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their faces, Margaret’s aimed at the pot roast, Bobby’s aimed at the twins.
Bobby took the seat next to mine, Margaret sitting on his other side, looking like she’d rather take the seat on my other side, the one between me and my mother. Finn’s seat. But she sat where she always did between Bobby and my father.
Margaret scooted the chair over so she was near my father, as near as she could get, like he was going to protect her if Bobby threw the succulent roast at her. She was smart. Beneath his smile, he looked like he wanted to do that.
I reached over, tentatively tapping Bobby on the back, trying to be comforting to him. It was a mistake. Bobby looked like he was about to explode, and my touch only tightened him up.
Bobby looked across the table, nodding in Ben’s direction, their first and only hello. Ben gave him a nod back, giving me a supportive smile.
Then Bobby reached immediately, and deliberately, for the wine.
At another moment, Bobby would have wondered what had changed with Ben and me that had Ben sitting at this table. But Bobby wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking about anything except what he’d overheard in the bathroom.
Luckily, Josh called out to Bobby, distracting him. “Daddy . . .”
He looked across the table at his son. He gave him a genuine smile. “Yes, what?”
“Where’s Uncle Finn?”
Bobby bit his thumb, Margaret answering for him.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she said.
Bobby looked away from the twins, toward Ben, just in time to see Ben put his arm lovingly around his daughter, Bobby noticing for the first time the child that wasn’t his.
“Who’s the kid?” he whispered.
Margaret hadn’t told him. I wasn’t going to break that news. Not when the rest of his world was unraveling before him.
Bobby didn’t want an answer, though. He was already reaching over and pouring himself some wine, not pouring any for his wife.
My father clocked that he ignored Margaret’s glass and took the bottle from Bobby, pouring some for Margaret himself. Margaret smiled at him gratefully.
“Thanks, Dan,” Margaret said, taking a long sip. “This wine is really delicious. What are we drinking?”
“Concerto,” my father said.
“Soon to be Wine Spectator magazine’s ‘Pinot Noir of the Year,’ ” my mother said.
“One of Wine Spectator magazine’s ‘Pinot Noirs of the Year,’ ” my father corrected. “And I had very little to do with it. Lots of strong, warm weather. The fruit just presented itself.”
“To you,” my mother said proudly, my mother, who was pre-gaming with us, her real meal a few hours away. La Gare. 10 PM.
I must have been giving her a look, because she turned toward me. “What?”
Ben tapped on his wineglass with a spoon, all eyes turning toward him.
“Would it be okay if I said a few words?” he said, holding up his glass and directing the question to my father. “We are just so happy to be here.”
“Who’s we?” Bobby whispered.
Then the door swung open, a woman’s loud laugh making its way into the barrel room before she did.
“Is Finn bringing someone?” my mother said.
Which was when they entered, the loud-laughing woman and Finn.
The woman wore an outfit that matched her laugh. She had on a wildly short dress, her ample boobs falling out, the dress emphasizing her long blond hair, her longer legs. A real-life Barbie.
