The Truth About Forever(29)

Bert's shriek, which was high pitched to the point of ear-splitting, was accompanied by him flailing backwards and losing his footing, then crashing into the wall behind him. "God!" he said, his face turning red, then redder as he saw me. I couldn't really blame him: there was no way to be splayed on the floor and still look dignified. He said, sputtering, "That was—"

"Number six," Wes finished for him. "By my count."

Bert got to his feet, glaring at us. "I'm going to get you so good," he said darkly, pointing a finger at Wes, then at me, then back at Wes. "Just you wait."

"Leave her out of it," Wes told him. "I was just demonstrating."

"Oh no," Bert said. "She's part of it now. She's one of us. No more coddling for you, Macy."

"Bert, you've already jumped out at her," Wes pointed out.

"It's on!" Bert shouted, ignoring this. Then he stalked down the hallway, again muttering, and disappeared into the main room, letting the door bang shut behind him. Wes watched him go, hardly bothered. In fact, he was smiling.

"Nice work," I told him, as we started down the hallway to the kitchen.

"It's nothing," he said. "With enough practice, you too can pull a good gotcha someday."

"Frankly," I said, "I'm a little curious about the derivation of all this."

"Derivation?"

"How it started."

"I know what it means," he said. For a second I was horri-fied, thinking I'd offended him, but he grinned at me. "It's just such an SAT word. I'm impressed."

"I'm working on my verbal," I explained.

"I can tell," he said, nodding at one of the Lakeview Inn valets as he passed. "Truthfully, it's just this dumb thing we started about a year ago. It pretty much came from us living alone in the house after my mom died. It was really quiet, so it was easy to sneak around."

I nodded as if I understood this, although I couldn't really picture myself leaping out at my mother from behind a door or potted plant, no matter how perfect the opportunity. "I see," I said.

"Plus," Wes continued, "there's just something fun, every once in a while, about getting the shit scared out of you. You know?"

This time I didn't nod or agree. I could do without scares, planned or unplanned, for awhile. "Must be a guy thing," I said.

He shrugged, pushing the kitchen door open for me. "Maybe," he said.

As we walked in, Delia was standing in the center of the room, hands pressed to her chest. Just by the look on her face, I knew something was wrong.

"Wait a second," she said. "Everyone freeze."

We did. Even Kristy, who normally ignored most directives, stopped what she was doing, a cheese biscuit dangling in midair over her tray.

"Where," Delia said slowly, taking a look around the room, "are the hams?"

Silence. Then Kristy said, her voice low, "Uh-oh."

"Don't say that!" Delia moved down the counter, hands suddenly flailing as she pulled all of the cardboard boxes we'd lugged in closer to her, peering into each of them. "They have to be here! They have to be! We have a system now!"

And we did. But it was new, only implemented since the night before, when, en route to a cocktail party, it became apparent that no one had packed the glasses. After doubling back and arriving late, Delia had used her current pregnancy insomnia to compile a set of checklists covering everything from appetizers to napkins. We were each given one, for which we were wholly responsible. I was in charge of utensils. If we were lacking tongs, it was all on me.

"This is not happening," Delia said now, plunging her hands into a small box on the kitchen island hardly big enough for half a ham, let alone the six we were missing. "I remember, they were in the garage, on the side table, all ready to go. I saw them."

On the other side of the kitchen door, I could hear voices rising: it was getting more crowded, which meant soon they'd be expecting dinner. Our menu was cheese biscuits and goat cheese toasts to start, followed by green bean casserole, rice pilaf, rosemary dill rolls, and ham. It was a special request. Apparently, these were pork people.

"Okay, okay, let's just calm down," Delia said, although rustling through the plastic bags full of uncooked rolls with a panicked expression, she seemed like the only one really close to losing it. "Let's retrace our steps. Who was on what?"

"I was on appetizers, and they're all here," Kristy said, as Bert came through the swinging door from the main room, an empty tray in his hand. "Bert. Were you on ham?"

"No. Paper products and serving platters," he said, holding the one in his hand up as proof. "Why? Are we missing something?"

"No," Delia said firmly. "We're not."

"Monica was on ice," Kristy said, continuing the count. "Macy was utensils, and Wes was glasses and champagne. Which means that the ham belonged to—" She stopped abruptly. "Oh. Delia."

"What?" Delia said, jerking her head out of a box filled with loaves of bread. "No, wait, I don't think so. I was on—"

We all waited. It was, after all, her system.

"Main course," she finished.