february
WARM GOAT CHEESE SALAD WITH PEARS AND WALNUTS
INDIVIDUAL FILETS EN CROÛTE
PARSLEY LEAF POTATOES
ASPARAGUS
CHOCOLATE POTS DE CRÈME
JAIME STOOD IN HER kitchen, whisking bittersweet chocolate into a mixture of milk and cream, which had been brought to a simmer and removed from the heat. As she stirred, waiting for the finely chopped chocolate to melt, she wondered if Mark was having an affair.
She didn’t have any definitive proof. There hadn’t been any of the clichéd signs, like lipstick marks on his shirt collars or unexplained late-night phone calls. And she couldn’t imagine where he would find the time or energy. Between work and home and the hours he logged at the tennis club with Emily, how could Mark possibly fit a mistress into his schedule?
Even so, she had a nagging feeling that something was up. Mark had been so distant lately. Even more so than usual. And then there was his damn iPhone fixation. He always claimed he was checking work emails, but Jaime had her doubts. She’d even stolen a look at his messaging history in the hopes that it would give her some insight into what was going on. But the texts there were mostly work related, with a few from Libby, Mark’s ex-wife, about Emily’s schedule. This was not in itself enough evidence to prove his innocence—Mark was smart enough to delete anything damning.
Once the chocolate had melted evenly, Jaime whisked together eggs and sugar in a glass bowl until the mixture turned a pale yellow. Then she stirred the eggs and sugar into the chocolate, and set the custard aside to cool.
As she wiped down the countertops and put away the ingredients, she wondered why the thought of Mark having an affair didn’t upset her more. Shouldn’t it make her feel sick and queasy? Or move her to rage? Instead, the idea just made her tired. If he was having an affair—if she found out for sure—she’d have to do something about it. Take a stand. It might even lead to a divorce, to selling the house, to dividing up their time with the children. At the very least, they’d probably end up in couple’s therapy, which was truly a grim prospect. The last thing she wanted to do was spend an hour every week dissecting the problems in her marriage in front of a stranger. Who had the time or energy?
Jaime got out seven of the set of eight vintage pink Spode custard cups she’d found on eBay. They were lovely, complete with double handles, covers, and saucers, and were perfect for the chocolate pots de crème she was serving for the dessert course at the first official meeting of the Table for Seven Dinner Party Club. She poured an equal amount of the chocolate mixture into each cup, lined them up on a rectangular Pyrex baking dish, and placed it in the Sub-Zero refrigerator.
The front door opened, and Mark’s voice called out, “Hey, where is everyone?”
“In the kitchen,” Jaime called back.
Mark was dressed for tennis, wearing a navy blue sweatshirt over gym shorts. His hair was damp and his cheeks were flushed.
“Hi,” he said, brushing his lips against her cheek. He smelled of sweat and fresh air.
“Hey,” Jaime said.
“Where are the kids?” Mark asked.
Jaime looked pointedly at the clock. It was after eight. “They’ve been in bed for over an hour.”
“Emily’s practice ran late,” Mark said.
“I figured as much,” Jaime said. Then she wondered—not for the first time—if he was seeing someone at the tennis club. There were certainly enough attractive women hanging around there, all showing off their tanned legs in short skirts. But she had a hard time believing that Mark would choose to flirt with another woman while Emily was nearby. His daughter was very sharp and very perceptive—she’d catch on quickly if something was up.
If Mark heard the edge in her voice, he ignored it. “Sarah was working on speed drills with the kids,” he said. “I think Emily needs to do more of that. She gets lazy with her footwork.”
“Mmm,” Jaime said, as she mentally reviewed her to-do list for the dinner party. She scanned the recipe for the salad to see if any portion of it could be completed ahead of time. Baby greens tossed with pears and a vinaigrette, then topped with slices of pan-fried goat cheese. Maybe she could whisk up the vinaigrette now. The main course of filets en croûte—filet mignon covered with a sautéed mushroom mixture and Gorgonzola cheese, then wrapped in puff pastry—was already prepared and chilling in the refrigerator. There would be plenty of time to finish the rest of the salad, the asparagus, and the potatoes tomorrow afternoon.
“What is all this?” Mark asked, running his finger over the dribble of chocolate left in the saucepan and sticking it in his mouth. “Pudding?”
