NOW
On Sunday, Robert and Jason took the boys to a Seahawks game. At first, Frances had objected—it was too expensive, Marcus would be overstimulated—but both her husband and son were incredibly excited, and Robert had gotten some sort of deal on tickets through a colleague. (Frances privately wondered if there really was a connected colleague or if Robert was subsidizing the ticket price himself.) Ultimately, she didn’t have the heart to object.
Kate was coming over today. They were going to put on the football game to see if they could spot the boys in the crowd, though Frances knew they’d be so engrossed in conversation that they could easily miss them. Frances had relegated Jason’s flirting suppositions to a dusty room in the back of her mind and closed the door on them. She’d seen Kate several times since the dinner party, and her friend had acted perfectly normal. If Kate had really come on to Frances’s husband, surely there would be some residual awkwardness? Even Jason agreed: he must have misread Kate’s behavior.
Her companion was due any minute. Frances surveyed the state of her living room. She had made a significant dent in the clutter as of late, and had invested in some cheap but colorful throw pillows for the worn, beige sofa. An expensive bouquet (Frances knew a discount florist) perched on a side table, brightening the room with its out-of-season blossoms. The coffee table was laden with their football party snacks: a large bowl of tortilla chips, a seven-layer bean dip (made with low-fat everything—she hoped Kate couldn’t tell); a plate of buffalo wings (Frances would allow herself one); and a bowl of cheese-and-caramel popcorn, just for whimsy. It wasn’t as good as Kate’s pristine house or her magazine-worthy spread of food, but it would do. When the doorbell rang signaling her pal’s arrival, Frances hurried to answer it.
“We’re making margaritas!” Kate said, as she swept into the room, bottles clinking together in the canvas tote she was carrying.
“Sounds great,” Frances said, taking the bag from her guest. “I’ve got beer and wine, too.”
Kate was removing her coat, but she stopped. “I hand-squeezed twenty limes. There will be no beer or wine.” Frances laughed, and led the way to the kitchen.
Earlier that morning, Frances had hidden all her countertop appliances in the oven, leaving a clean, uncluttered space for bartending. Kate dug in the bag and removed a bottle of golden tequila, another of Cointreau, and a glass jar of bright green lime juice.
“What a morning,” Kate said, as Frances grabbed ice, rocks glasses, and a box of salt. “I need a drink.”
“What happened?”
“I was vacuuming Charles’s bedroom and I accidentally sucked up his gerbil.”
“Oh, no!”
“I don’t know how the little bugger got out of its cage,” Kate said, rubbing a lime wedge around the rim of a glass. “I always tell Charles to keep the door latched.”
Frances poured salt onto a saucer. “Was it okay?”
“It was alive, but I think its back was broken.” Kate turned the glass upside down in the salt. “It was squeaking and wriggling, but it couldn’t stand up or walk.”
“Oh god, what did you do?”
“I finished him off and went and bought a new one.”
Finished him off?
“I put it in a plastic bag and smashed it on the pavement.” Kate clocked her friend’s horrified expression. “It was suffering, Frances. It was the humane thing to do.”
Of course it was. But the thought of crushing that tiny creature on the driveway made Frances cringe. Despite what she had done, despite what she had witnessed, she was not inured to death.
“Charles won’t notice,” Kate said, pouring a large shot of tequila into the glass. “This gerbil is actually Freddy the third.”
With their cocktails in hand, the women moved to the sofa. Frances took a sip of her strong, tart beverage. It was delicious but potent. She flicked on the game (it had already started), and Kate dove into the snacks.
“What are the odds that we’ll spot them in that huge crowd?” Frances asked, nibbling her allotted chicken wing.
“Almost zero, since we’ll be too busy talking, drinking, and stuffing our faces.”
“My thoughts exactly.” They clinked their glasses together and drank. “Marcus is still talking about the sleepover last week,” Frances said, setting her glass on the coffee table. “I think it’s the highlight of his life so far.”
“Charles had a great time, too.” Kate scooped up some bean dip with a chip. “We should plan a family getaway. Rent a cabin somewhere.”
“That would be fun.”
“Or better yet, let’s leave the kids at home and have a couples-only vacation.”
The door to the dusty back room in Frances’s mind creaked open. “Do you and Robert go on a lot of couples-only vacations?” She had intended a casual tone, but her question sounded pointed, even to her own ears.
“We don’t,” Kate responded between crunches. “I just thought the four of us would have fun together.”
“We would . . .” Frances said, biting a chip.
“But?”
Kate could read her like a book; their connection was that strong. Frances swallowed. “I wasn’t going to say anything but . . . Jason got a weird vibe off you the other night at dinner. After I went to sleep in Daisy’s room.”
“What kind of weird vibe?”
Frances suddenly felt sheepish. “He thought you were flirting with him. That Robert was okay with it. That maybe you guys were . . . swingers.”
An incredulous laugh erupted from her friend. “Oh my god!”
“I know,” Frances said, her cheeks warm. “I told him he was mistaken. He doesn’t usually smoke pot. It messed with his perception.”
“I’ll say.” Kate picked up a chicken wing. “Jason is an attractive guy, but I’d never come on to him.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
Kate daintily picked meat from the bone with her fingers. “If Robert and I were into that, I’d talk to you about it first.”
“Of course. I knew Jason had misread the situation.”
“If we ever were going to swap partners, it would definitely be with you guys.” Kate nibbled chicken as she talked. “I mean, we’re all attractive people. And our friendship is strong enough to endure any awkwardness.”
Frances felt both flattered and uncomfortable. “I guess.”
“Robert would probably love the idea,” Kate said, a twinkle in her eye. “He thinks you’re hot.”
It was Frances’s turn for incredulous laughter. Robert Randolph had never given her any indication that he thought of her as anything more than his wife’s friend, or Marcus’s mother.
“I’m serious.” Kate set her bare chicken bone on the edge of the plate. “He likes the voluptuous type. But he’s stuck with tall, gangly me.”
“Poor Robert,” Frances quipped, “his wife looks like a supermodel.”
“You always want what you don’t have,” Kate said, sipping her margarita. “I’m sure Robert would love to get his hands on those big tits of yours.”
Frances choked on a mouthful of tequila and lime. She coughed and sputtered, her face burning, her eyes watering. She was not accustomed to blatantly sexual conversation—especially when it concerned her best friend’s husband and her own . . . tits.
“Jesus, Frances.” Kate thumped her on the back. “I was just teasing.”
“I know,” Frances croaked, feeling like a Pollyanna. “Went down the wrong tube.”
Kate watched her struggle to compose herself. “Do you want some water?”
“I’m fine.”
“For the record,” Kate said, grabbing a handful of popcorn, “Robert and I are monogamous. I’m not going to let him anywhere near your boobs.”
“Okay.”
“Unless you want me to . . . ?”
Frances gaped at her friend, chewing her popcorn. Kate’s gray eyes were coquettish, challenging. Then a smile curled her lips.
“Gotcha again.”
Frances laughed. Kate was just playing with her, teasing her for having such salacious suspicions. And now she knew. Her best friend and her husband were a regular, traditional couple. She and Jason had nothing to worry about.
To celebrate, she reached for another chicken wing.