Free Table for Seven by Whitney Gaskell

wanted.”
    Audrey wondered if, for Jaime, the nice kitchen made up for the less-than-helpful husband. It wouldn’t be a trade-off she’d willingly make, but, then, other people’s marriages and how they worked were always hard to figure out.
    “What can I do to help?” Audrey asked.
    “Nothing at the moment. But it would be great if you could help me carry the plates out,” Jaime said. She leaned over to open the oven door, and, using a red silicone oven mitt, pulled out a pan of perfectly browned individual filets en croûte. The puff pastry exteriors were decorated with tiny pastry leaves. Audrey wondered how long it had taken Jaime to assemble such a complicated entrée, and how she’d managed it with two toddlers running around.
    “Where are your kids?” Audrey asked, leaning back on the kitchen counter.
    “They’re in the playroom with Iris,” Jaime said. “Fran dropped her off earlier this afternoon so she could help me out. She’s been a lifesaver.”
    “Does Iris babysit for you often?”
    Jaime nodded. “Yes, she’s great with the kids. And I think Fran likes it that babysitting keeps Iris from going out with her friends. Speaking of Fran … just how angry are you?”
    “Do I seem mad?”
    “Actually, no,” Jaime said. She spread spiky stalks of asparagus on a rimmed pan, doused them with olive oil, and then slid the pan under the broiler.
    “Good. Then I’m hiding it well. I have every intention of killing Fran. I just didn’t want to ruin your dinner party with bloodshed,” Audrey said.
    “I appreciate that,” Jaime said. “And I hope I can show similar restraint.”
    “Is everything okay?” Audrey asked tentatively. She and Jaime had known each other for a few years through Fran, but they had never been confidantes.
    Jaime smiled mechanically, masking whatever anger she might have been feeling. “Yes, fine, I was just kidding. I think everything’s about ready. Can you hand me that stack of plates there? And could you open another bottle of wine?”
    “Here you go,” Audrey said, handing the plates to Jaime before turning her attention to the wine. Jaime obviously didn’t want to talk about whatever was going on with Mark, and Audrey had no intention of pressing the issue. She respected a person’s right to keep her troubles private.
    “I THINK IT WENT well. What do you think?” Jaime said later that night when their guests had left into the chilly Februarynight and she and Mark were lying in their black four-poster bed.
    Jaime was making notes about the dinner party in an orange leather-bound notebook. She always made a habit of this after they entertained—what was served, who attended, notes on what she might do differently.
    The orchids were a bit too delicate looking. Also, taller candlesticks, so the guests can see each other better , she wrote.
    “Hmm?” Mark asked. He was, as usual, fixated on his iPhone.
    Jaime tapped her pen against the notebook. She thought the dinner party had been a success overall. Everyone seemed to like the food, although she worried that the filets had been just a touch overdone and thought that maybe the potatoes were just slightly underdone.
    “Did you think the potatoes were underdone?” she asked Mark.
    “Maybe a little,” he said.
    “Really? Do you think anyone noticed?” Jaime asked.
    Mark continued to stare at his iPhone. Then he looked up, as if only just realizing she’d been speaking to him. Jaime wondered who he thought she was talking to, considering they were alone in their bedroom.
    “The potatoes,” Jaime repeated. “You thought they were underdone?”
    “No, they were great. Everything was great. You outdid yourself,” Mark said. He patted her hand, and then turned his attention back to the iPhone.
    Jaime sighed and rolled away. The potatoes were underdone, she decided, and made a note of it. The chocolate pots de crème—each served with a dollop of freshly whipped cream—had been a huge hit. Will,