“Chocolate pots de crème,” Jaime corrected him.
“It’s delicious. Is it ready to eat?”
“No, it’s setting in the fridge. And don’t even think of eating one. It’s dessert for tomorrow night,” Jaime said.
Mark looked at her blankly. “Tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Jaime said. “Please tell me you didn’t forget.”
“Okay. I didn’t forget,” Mark said. He hesitated. “Um, what exactly am I supposed to have not forgotten?”
“Our dinner party. Remember? The Table for Seven Club? It’s our turn to host,” Jaime said.
“That’s tomorrow night?” Mark asked.
Jaime stared at him. He couldn’t possibly have forgotten, could he? She had talked of little else for at least a week.
“What time are people coming over? Emily has a tournament down in Boca. I’m not sure what time we’ll get back,” Mark continued.
“Mark, come on. You have to be back in time. We’re hosting,” Jaime said through clenched teeth. She rubbed her jaw, trying to make the muscles relax. Her dentist had warned her that she was damaging her teeth by grinding them. He’d fitted her with a night guard to wear while she slept—apparently she was stressed out even then—but during the day she had to make a conscious effort to unclench.
Mark finally seemed to register the edge in her voice.
“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll work something out. Maybe Libby can take Emily to the tournament,” he said, although he looked doubtful.
“Emily has a tournament every other weekend. Can’t she skip this one?” Jaime said.
“I’d rather she didn’t. It’s a Designated.”
“What’s that?” Jaime asked, instantly regretting the question. She didn’t care if it was Wimbledon. The damn tournament was not going to ruin her dinner party.
Jaime had spent the entire day getting the dining room ready—ironing the linen tablecloth, setting out her set of Spode Camilla china, putting fresh candles in her two antique silver candelabras. Tomorrow, she’d add a vase of flowers, perhaps white orchids.
“It’s a special tournament for higher-ranked juniors,” Mark said. He went on in more detail, but Jaime started to tune him out.
I need to make sure there are enough guest towels in the downstairs bath, she thought. And I need to make sure the wineglasses are all spot-free. And what causes the spots anyway? Is it hard water residue?
“… It will be a good challenge for her,” Mark finally concluded.
Jaime took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before she spoke. Past experience had taught her it was better to keep her temper in check around Mark. As soon as she started getting snappish, he’d get defensive and contrary. Knowing this actually made her even angrier, but right now she wanted to get her way more than she wanted to have a fight.
“Maybe she could catch a ride down with one of her friends,” Jaime suggested.
“That’s a possibility. Or I could drive her down, and then find her a ride back,” Mark said.
“I was really hoping you’d be around tomorrow to help out,” Jaime said.
“Help out with what? You know I can’t cook. Well, not anything you’d want to serve to our friends.”
“No, I’ll do the cooking,” Jaime said quickly. “But I could use some help getting the house ready.”
“Didn’t Mary come today?” Mark asked.
Jaime nodded, struggling to keep a grip on her patience. “Yes, she cleaned today. But you know the kids will start dragging their toys out, and it will have to be tidied up before our guests arrive. And you said you were going to cut back the hedges. The front walk is turning into a jungle. Besides, isn’t it Libby’s weekend to have Emily, anyway?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jaime regretted them. Mark’s face closed and his eyes turned stony. He always got annoyed if Jaime offered even the mildest comment about how he and Libby parented Emily.
“She’s my daughter all the time, not just on the weekends,” Mark would say, as if that were the end of any conversation.
But what about us? Jaime wanted to say. What about Logan and Ava? Aren’t they your children, too? Mark didn’t spend nearly as much time with his younger children as he spent at the tennis courts with Emily.
“I’ll call the lawn care company in the morning. They can come take care of any landscaping that needs to be done. And I’m taking Emily to the tournament, but I’ll ask one of the other parents to give her a ride home. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the dinner party, I promise,” Mark said. He kissed her on the forehead, clearly believing that these solutions ended the need to discuss the matter further. “Have you eaten yet?”
“I ate with the kids, but there’s chicken and pasta in the fridge,” Jaime said, turning back to her recipes.
Maybe instead of a dinner party club, I should start a second wives’ club, she thought. The only problem is that it would have to be a club of one, because I don’t know any other second wives. I was the only one foolish enough to make that mistake.