I immediately leapt up and ran to the kitchen. A quick inspection of the fridge and bare cupboards confirmed my worst nightmare. We had nothing.
“I could have used a little warning,” I told Ford, scrambling for my keys and shoes.
He shrugged. “They didn’t ask,” he said. “They just called and said they were coming over. They do that sometimes. Claudia never minded.”
Ah. Of course the senior Malones had just gone ahead and invited themselves to dinner. Because our marriage was apparently under their purview, as was our apartment. Even in what was now my own “home,” it was clear I had absolutely no control over anything.
Clenching my jaw, I left the apartment to go shopping. Half to keep myself from throttling Ford and half because I needed to prepare for the arrival of my in-laws.
If I couldn’t change the way the apartment was decorated and I couldn’t control when Ford’s parents came over for dinner, I could at least control what we ate and how I served it.
On my drive over to the mall, I used the hands-free in my car to call in a delivery order at a local Caribbean restaurant for fresh seafood, a few different salads, and grilled veggies. I missed St. Barts, and wanted to bring the taste of the Caribbean back. Not being the best cook, I figured that rushing around in an attempt to throw something together for my in-laws would be ill advised. And I really didn’t want our apartment to smell like fish when they arrived.
Relieved that a delicious dinner would soon be on the way, I dashed into Williams Sonoma and switched my focus to shopping for items that would create an unforgettable table setting to impress the Malones—what I’d seen referred to in lifestyle magazines as a “tablescape.” With the cuisine I’d chosen, I thought it would be fun to go with a beachy theme to recreate some of the magic of the honeymoon. I was actually kind of excited.
Back at Ford’s, loaded down with shopping bags, I let the inspiration take me. I put a fishing net on the table instead of a cloth, circled the pillar candles in the center with assorted seashells, and then set out some new ocean-blue plates, terra-cotta colored napkins, and wooden utensils. With a flash of genius, I realized I could tie little bows around the napkins with pieces of twine, hinting at nautical rope.
The whole color scheme reminded me so much of St. Barts, I couldn’t help wishing Ford and I were still there.
Sure, things had been getting more complicated emotionally the longer we’d stayed. But it had also been nice to get away from all the stress (and secrets) his family had fomented in our lives. When it was just me and Ford, all we had to worry about was whether or not we wanted to go out windsurfing or stay in and fuck each other’s brains out all over our villa.
Feeling a distracting tug in my lower belly, I shook the sexy memories away and stepped back to admire my handiwork. The table looked even better than I had expected. Seconds later the doorbell rang. My adrenaline surged.
It was our food delivery, not the Malones. Thank God. I was relieved to find the order was not only on time, but also correct and smelling amazing. Ford had just finished helping me plate everything in the kitchen and pick out a bottle of wine when we heard a knock.
“That’s them,” he said, walking past me to get the door. Munchkin followed after him, tail wagging like crazy.
Even though I was still annoyed at Ford for springing his parents on me like this, I couldn’t help admiring how sexy he was. He’d changed into a black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a pair of jeans that fit him perfectly. I confess my knees went a little weak when he glanced back to give me a grin before opening the door.
My happiness faded the moment his parents walked in.
Mrs. Malone immediately put a hand to her chest, pressing her back to the wall. “Ford, dear, you know I can’t stand dogs!” she scolded as Munchkin sniffed politely at Mr. Malone’s outstretched hand.
“Sorry about that—I’ll put him in his kennel,” I said, rushing to scoop up my apparently offensive, eighteen-pound dog. “Be right back.”
When I returned, they were chatting warmly with Ford in the living room. Seeing me, the Malones’ smiles grew visibly tighter.
Neither of them actually greeted me.
“Welcome!” I said as brightly as possible. “Please, won’t you come sit down?”
“We’resoglad to have you back,” Mrs. Malone said, ignoring me as she looked back at Ford. “You were gone for much too long.”
“We were on our honeymoon,” Ford reminded her as he ushered his parents toward the dining room. “I think we were entitled to some vacation time after the wedding.”
Ford’s mother shrugged and then came to a dead halt when she saw the table.
I held my breath, swelling with pride, knowing that it looked incredible.
“It’s a tablescape,” I explained grandly. “I wanted to bring a little bit of St. Barts home to Chicago.”
“It looks…nice,” offered Mr. Malone, pulling out a chair for his wife.
“Hmm,” Mrs. Malone said, sitting down gingerly. “A little ostentatious, truth be told.”
I wilted.
“And this…” She touched the edge of the fishing net we were using as a tablecloth. “Did this come out of the garbage?”
