Lee Nichols - Hand-Me-Down

“She’s pushing fifty,” I said. “And he doesn’t have a chance, anyway. Coming on to a caterer is no cakewalk.”

“It’s not funny.”

“What is up with you? She’s just asking if he wants tabouleh.”

“You’ll see,” Emily said. “She’s already got him drinking. She’ll be bringing him waffles in bed, next.”

“Better than cold cereal.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Forget it.”

She stalked into the thick of the party and herded everyone toward the dining room, like a bad-tempered sheepdog. I watched her and sighed. A bad-tempered sheepdog who was feeling out of control of her own life. Her book, her family: Emily always lashed out when she was worried.

I trailed behind as I worried about her being worried. Her book must really be a problem. Maybe she’d told Jamie she wanted another publisher. I glanced at him, settling down between a househusband and a dermatologist. He was extracting his napkin from the napkin-ring, and he smiled when he saw me looking—totally unconcerned.

Maybe it was only my overactive imagination. I took a calming guzzle of wine and surveyed the room. The party had a Moroccan theme and the dining room had been decorated in casual Casbah. The room was lit by candles in the hanging silver candelabra, with other white candles placed among the fuchsia and violet silks lining the table. More silk had been artfully twined around the chair backs and gold-embroidered white pillows had been placed on the seats.

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