I was going to end up with a broken heart.
Emzee
Chapter 16
Yet another dinner with Ford’s parents was getting ready to start.
Oh, joy.
If I could have come up with a good enough excuse to get out of it, I would have, but the bigger problem was that these Malone family dinners were something that Ford did on a regular basis—there was no way I could avoid them forever. So it was time to face the music.
I just needed to figure out how to coexist with the Malones peacefully. Or at least, coexist with them peacefully for the duration of a meal. How hard could it be?
At least for round two, I had a better idea of what to expect…and what was expected of me as the hostess. Thus I’d gone into this enterprise tonight with a careful eye toward doing things more like the Malones wanted. Not exactly like they’d been done in the past, but a compromise that I hoped we all could live with.
No creative tablescapes, no exotic takeout food. They wanted china dishes and a personal chef? Fine. I’d give it to them. The best wine, chosen by a sommelier. The best menu, put together by a professional. The best everything. Eat your heart out, snobs.
Despite myself, I had to admit that I felt a bit of grudging respect for Claudia. No matter what I thought of her, she’d put up with these family dinners for years and somehow managed to hold on to her sanity through all of it.
I knew Mrs. Malone (and to a lesser extent, her husband) would never accept me the way they’d accepted Claudia, that no matter how nice dinner was, they’d still never allow me to stay married to Ford. But I was going to try to please them anyway. I didn’t really have a choice.
And I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let their comments get under my skin again. I would be prepared for whatever insults they threw at me. I’d stay strong. Not that a drink wouldn’t help, which was why I had all the martini fixings ready to go. Ford had said his parents liked them, and I knew I’d need more than wine to fortify me for the long evening ahead.
The doorbell rang, and I straightened my cardigan, put Munchkin in his kennel, and headed for the door. Ford had his hand on the knob as I came up behind him.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmured.
“You’ll be fine,” Ford said, as if he’d somehow forgotten what a complete disaster our last family dinner night had been.
“There’s my boy!” Mrs. Malone screeched the second she walked in. “And…Mara.”
“Hello,” I managed to say politely as she smothered Ford in a hug and an accompanying perfume cloud. As Ford helped her out of her coat, I turned to Ford’s dad. “And how are you, Mr. Malone?”
“I’ve been better,” he answered noncommittally.
“I saw that the Dow closed at three points up today,” I said, grateful I’d checked the stock market report earlier so I’d have something to say to him. “So there’s some good news.”
Mr. Malone’s face immediately brightened. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Shall we?” Ford said, gesturing toward the dining room.
As we shuffled along, I leaned closer to Ford’s dad and whispered, “There’s more good news. I may have arranged a double helping of dessert for you as well.”
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it hadn’t escaped me that Mr. Malone had devoured his coconut sorbet after our last dinner—as well as my portion—so I’d taken a gamble and decided to feed his sweet tooth this time. Judging by his bright eyes, the gamble had paid off. I may have secured myself a Malone ally after all.
I made cocktails for the Malones once they were seated at the table. A very dry martini with two pimento stuffed olives for Father Malone, and a dirty martini with a plain olive for Mother Malone. Ford had coached me in advance on how to prepare the drinks, but I couldn’t tell if I’d impressed the Malones judging by their post-sip faces. But hey, at least neither of them had spit their drink across the room.
Meanwhile, Ford made gin and tonics for the two of us, and when the chef popped his head into the dining room to tell us the food was ready, the heavenly smells coming from the kitchen hit us full force.
“Mmm,” I sighed.
“And what, precisely, are we having?” Mrs. Malone asked, brow raised.
“French,” I said. I wasn’t being coy, exactly—I just couldn’t even begin to pronounce half the dishes we were about to be served. I wasn’t worried, though.
Pierre was the most highly awarded chef in the greater Chicago area, and I’d been lucky to book him for a four-person meal when he was accustomed to larger private parties and events for the very wealthy. Luckily, the Malone family name carried a lot of weight around town. Once I’d explained who the dinner was for, Pierre had been more than happy to cater.
“We love French,” Mr. Malone said, still looking perky and obviously attempting to be diplomatic. “Don’t we, dear?”
