“I’ll try to open my mind to Priscilla.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure I was completely wrong to listen to Priscilla. I thought she was standing in for my mother. She tried, but my mother was a nicer woman. It took me a while to figure that out.”
Max walked me to the end of our driveway. He started to kiss me goodbye, but I pulled away. I didn’t want anyone to see us. I wanted to keep our feelings private, at least until the party.
“Let’s keep this a secret until tomorrow night,” I said.
“Come out for dinner tonight,” he said.
“I can’t. We’re having a family dinner. Why don’t you join us?”
“I think it would be hard to keep our secret,” he said. He reached out and touched me on the arm with his fingertips.
“Come for dessert, then,” I said. “Nine o’clock. Bring Duke. If we made it through all these years, we can make it through dessert.”
He reached over, took a strand of my hair, and twisted it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Then he let go, turned, and walked down the street.
Priscilla, as I predicted, was annoyed with me for staying out all day. My absence, though, had given her an opportunity to warm up to Guy, who had spent the day with the family. Fortunately, by the time I got home, he was gone. Priscilla was up in her room. Miranda warned me that she was in a snit.
“I’ve invited Max Wellman and Duke Franklin to join us for dessert tonight,” I told Miranda.
“I wish you had said something,” Miranda said. She spoke as if she were doing the cooking herself, but it was Bethany who was up to her elbows in bread crumbs and flour.
“I’m saying something now.”
“I didn’t know you and Max Wellman were such good friends. I guess it’s okay, but we’re already having Guy and Priscilla, Charlie and Winnie. I didn’t buy enough cheesecake.”
“I’ll go pick something up.”
“You can’t leave again. You just got here. I’ve been trying to entertain Priscilla for the last three hours.”
Though I appreciated her efforts, I couldn’t picture Miranda entertaining anyone, least of all Priscilla.
“I’ll just go get some extra dessert. I’ll be right back.”
My feelings were too big for the house. In the car, I played love songs as loud as I could and sang with the radio at the top of my lungs. It was ridiculous—and thrilling.
I pulled up in front of Isabelle’s and went inside. Isabelle still had the last traces of her cold, but she was back at work.
“I need something for tonight,” I said.
“I thought the Fortune family party was tomorrow night,” she said. “I have the order right here.” She pulled a paper from a sharp peg.
“Yes, but I need a little something extra for tonight.” I was breathing very fast.
“Have you been running?”
“No.” I paused. “Isabelle, I want you to come to the party tomorrow night.”
“Me?”
“Of course. You’re my friend, aren’t you? You’re one of my best friends. And isn’t it fair that I get to invite some of my friends to the party?”
“Miranda won’t like it.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Jane, you seem a little strange.” Isabelle came around to the front of the counter. “Why don’t you sit down and catch your breath. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” I sat, but I could barely stay still. Isabelle put the back of her hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever.
“Sit down, Isabelle, I have something important to tell you,” I said.
She sat, put her hands together on the table, and waited.
“Max Wellman and I are getting married,” I said. She just sat there, staring at me. Of course, it must have come as a shock to her. She hadn’t known anything about it, but then, neither had I. “It’s a secret. We’re going to announce it at Miranda’s party. That’s why you have to be there.”
“Where did this all come from?”
I tried to explain as best I could, and when I was finished she continued to stare. I stood up. She went back behind the counter and put together a box of cookies.
“Now, promise not to tell anyone,” I said in a sober voice. “Isabelle.” I snapped my fingers at her. She was stunned. “You okay?”
“Of course. Congratulations.”
“The party starts at six. Cocktails and desserts. That’s Miranda’s idea of elegant but not expensive. I hope there’ll be enough food. I think Miranda is a little off her game.”
Isabelle handed over the box of cookies and I pulled out my wallet.
“On the house,” she said. At the door, I turned around and Isabelle was still staring.
Guy didn’t seem too happy when Max and Duke arrived after dinner. They pulled chairs up to the decimated dinner table and Guy had to scoot over to make room for them.
“Tell us everything about your new book,” Miranda said. She leaned toward Max in the pose she used to show off her minimal cleavage.
“The best way to know about my book is to read it,” Max said. He leaned his torso away from her. “I’d be happy to drop off a copy.”
Duke looked at Max and smiled. Both of them were obviously used to this type of professed interest from people who didn’t read.
“Guy,” I said, “there’s a rumor that you’re writing a book.” He looked around with a surprised expression. He pointed to his chest with his thumbs and said, “Me?” with feigned innocence. His blush, however, seemed genuine.
“I don’t know where you heard that, Jane. But the fact is, it’s true.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of you,” he said.
“Advantage? Of me? What kind of advantage could you take?”
“What’s the book about, Guy?” Max asked.
“I don’t know if I should let the cat out of the bag,” Guy said. If that phrase hinted at the style of his prose, we shouldn’t expect much.
“Tell us, Guy,” Dolores said.
“Well”—he paused—“okay.” He held back as if he needed more encouragement.
“Come on, Guy,” I said.
He took a sip of his coffee and bit into a vanilla cookie. “It’s autobiographical. It’s about a man who marries a supermodel. The style is kind of F. Scott Fitzgerald meets Sidney Sheldon.”
I didn’t know what to say about that particular marriage of literary lions.
“Sounds commercial,” Duke said.
“You really think so?” Guy asked.
“Sure.”
“There’s only one problem,” Max said. He sipped his coffee.
“What’s that?” Guy’s tone was hostile. It wasn’t the same tone he used with Duke.
“It’s already been written,” Max said.
“What has?” Guy asked.
“Your book, by Jay McInerney.”
“Who?”
“You know. The guy who wrote
Guy gave Max a blank stare. Then he said, “But you don’t understand. Mine’s true.”
“So was his. At least that’s what they say.”
