Mrs. Fletcher(68)

“What a lovely home.” Margo surveyed the décor with what seemed like sincere admiration, and maybe even a touch of longing. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

Dumell and Amanda echoed this sentiment, while Julian Spitzer lingered near the door, skateboard tucked under his arm, nodding in dubious agreement.

“You’re welcome,” Eve told them. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Shifting into hostess mode, she ducked into the kitchen to see what she could round up in the way of snacks and beverages. The answer, unfortunately, was not a whole lot. On the plus side, there was an unopened bottle of Australian Shiraz on the counter; wine was one thing she rarely forgot at the grocery store. On the minus side, the refrigerator held only a single beer, a Dos Equis Amber she couldn’t remember buying, along with a bottle of Hard Lemonade that must have been over a year old. The food situation wasn’t much better—half a sleeve of not-quite-fresh Stoned Wheat Thins, a block of cheddar that had hardened around the edges, a handful of baby carrots that seemed okay if you didn’t look too close, and a tub of hummus she wouldn’t have foisted on her own worst enemy.

She found a platter and arranged the crackers in a semicircle around the brick of cheese, which looked a lot better after some minor cosmetic surgery. If nothing else, the carrots added a splash of color. The hummus went straight into the garbage, where it should have gone days ago. Removing the cork from the Shiraz, she heard a reassuring burst of laughter from the living room, and realized that it had been a long time since she’d had this many people in the house.

She’d made the invitation on an impulse, after the lecture room had cleared out. The five of them were standing around, trying to figure out where to go for dinner. It was a frustrating conversation—Dumell didn’t like Thai food, Amanda avoided fish whenever possible, Julian wasn’t hungry—without any resolution in sight. Margo, the guest of honor, wasn’t even participating. She looked tired and rattled—who could blame her?—and it suddenly occurred to Eve that she might not be in the mood for a big night out.

I have an idea, she said. Why don’t you all come to my house? I can order some pizza and we can decompress.

And now here they all were, laughing and making themselves comfortable.

How about that? she thought, as she grabbed the wine and the snack platter, and went to join her friends in the living room.

*

Amanda didn’t mind taking one for the team. Somebody needed to go to the liquor store, and it might as well be her. Dumell had been the first to volunteer, but Margo had looked so happy, snuggling up to him on the couch—she kept patting his leg and poking him in the shoulder, as if checking to make sure he was real—that it seemed like a shame to separate them. And besides, this was still kind of a work thing, even if she was technically off the clock.

She was glad to get out for a bit, to leave the others to their wine and chitchat. She wasn’t in a super-social mood, not after the debacle at the Senior Center. It was just so disheartening, to get yourself all pumped up with optimism—a sense of ownership and personal fulfillment—and then have to sit there and watch your One Big Idea crash and burn.

She glanced at Julian, her fidgety but mostly silent passenger.

“Want some music?”

“Whatever,” he said. “You’re the driver.”

Come on, dude, she thought. Help me out here. He’d seemed happy enough to accompany her on the liquor run but apparently didn’t feel obligated to contribute anything in the way of conversation.

“You like Prince?” she asked.

“He’s okay.”

Whatever. She pressed play, and the atmosphere inside of the car was instantly transformed by the spare, sultry sound of “When Doves Cry,” possibly the sexiest song ever written. It seemed a little too intimate for the circumstances, but there was no way she was gonna turn it off.

“I’ve been going through a Prince phase lately,” she told him. “I sort of forgot what a genius he is. So many great songs.”

Julian gave one of those noncommittal therapist nods, like it was interesting that she felt that way, not that he necessarily agreed with her.

“What kind of music do you like?” she asked.

“I don’t know. All kinds, I guess.”

Jesus. It had been a long time since Amanda had hung out with a college freshman, so she wasn’t sure if this was standard behavior or not. Maybe terse, grudging replies were the most you could hope for. At least he was cute.

“Is this weird for you?” she asked. “Hanging out with a bunch of old people?”

“You’re not that old.”

“Ha ha,” she said. “You seemed a little uncomfortable back there. I thought you might need a break or something.”

“It wasn’t the people,” Julian explained. “It just kinda freaked me out to be in that house.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know her son? Brendan?”

“Not well.”

“I went to high school with him.” Julian gave a shudder of disgust. “Such a fucking asshole. It gave me the creeps, walking in there and seeing his picture on the wall. Felt like I could smell him.”

“I get that.” Amanda had only met Brendan once, but that was enough. “I didn’t like him much myself.”