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I take the box from her. “I wasn’t,” I say, recognizing Mario’s Patisserie’s sticker on the cake box, thinking I wish she’d told me, I wouldn’t have made the brownies if I’d known, but then I tell myself it’s sweet and that it’s going to be a long night if I’m already over-thinking things, so I should just stop right now.
“Hello,” Carla says.
“Sweetheart, this is a friend of mine, Isabelle.”
Carla tilts her head at me as if to say,Friend? Don’t be silly! You don’t have any friends.
“She’s a friend of Daddy’s too,” I say.A very good friend of Daddy’s.
“It’s nice to meet you, Carla. You look just like your mom. How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” Carla says, pulling her sleeves over her hands and standing with one socked foot over the other.
“Fourteen is a great age, isn’t it, Anna?” And I’m thinking,Is it? Not where I came from.
“Very. Come in, Isabelle. I’ve only just started cooking but you can sit and fill me in on what you’ve been up to since, well, since you were born, I guess.” I laugh. Carla stares at me sideways, trying to understand why I’m being weird. Isabelle is too polite to do so.
I take her coat and immediately scan her throat for the necklace, but her dress has a collar and I can’t see it. I consider saying something like,Oh wait, you have a leaf stuck there, let me get it for you, just so I can tug at it, but I don’t.
I touch my hair self-consciously as I lead her through to the kitchen. She looks so fresh and well put together, whereas I look like the local drug dealer with my messy hair and my gaunt, unmade face. Maybe once Luis finally gets home I could sneak upstairs and slap gallons of whatever is in that contouring kit on my face.
“I’d better finish dinner!” I laugh for no reason whatsoever. “Would you like something to drink, Isabelle?”
“Yes, how about this?” She brandishes the bottle of Chardonnay and I wonder if she caught me looking at it greedily moments earlier.
I pull out a glass for her, which makes me think of the elegant tall stem glasses in Luis’s studio, which makes my hand twitch and I spill some of the wine on the table. I tear off a paper towel, laugh again, this time in a way that threatens to reach maniacal proportions, and wipe it off. It really is going to be a very long night. I check on the venison to steady myself, then finally I ask, “Where do you live, Isabelle?”
She takes an olive and drops the stone into her palm. I quickly put a small plate in front of her.
“Ohio City,” she says.
“Oh, that’s nice. I go running there sometimes.”
I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I just seem to blurt out things for no reason whatsoever. Now of course she says, predictably, “Oh, that’s so funny! So do I! We should go running together sometimes!”
“Well, that’s a coincidence!” I say, one hand on my hip. I smile, sort of: it’s hard to smile when your whole face is so tense it feels like rigor mortis setting in. But I’m just pleased the kids have disappeared right now. Because they would absolutely exclaim,What’s wrong with you, Mom? Why are you lying?
Then, mercifully, I am alerted to Luis’s arrival by the excited barks of Roxy.
“God, it’s cold outside.” He pats Roxy then rubs his hands together and suddenly I feel like I’m in a play, and my kitchen is just a set and we are all very bad actors delivering our wooden lines.
“Well, it’s warm in here, come on in,” I chirp.
We all laugh and they say a friendly hello which I can’t help but keep a check on, but so far so very peck on the cheek. He comes over to me and kisses me on the lips, so that’s nice. Then Carla and Mateo erupt into the room to greet their dad, as they do, and suddenly the atmosphere feels warm and festive. Luis opens another bottle of wine and the kids settle at the kitchen table, fascinated by this new guest who is a friend of their parents.
Isabelle asks them lots of questions, none of which areHow do you like school?orWhat do you want to do when you grow up?which in their eyes is a definite tick. Then Luis says,why don’t we sit down at the dining table?and I’m thinking,Maybe because I’m here cooking?but everyone else seems to think it’s a good idea and they disappear, leaving me in the kitchen with a stained apron, sweating over a three-course gourmet meal for my husband and his floozy. Only then does it occur to me that maybe I didn’t think this through.
I knock back the rest of the wine.
“This is nice,” I say, pointing over baked oysters and cheese puffs at a silver ring on her index finger, even though it’s not, not really, but I’m hoping it’s from Patrick. I just want to hear her say it.
“Isn’t it?” She slips it off to show me.
“It’s interesting,” I say, handing it back to her. “Kind of like a wonky bagel.”
“I don’t know about that!” she says, although I note she purses her lips as she slips it back on, so that’s nice.
“He’s a very interesting metal artist,” Luis interjects. “French.”
