for it smelled delightful. The lasagna would be accompanied by a green salad with champagne dressing and Pillsbury dinner rolls, both from the nearest Safeway. The packaging of the dinner rolls would be quickly disposed of even before their contents would make it to the oven. For dessert she bought a chocolate mousse from Trader Joe’s. She also sprang for a $50 bottle of 2009 Fayat. The second bottle would be a more affordable Calina merlot.
“There, Silvio will feel right at home.” She corrected herself, “Everyone should enjoy themselves.”
* * *
Standing with her back leaning against the dining room wall and holding a large glass of wine, Carol gazed around Barbara’s expensive apartment, at the eclectic furnishings – two mahogany, 1815 classical lyre side chairs, a brocaded satin settee, the large, Metro rug decorated with geometric designs, the two Chinese porcelain table lamps, the little spinet just off the bedroom door, an original Andre Masson that hanging above it, the small roll-top that stood on the other side, the two impressionistic prints that hung over the lyre chairs, and hanging over the fireplace, an original painting, “Gladiolus.” A comfortable, over-stuffed armchair covered in a 1950’s floral print that had decorated a corner of her grandmother’s living room for years was Barbara’s favorite piece of furniture, the only chair she sat upon, the only chair that was comfortable, homey. Carol’s eyes narrowed unbecomingly and she asked her friend, “How do you afford such a place on a restaurant manager’s salary?”
Barbara blinked, “Why Carol! You’ve been here before. You act like you’ve never seen it. As I’ve told you a multitude of times, I certainly couldn’t have afforded it on my salary.” She looked about, including the men in her explanation, “My grandmother willed most of her furniture to me, also some china and some trinkets. But I bought the dining room table and the roll-top…oh, and that small bench by the door.”
Carol mumbled, ”Isn’t it nice to be an only child?” but Barbara hadn’t heard the comment nor the odd jealousy in her friend’s voice for once again her eyes met Silvio’s and she was ‘gone.’
For quite a while, her friend was unusually glum. Barbara was afraid that her attitude would call a halt to her party that had hardly begun. She tried a tact that might put a smile on her friend’s face. “Carol, help me in the kitchen? I know that you can make my salad dressing a little tastier.” She whispered as Carol followed her, “You can tell me about John. You know, the exciting things.”
Her friend forced a tiny, unenthusiastic giggle but of any subject, that was her favorite.
* * *
Barbara raised her fork as a signal for her guests to begin eating and as Silvio lowered his lashes to scoop up a bite of lasagna Barbara’s stomach filled with butterflies; he was the most spectacular man she had ever seen. How much more wonderful would it have been to have him all to herself that night? But no, besides being such a chicken-shit she was nearly a stranger, a stranger who just signed his paychecks, so he might feel he had to be receptive to her advances. How horrible would sex be with a man who felt he had to perform to keep his job? Wham-bam, still got a job. He seemed to be very intelligent, and sometimes he glanced at her with a rather knowing expression that she found at once strangely frightening but also comforting in a man who was obviously new to this country. She wrestled within herself but she finally nodded. It was that knowing expression that gave her leave to pursue him without guilt. That night, though, aside from eating, drinking and conversing politely with him, she couldn’t do more, for Carol and John were guests, also. But next time. Next time they would be alone. Yes, and?
Though John’s hands were a little dirty and chapped and his broken fingernails only partly obscured black grease hiding beneath each one – a mechanic - Barbara had to admit that her friend had made a better choice in boyfriends than she usually did. He held his own at the dinner table and even regaled them with a few funny stories about his fellow employees.
But when Carol had finished her meal, taken a sip of wine and excused herself to the bathroom, John leaned forward and said, “I used to know someone who worked at your restaurant.”
“Oh? Who was that?” Barbara asked politely.
“He worked there a short time ago. Now that I think about it, your paths might have crossed. Mike.”
Barbara’s stomach tightened but she made a show of concentrating. She picked up her butter knife and rubbed at a non-existent spot. Obviously she remembered him. One doesn’t forget an embezzler very quickly. But John knew Mike? She lied, “No, no. I don’t remember him, John. But how did you know him?”
He responded, “He was my friend for most of my life.”
She looked baffled and her eyes sought help from Silvio. “No, I don’t remember him,” she repeated. No one spoke. The soft music seemed louder and less sexy.
John gritted his teeth. “Well, I—”
Carol appeared from Barbara’s bedroom. She looked curiously at all three. “Suddenly, I’m imagining three deer caught in headlights,” she laughed. “Hey, don’t stop on my account.” She set her purse down on the delicate tree bench by the front door.
Barbara exhaled. “We were just talking about…”
Looking at Barbara’s pale face, Silvio helped out though he probably knew nothing of what had transpired between Barbara and her guest. “What is account?”
Barbara eagerly picked up on that, “Account…account…” Her eyes widened, “She didn’t want us to stop because of her.”
“Then why say account?”
Carol laughed at that, “Oh Silvio. You’re so funny.” But John, with a disagreeable expression on his face, sat back and ignored his girlfriend’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
Barbara stood and before her friend could sit down, reached for Silvio’s plate, hoping to give him a peek at her cleavage. Her eyes rose to his face but she was disappointed to see that he was in the process of refilling John’s wine glass. She sighed. “Carol, why don’t you help me in the kitchen, again?”
With a little reluctance, Carol answered, “Sure, sure Barb.” She stacked John’s and her dishes.
Once the women rounded the counter to the kitchen, Barbara hurriedly pulled down the louvered partition over the counter, pulled Carol to the far side of her kitchenette and asked in a whisper, “What’s the deal, Carol? Why’s John suddenly so angry? The mention of Mike’s name got him real riled.”
Carol shrugged and carried her dishes to the opposite counter. She shrugged again and began scraping the top dish. “I don’t know. Remember I was in the bathroom.”
“You should have seen him. I think he knows Mike real well and that subject was certainly sore.”
Carol concentrated. “He hasn’t mentioned him before. Maybe he knew him from high school.”
“He said most of his life. I wonder if he knows Mike went to jail.” Barbara suddenly looked worried, “Hey, take it easy on that plate. It’s my grandmother’s.” She took it from her klutzy friend. “Here, silly. Give me something to do!”
Carol dried her hands and turned toward the refrigerator. “Dessert?”
*
