you met Travis?” Michael asks, jabbing the doorbell.
“Maybe in passing at the office, but not formally. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup or anything.”
He laughs tightly. “That’s an odd thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.” I pause, listening for footsteps on the other side of the door. “Hey, I think we should come up with something to say that alerts the other we’re ready to leave. Something discreet.”
“We haven’t even walked in the door, and you’re already planning our exit?” He turns to me then, his skin ghostly white in the glare of the porch light. “Is there a problem?”
“No, nothing’s wrong, I was—”
The door swings open, cutting our conversation short. I force a smile, though my insides are eating at themselves. Rachael is standing in the doorway, one hand clutching the delicate stem of the wine glass, the other on the door handle. She’s wearing black slacks, a white sweater that scoops down deep in front, and a shade of blood-red lipstick that accentuates the plumpness of her mouth.
“Welcome,” she says, backing into the room, extending her hand. “Come in, come in. Colleen, you look gorgeous, as always.” She wrangles me into an embrace, kissing one cheek and then the other, and I suddenly feel sicker than before. “Michael, darling, always good to see you.”
She hugs and kisses him on both cheeks too, as I suppose is customary. But I don’t like it. She lingers too long. Squeezes his shoulders a little tighter than she did mine. Once inside, I take in the grandeur of their home and struggle to keep my jaw closed. The entry is endless and tiled, pure white with a glossy finish. A grand piano is in the office off to the right of the entry. On the wall in front of us, an ornate wrought iron cross and an oversized abstract painting splotched with crimson and orange command attention. Directly ahead, a staircase zigzags up to the second floor. I step down a single stair to a sunken living room with a deep mahogany hardwood floor and a sea of snow-white furniture.
“Here, let me take that for you,” Rachael says, stealing the tray from my hands. “Are they the beignets I asked for?”
“Dean came back for another hour this morning to make them for you.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m pleasantly surprised he agreed to it.” A wry smile turns up the corner of her mouth as she glances at Michael. “Travis is upstairs, but he should be down in a minute. Here, let me take your coats.”
She’s only gone for a moment before she returns as bubbly as ever. “Drinks?”
“I’ll help myself,” Michael says, and heads straight for the bar separating the living space from the kitchen. It’s stunning, with a hanging rack for glasses, shelves of liquor along the wall, and droplights that illuminate it all. “I can’t believe he bought it,” Michael says. “I told him not to.”
“Bought what?” I’m at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other on my belly. “The scotch?” I press, when he doesn’t answer.
He holds it up, ogling its label, stroking its sides as if it’s a baby who’s just been born. “It’s the King George V Edition of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. It’s six hundred dollars a bottle.”
I exhale heavily because I know what this means. They’re going to break the bottle open, drink until it’s dry, and I’ll only have two choices: go home early alone, or stay and babysit a drunk.
Neither of those sound particularly pleasant.
“You have a beautiful home, Rachael,” I say, joining her in the kitchen as she refills her glass. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Heavens, no.” She slides a glass of ice water over the island toward me. “Travis did. He’s got an incredible eye.”
Before I can process what she’s said, and the image of Travis that’s taking form in my head, I hear footfalls above.