Thankfully, being a politician’s daughter had equipped her to play hostess at almost any kind of event from a Fourth of July picnic in a town square to a gala at the country club. She’d campaigned in factories and bowling alleys as readily as antebellum estates. She could make polite small talk with people she’d never seen before and would never see again, leaving each one convinced they were indelibly etched on her memory. It was easy enough to convince herself that unless Paul dragged in homicidal maniacs, she could maintain her aplomb.
In addition, planning a party for thirty people in her own home should be a piece of cake. She’d learned from a master. Her mother approached entertaining with the skill of a tactical expert in a military command post. Gabrielle knew all about guest lists and food quantities and wine selection. What she didn’t know about, of course, were the tastes of Paul’s friends.
It was the unknown factor, combined with the stakes, that gave all of her careful planning an edge of panic. A full week before the Saturday night party, she found herself filling a grocery cart with six different beers—imported and domestic, light and regular—because she had no idea which one Paul’s friends might like. She bought pâté and little quiches at a gourmet French bakery, then in a frenzy of uncertainty added bags of potato chips and pretzels to the menu. She polished her silver, then decided to use Paul’s stainless steel flatware. She went through the closet and picked out a basic designer dress suitable for any occasion, then changed her mind and dragged out comfortable jeans and a handknit sweater.
Unless she asked him a direct question, Paul virtually ignored the preparations. On Saturday his contribution was a trip to the corner for ice, which he dumped in the tub—before she’d had her bath. At her scowl of displeasure, he took it back out and stored it in the already crammed refrigerator. Later, as he returned the ice to the tub and added the assorted six packs of beer, she caught him grinning.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, glowering. She was in no mood for amusement at her expense.
“You could open a bar with this variety.”
“If you’d offered any suggestions, I might not have had to buy a little of everything.”
“My friends will drink whatever’s available. Won’t yours?” he inquired.
“Go to hell.”
The evening was certainly getting off to a stellar start, she thought as she put the finishing touches on a clam dip surrounded by chilled vegetables. Even the disparate guests were likely to get along better than the host and hostess. She absentmindedly snapped a carrot stick in two, then threw the pieces into the trash in disgust.
“Gaby.”
“What?”
“This is not worth having a nervous breakdown over.”
“Isn’t it? You’re hoping everyone will have a rotten time, just so you can say I told you so and move out of here with a clear conscience.”
He came up close behind her and slid his arms around her waist. The fresh, tangy scent of his after-shave teased her senses. “No. I’m not.”
“You are.” She turned around in his embrace so she could read his expression. “And I want your friends to like me. I really do, but if they don’t, it shouldn’t have anything to do with what’s happening between us. I’m not worried about what my friends think of you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“How many of your friends did you invite?”
“Okay. I only invited a few, but I don’t have that many close friends here anyway. Ted and Kathy were the only couple I got really close to and Jeff was an office pal. They’re the only people I’ve stayed in touch with. And no matter what you think, I am not a believer in the old adage that you can judge a person by the friends he keeps. People develop relationships—and marriages, for that matter—for all sorts of reasons.”
“I know that,” he said with a sigh.
Despite the reassuring words, the tone wasn’t convincing. Gabrielle’s feeling of dread returned as she turned back to the arrangement of carrot and celery sticks. Paul left to put music on the stereo.
When the first knock came at the door, she tensed and wondered exactly how long she could get away with taking refuge in the kitchen. Despite the fact that she was never more than three feet from the stove, the quiches burned because she forgot all about them as she tried to hear how things were going in the living room.
She was on the verge of tears, infuriated by her own silly retreat, when Paul returned to the kitchen for beers for the first arrivals.
“What’s wrong?” he asked at once.
“I burned the quiches.”
“There’s enough food in there to feed all the homeless in Manhattan. Don’t worry about the quiches. Just come on out.”
She shook her head.
He stared at her. “Why not? I thought you were going to stop worrying about how well everyone got along and just enjoy this party. I thought you wanted to prove something to me tonight.”
She glared at him. Talk about throwing down the gauntlet or hoisting her with her own petard. The man had a particularly nasty habit of throwing her words back in her face.
“Let’s go,” she said determinedly, aware that there was an unmistakable note of doom in her voice.
Once in the living room she noticed that people actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. Jeff Lyons, who was handsome, funny and gay, was discussing racketball with one of Paul’s friends. Ted and Kathy waved from across the room, where they were talking to a young blond man she
