IS THAT A DEAD BODY IN YOUR DINING ROOM, OR ARE YOU JUST HAPPY TO SEE ME?
Simon
This murder mysterydinner is going swimmingly well.
We’ve moved past canapes in the sunken living room and are now dining on a feast of lobster rolls and a fresh garden salad. The serving staff are keeping wine glasses full, and dessert of lemon drizzle cake is awaiting us.
Two dozen guests are situated at the long table in the formal dining room, all of them laughing and dining and drinking and speculating on who will die and who will figure it out, with the occasional question about when or if I intend to redecorate.
All of the furniture stayed in the house, and as my boys would say, the vibes in this room are vibing for a murder mystery tonight. Add in the thunderstorm that has rolled in since the evening begun, with lightning illuminating the windows along the wall overlooking the overgrown gardens that have not yet been tackled, and they are quite correct.
There are old plastic flower arrangements for centerpieces—no candles, of course, in deference to Bea and her siblings—andPinky found the most ancient lace tablecloth that perfectly fits the monstrosity of a dining room table.
Truly, the table seats all twenty-four of us. This room is large enough to justify coats of armor and national flags, as if it were a king’s summer palace dining room.
I hate it normally—the physical space reminds me too much of the emotional space in my childhood dining room—but it suits my purposes this evening.
Bea’s brothers have been entertaining Lana with stories of things they did in their youth so that she might be more prepared for things that our boys might do. It’s lovely to see her getting a break, as she looks quite on the verge of a breakdown if she didn’t have a night off from caring for her mother.
The parents of several teenagers are talking amongst themselves, sometimes pulling Lana or me into their conversation.
Daphne is flitting about, being every bit the agent of chaos that I expected her to be, which was what made rewriting her part into a ghost remarkably easy.
Quincy Thomas is sneaking photographs of everything while his partner, Wendell, chides him.
The doors to both the bedroom hallways and the bedrooms themselves are locked, as is my office door, as I was quite aware of the risk I was taking in inviting the man Bea tells me is the town gossip.
The potential rewards outweighed the risks though. No doubt the entire town will be aware of this event before morning, which is half the point.
I’ve once again put myself fully in the willful position of irritating Bea’s ex and his whole obnoxious family, who have continued to interfere with her desire to simply serve burgers out of a converted bus alongside the other food vans in town on the days when I’m not assisting her.
And then there’s the best part of this evening.
Bea herself.
She’s glowing. Her makeup is not nearly as pronounced as it was on our first date, and her hair is down instead of up, and she is absolutely radiant. She has allowed me to fully monopolize her attention, making me regret inviting anyone else this evening.
It’s difficult to keep my hands to myself as she and I trade parenting horror stories and while I pretend I’m not plotting every way that I might steal her away to mess her lipstick and peel that red shimmery fabric off her to discover if she’s worn the undergarment I gifted her yesterday.
Being near her makes me so very happy, and when she smiles back at me—how have I never known before how wonderful the world could be?
“Wait until your boys hit the quacking stage,” she’s saying as the temporary staff I’ve hired for the evening begin to remove the dinner plates.
I pull myself back to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“The quacking stage,” she repeats. “There was a week one summer where Hudson and Griff refused to say anything to me unless it was the wordquack. And it wasn’t as many summers ago as you’d think it would’ve been.”
“That’s…” I trail off, oddly at a loss for words, and only partially because my mind was occupied with fantasies of stripping her naked.
“Weird,” she supplies, her eyes beginning to twinkle as though she is aware of my thoughts. “It was very weird.”
“Wherever do they get the ideas for their madness?” I ask her.
“I think there’s a secret handbook for teenage boys.”
“Terrifying.”
She hums softly in agreement as she sips her wine.
