But she said, “I should be going, I guess. It’s getting late.”
“Oh. Right,” he said, and he released her.
In fact it was not yet seven o’clock, but he didn’t point that out.
They walked through the living room, skirting newspapers. At the front door, Rebecca turned and gave him a brilliant smile. “Thanks so much for dinner,” she said.
“It wasn’t very good, I’m afraid.”
“It was delicious. Really.”
“If I’d only known Beatrice had gone back to eating meat,” he said, “I could have served my chili. I have several extra containers now from the times when I’ve eaten at your house. I could have used them tonight and had the week’s supply come out even again.”
She laughed as she stepped onto the landing. But later, driving home, she was grim-faced and preoccupied, and when she parked and got out of her car, her body felt so heavy — so unspeakably burdensome — that she knew she couldn’t blame it solely on the casserole.
Nine
She saw now what she was up against: he was still mourning his marriage. He was grieving every bit as deeply as if he’d been widowed. That explained the missteps in their first few conversations, and his tendency to talk on and on about Laura, and his sad, unconfident manner. A man who kidnapped his wife’s dog was a man who still felt connected.
Not that he was aware of it himself, Rebecca supposed. For he called her two days later to ask, “Seeing as how you’ve met my family now, what little of it there is, don’t you think I should meet yours?”
“Mine? Well…”
“So far I’ve bumped into, what? Two or three of them,” he said, “but I’d love to meet the others.”
“Well, I guess I could have everyone to dinner.”
“That would be great!” he said.
His eagerness was so uncharacteristic that she suspected he might be forcing it. She imagined his steeling himself before he picked up the phone to call her — squaring his shoulders, gathering resolve. “You know,” she told him, “the Davitches can be kind of daunting, taken in a bunch. You could meet them just a few at a time, if you’d rather.”
“No! I think this will be fun!” he said.
She recognized that glittery tone of voice. She had used it herself, many a time.
* * *
They settled on the coming Saturday. It could have been Thursday instead, but Rebecca didn’t want one of those haphazard Thursday potlucks — some chaotic free-for-all where Will could be overwhelmed. No, this would be organized and sedate. People would arrive at a prearranged time and talk about civilized topics. She considered hiring Alice Farmer to serve, but Alice Farmer was fully capable of sitting down to interview Will — interrogate him, really, making sure he passed muster — while Rebecca herself did the serving. She decided against it.
Min Foo was the first one she called. “I’m inviting you to dinner this Saturday, October second,” she said. “Just you and Hakim. No children.”
“No children!”
“At eight o’clock sharp. And dress up.”
“Why can’t we bring the children?”
“It’s a grownup affair. I want you to meet the man in my life.”
This was the phrase she had selected ahead of time — so much more dignified than other terms she might use. It rolled off her tongue fairly easily, she felt, but was met by a silence as sharp as a crack at the other end of the line.
Min Foo said, “You have a man in your life.”
“Right,” Rebecca said.
“You never told me that!”
“Well, you must have heard a man was coming around, now and then.”
“I thought that was just a friend! Why are you springing this on me now?”
“Min Foo! I’m not springing anything on you! It’s not about you!”
This wasn’t going at all the way she had planned.
With NoNo, the focus was different. She wanted to know why a Saturday. “Is business really that bad?” she asked. “You’re never free on a Saturday! Is the Open Arms going under?”
“No more than usual,” Rebecca said.
“And haven’t I already met this person?”
“Yes, but this will be his, sort of, formal introduction to the family as a whole.”
“Oh. Okay,” NoNo said.
She didn’t seem impressed by that part about the man in my life.
Before Rebecca could place the next call, the telephone rang: Patch, in high dudgeon. “How come you invited Min Foo to dinner and not me?”
“Well, I was just—”
“Is this because she’s your real daughter?”
“Patch! For heaven’s sake! I’m inviting all of you!”
“And I have to hear it through the grapevine,” Patch said. “I’ve a good mind not to come.”
“Well, if you’d stay off the phone long enough for me to call you in the first place!” Rebecca snapped. And she slammed down the receiver.
Only Biddy reacted as she was supposed to. “A man in your life! Really?” she said. “Oh, Beck, I didn’t realize. Is this the one who was there when I stopped by the other evening?”
“That’s him,” Rebecca said.
“Oh, this is so exciting. Tell me what food to bring.”
Sometimes Rebecca thought that the whole point of having lots of daughters was, the law of averages said at least one of them might behave right at any given time.
Saturday turned out warm and humid, more like July than October. This was a pity, because Rebecca had bought a fall outfit expressly for the occasion. It was a tailored gray straight-skirted suit, very subdued — unnoticeable, even. (And certainly nothing a hippie would wear.) She put it on anyhow, along with her flight-attendant pumps. She was plain on the surface but fancy underneath, because she had also bought new lingerie — sheer black lace that would have to be washed by hand. She didn’t care. Also, it was killingly expensive. She didn’t care at all. She had plans.
When she went downstairs to the kitchen, where Biddy and Troy were unwrapping food, Troy did a double take. “Why! It’s Joan Crawford!” he said. Rebecca struck a model’s pose, nose raised snootily in the air, and Biddy stopped work to say, “Are those shoulder pads? Goodness.” Then she told Poppy, “Quit that!” because he was picking at a pie crust. She herself wore a ruffled blue sundress, which looked a little too froufrou on her spare frame, and Troy and Poppy wore coats and ties. Rebecca felt a rush of affection. It was nice of them to go to the trouble.
Will rang the doorbell precisely at eight. He was in a charcoal wool suit and his upper lip shone with sweat, either from the heat or from nervousness. “Don’t you look stylish!” Rebecca said. When she kissed him, she smelled aftershave — something spicy — and all at once she felt lit up and optimistic, as if this were her very first party rather than her millionth.
“Am I early?” he asked. “Am I late?”
“You’re right on time,” she told him. “Come out back while we see to the food,” and she took hold of his arm.
“Now, Biddy you’ve already met,” she said as they entered the kitchen, “and you know Poppy, and this is Biddy’s, um, Troy. Troy, this is Will Allenby.”
“How do you do,” Troy said, shaking Will’s hand. Troy had extremely vivid blue eyes, and when he was introduced to people he often gave the impression of peering into their souls, drilling them with his hundred-watt gaze. Will responded by leaning forward determinedly and meeting Troy’s stare straight on, so that for a moment they seemed to be butting heads.
Poppy said, “Why, hey, there! Good to see you again!” This could have been a bluff, but when Will said, “Good to see you, Mr. Davitch,” Poppy said, “Please. Call me Poppy.”