hand free to wipe it away. Even worse, Siobhan felt a pulse between her legs. The kiss had aroused her. Impossible! She abhorred the man. Involuntarily, she thought of pressing him up against Isabelle’s Sub-Zero refrigerator. She thought about making him so hot that he begged for her. He had kissed her with authority, with ownership. How dare he! She hated his self-assurance. The tray of champagne wobbled in Siobhan’s hands, and for a second she pictured it toppling into the koi pond. Damn Edward! She had not dropped or spilled anything in more than two years. Edward approached Isabelle and shook her hand. Siobhan stole a glance at him, at his shirt, neatly tailored across his shoulders, at the bulge of his wallet in the back pocket of his khakis.
They drank a lot. Only six people, and Siobhan could not keep the glasses full. And, too, she was busy making sure the food was perfect. She warmed the fried chicken and softened the honey-pecan butter she had made to go on top of the chicken; she fried the corn fritters, last minute, on Isabelle’s Viking range and brought them out piping hot. She offered the fritters to Edward first, and he popped one in his mouth and burned his tongue.
Siobhan clucked. “Careful. They’re hot.”
No question about her role: she was the hired help. This never bothered her; she had a strong work ethic and almost no pride of the deadly-sin variety. She liked to listen, to eavesdrop; she did it all the time on the job. Even when serving her best friend and her ex-fiancé, she was invisible, a fly on the wall. She, like Dara the cellist, was very pleasant background music.
First she watched Claire. Claire’s cheeks were flushed; she drank quickly, she chinged her fork against her plate more than once, and she fussed with the napkin in her lap as if it was a bird she was trying to calm. She was sitting next to Lock. This was the first time Siobhan had seen them together, side by side, and it was revelatory. Siobhan knew the truth—she was the only one—but it was like looking at the optical illusion of the old lady and the young lady. At first your eyes saw only the old lady, but then, when someone pointed it out—aha! Yes! The beautiful young lady! How could I not have seen it earlier? It’s so obvious! Lock and Claire were turned toward each other, they spoke addressing each other; under the table, Siobhan noticed from behind, their legs were touching, though just barely. It was happening under everyone’s nose.
Siobhan was also acutely aware of Edward. He was drinking heavily, more gin, splash of tonic, a quarter lime—she knew how he liked it—and he was being funny and charming as always, but he was punctuating his stories with long, penetrating looks at Siobhan that seemed to rise and swell with the strains of the cello. Siobhan caught him looking once, and he did not look away. They were stuck there, hooked together. His look was saying . . . well, what else would it say?
I want you!
And Siobhan’s look was, hopefully, both enticing and defiant.
You can’t have me!
Isabelle’s voice sliced into Siobhan’s thoughts. “Claire, have you bought your table yet?”
There was a weighty pause. Isabelle asked the question loudly, at the exact time that Dara finished a movement, so that the room was suddenly silent and the question took on the import of an announcement or a challenge to be risen to.
Claire’s answer was meek. “Not yet.”
“But you will take a table, right? Twenty-five thousand dollars? That way you’ll be up front, next to me. And Lock!”
Everyone looked uncomfortable except for Gavin, who merely looked interested.
Take a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table?
Siobhan thought. That was absurd. Well, not for Isabelle, and not for Lock—not for
Edward,
maybe—but for Claire, yes. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a new car. It was a year’s worth of mortgage payments. It was not something Claire would—or could—toss away in one night. Isabelle, Siobhan decided, was an evil woman for asking Claire in front of everyone. Look at poor Claire—her cheeks were burning, and now the red splotches were popping out on her chest. Siobhan was in the process of offering the table more pickles. She had not dropped or spilled anything in more than two years, but what if the pickles were to end up in Isabelle’s lap right now?
Adams Fiske said, “Everybody donates what they’re comfortable with. No one expects Claire to buy a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table.”
“Why not?” Isabelle said. “She’s chairing the event, as am I, and I’m taking a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table. It’s expected that we lead by example.”
Lock took a breath as though he were about to speak, and Siobhan thought,
Yes, stick up for your girlfriend! Prove to me you love her!
But Edward, who honestly could not keep his wallet in his pants for one second, said, “I’m in for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table.”
Claire raised her face. She had been staring at the lonely deviled egg on her plate. “Me, too,” she said.
“Claire?” Adams said.
Claire?
Siobhan thought.
Are you out of your mind?
“What?” Claire said. “I am the cochair. Isabelle is right—it sets an example. And I’ve put money aside.”
She was lying; her gaze was fixed back on Mr. Egg. Siobhan whisked Claire’s plate away and nudged her discreetly. Claire looked up. Siobhan shook her head.
You don’t have to play these people’s games
. It was like she was always telling Carter: Anteing up money you don’t have doesn’t make you ballsy. It makes you stupid.
Lock jiggled the ice in his glass and said, “That’s great, everybody. Thank you. It’s great for the cause.”
They moved to the next table and got going on the invitations. It was dark now. Siobhan brought out dessert and coffee and cordials; Dara the cellist packed up and went out front to wait for her cab. Siobhan cleaned up in the kitchen. This was normally her favorite part of the evening—wrapping up leftovers for the boys, getting ready to go home. But tonight, right now, Siobhan was rattling around, distracted, upset. It was so many things: Claire, Lock, Edward, Carter and his gambling, Isabelle. Siobhan decided that from now on she was only going to take jobs from nice people, good people. She would not work for Isabelle French again.
There was a glass of champagne remaining on the silver tray, no longer chilled, but who cared? Siobhan drank it down. She felt better then—lighter, less serious. Claire’s problems were not her problems. They were such good friends that it seemed this way sometimes—but no.
Siobhan felt hands on her waist and then a warm mouth on the back of her neck. She was well-trained in self-defense, and instinct nearly had her elbowing Edward in the sternum. She refrained, however, and managed just enough twitch to shrug him off.
“Go away, Edward.”
“You’re beautiful, Siobhan. And you taste like a peach.”
The hot dishwater was fogging Siobhan’s glasses, so that when she turned she couldn’t really see him, but then her lenses cleared and he was on her, kissing her. Again she was aroused. Appalling! She had spent so long disdaining Edward and his annoying if tangential presence in her life that she had forgotten he was a skilled kisser. But she would never have spent four years of her life with someone who wasn’t a skilled kisser or an extraordinary lover. Edward had been an extraordinary lover, very considerate, not as animalistic, maybe, as Carter, but attentive and confident—yes, she remembered this as he was kissing her. Then she pushed him away.