She frowns.
“There isn’t any party,” I say. “My wife went away.”
“You’re kidding,” the caterer says.
Now I am looking past her, at her car, with the lights blinking. The boy is not in the front seat. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says, dropping her eyes. “I actually—I thought that you might need help, that I’d pitch in for a while.”
I frown.
“I know that sounds funny,” she says, “but I’m new in this business and I’m trying to make a good impression.” She is still not looking at me. “I used to work in the bursar’s office at the community college,” she says, “and I hated that. So I figured that if I could get enough work as a caterer . . .”
“Well, come in,” I say, standing aside.
For some time, bugs have been flying into the house.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I’m sorry there’s trouble. I just thought . . .”
“Come have a drink,” I say. “Really. Come in and have a drink.”
She looks at her car. “Just a minute,” she says. She goes down the walkway. She turns off the lights and locks the car. She comes back up the walk.
“My husband said I shouldn’t butt in,” she says. “He says that I try too hard to please and when you let people know you’re eager you’ll never get what you want.”
“His philosophy aside,” I say, “please come in and have a drink.”
“I thought your wife seemed edgy,” the caterer says. “I thought she was nervous about having such a big party. That she might be grateful for some help.”
She hesitates, then steps in.
“Well,” I say, throwing up my hands.
She laughs nervously. Then I laugh.
“Wine?” I say, pointing to the windowsill.
“That would be fine. Thank you,” she says.
She sits, and I pour her a glass of wine and carry it to her.
“Oh, I could have gotten that. What am I—”
“Sit still,” I say. “I’ve got to be the host for somebody, right?”
I pour myself a bourbon and take a few ice cubes out of the ice bucket with my fingers and drop them in the glass.
“Do you want to talk about it?” the caterer says.
“I don’t know what to say,” I say. I move the ice around in my glass with one finger.
“I came here from Colorado,” she says. “This place seems odd to me. Uptight, or something.” She clears her throat. “Maybe it’s not,” she says. “I mean, obviously you never know—”
“What’s really going on with other people,” I say, finishing the sentence for her. “Case in point,” I say, raising my glass.
“Will she come back?” the caterer asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We’ve quarreled before, certainly.” I take a sip of bourbon. “Of course, this wasn’t a quarrel. It was sort of a prank on her part, I guess you’d say.”
“It is sort of funny,” the caterer says. “She told you all those people were invited and—”
I nod, cutting her off.
“Funny if it’s not you, I mean,” she says.
I take another sip of my drink. I look at the caterer. She is a thin young woman. It doesn’t seem she could have any particular interest in food herself. She is actually quite pretty, in a plain way.
We sit in silence for a while. I can hear squeals from next door, and am sure she hears them too. From where I sit, I can see out the window. The lightning bugs make brief pinpoints of light. From where she sits, the caterer can only see me. She looks at me, at her drink, and back at me.
“I don’t mean that this should matter very much to you,” she says, “but I think it’s good for me to see that things aren’t necessarily what they seem. I mean, maybe this town is an okay place to be. I mean, as complicated as any other town. Maybe I just have it unfairly stereotyped.” She takes another drink. “I didn’t really want to leave Colorado,” she says. “I was a ski instructor there. The man I live with—he’s not really my husband—he and I were going to start a restaurant here, but it fell through. He’s got a lot of friends in this area, and his son, so here we are. His son lives here with his mother—my friend’s ex. I hardly know anybody.”
I get the bottle and pour her another glass of wine. I take a last sip of my drink, rattle the ice cubes, and fill my own glass with wine. I put the bottle on the floor.
“I’m sorry I stumbled in on this. My being here must embarrass you,” she says.
“Not true,” I say, half meaning it. “I’m glad to see somebody.”
She turns and looks over her shoulder. “Do you think your wife is going to come back?” she says.
