Wimbledon, Kentucky Page 6

  Bill shot her a sideways glance, then asked, “Which people?”

  “Frank Leinenkugel.”

  Bill nodded his head approvingly. “Great guy. Wise as anybody around. Well done, Laurel.”

  “Melanie Johnston.”

  “You mean she’s actually agreed to come? Does her husband know about this?”

  Laurel set down the knife she was using to chop lettuce and turned to Bill. “You act like a woman can’t do anything without her husband’s approval.”

  “Well, that’s obviously not true.”

  “Do you want to know who else is coming or not?”

  “Sure, even though there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

  “You’re right. Bret Hammersmith should be—”

  “Bret?” Bill said, chuckling. “Oh, you’ve really done it, Laurel. I’m not even mad anymore. You’ve gone and set yourself up for trouble. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, inviting Bret to discuss anything even semi-controversial. He’s the craziest, most biased person in town…except for maybe that Knowles kook.”

  “Oh yes, Knowles. He’ll be here as well.”

  Every feature on Bill’s face suddenly sagged. “I hope that’s a joke.”

  “Trust me, Bill, I didn’t want to invite him any more than you—”

  “No. Because I wouldn’t have invited him at all. I can’t stand that man. He’s one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met. Runs his mouth without knowing about a damn thing that comes out of it. He’s almost as incoherent as that woman you work with. What’s her name?”

  “Georgina.”

  “Yeah, he’s almost as bad as her. Not quite, but close. At least he does something to try to fix all the things he complains about, always out there protesting and whatnot. Annoying as hell, but at least he’s doing something about it. Greta, or whatever her name is, doesn’t do a thing. She just sits there cutting hair and complains about this and that. You know that’s why I never come into the salon anymore. That woman. That worthless…vacuous…mindless…”

  “Bill?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t let me finish who all is coming tonight.”

  Bill wasn’t sure how he’d gotten onto another rant about that insufferable gossip, but he regained his composure and turned his attention back to their original topic. “Right, right. The guest list. Who else is coming?”

  She cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything, instead returning to her chopping, and slowly, slowly Bill’s expression began to change as comprehension dawned. “Yes…? Wait…did you? You did, didn’t you? How could you? Why in God’s name would you do that? You would!”

  He stormed out of the room.

  Now that that was done with, Laurel could move on to fussing over her dressing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN PLANNING PARTIES OR SHINDIGS of any variety, one must consider the full spectrum of the guest list, find the two people least likely to get along, and plan on having them be the first to show up. Laurel didn’t know about this rule, so when the doorbell rang as the first guests arrived, she wasn’t ready for the tangible waves of disdain passing between Bret Hammersmith and Jack Knowles. Nor was she ready for Malcolm Goldman to be slouching somewhere in Bret’s shadow.

  “Oh, you brought a guest,” Laurel said to Bret, trying to sound delighted when all she could think about was how she’d only made enough portions for five guests. Bret’s plus-one just messed up everything.

  “Yeah, he’s with me,” Bret grunted.

  “I’m sorry, Bret, but I just don’t want any media involved in the decision making. I think we need to come to a conclusion behind closed doors. I don’t want every little thing being relayed back to the world.”

  Bret nodded. “That’s smart. I get that. But you have my word that he isn’t bugged. I’ve already checked him out. He’s a good kid. He’s not a threat.”

  “Well…”

  “You have my word.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Bret pushed himself ahead of Jack and dragged Malcolm in behind him.

  Suddenly a man popped out from behind a bush right next to the porch and tried to act like he hadn’t just popped out from behind a bush right next to the porch, saying, “And I’m with him.” The man pointed to Jack.

  Jack jumped and whirled around, not expecting a voice to suddenly appear behind him.

  Laurel just shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Thornton, there’s no way you’re coming in.”

  Eugene Thornton tried to brush a twig off of his suit without anyone noticing. “But I’m with him. I’m with Jack Knowles. I’m his plus-one.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. There are no plus-ones at this party.”

  Eugene looked indignant. “But you just let in Malcolm Goldman. And now you’re not letting me in? This is political bias if I’ve ever seen it!”

  Laurel smiled, remaining sweet and calm on the surface. “Oh no, Mr. Thornton, I believe you have the wrong idea. I’m not politically biased, I just think you’re a prick.”

  She motioned for Jack to go ahead inside then slammed the door shut in the reporter’s face.

  Neither Bret nor Malcolm had taken a seat in the living room when Laurel and Jack entered. Bret was scanning the room appraisingly, and Malcolm stood in the most out-of-the-way corner of the room he could find. As Laurel entered the room, Bret asked, “Is that your family?” and pointed to an old portrait on the wall.

  “Yes, that’s my great-great-aunt and great-grandmother. They were Italian immigrants. Came here after my great-great-grandfather’s vineyard burned down.”

  “Italian, eh?” Bret asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Communists, then. You come from communists.”

  “Well, no, I don’t believe they were actually communists.”

  Bret’s eyes narrowed cynically. “Of course you don’t believe it. Well, I guess it’s just as well, since almost all of Europe was communist at one point or another.”

  “But they weren’t communist,” Laurel insisted. “The vineyard was burned down by the communists.”

  Bret nodded knowingly. “Yeah, communism seems like such a great idea until it’s put into action, then you have your government burning down crops just to keep the people oppressed.”

  Laurel wasn’t sure how many ways she could find to explain that her family wasn’t communists, but she didn’t get a chance to try out any more before Jack Knowles opened his mouth.

  “It’s not just communist governments that burn things.”

  Laurel whipped her head around to look at Jack, hoping that maybe if she looked at him just the right way, he’d shut up.

  But he didn’t. “The last administration did it all the time. You don’t really believe all those wildfires in California were just flukes, do you?”

  Bret laughed. “No, I certainly don’t think that they were flukes, but I doubt that I think they were caused by the same thing that you think they were caused by.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jack continued. “Certain high-ranking conservatives were sick of all the liberals out there.”

  “More like liberals were sick of the top one percent,” Bret replied. “They just didn’t realize the top one percent in California is mostly liberals.”

  * * *

  Bill was up in his room, lying on his bed, once again thinking about Jane Green, who he would have married right out of high school if she hadn’t decided to become a lesbian, when he heard voices coming from the living room. He walked down the stairs, saw who those voices were coming from, stopped in his tracks, and tried to tiptoe back up the stairs without anyone hearing him.

  But Laurel heard, and wasn’t about to let Bill get off scot-free if she couldn’t escape.

  “There he is!” she exclaimed. “Bill, come over here and say hello to our guests.”

  Bill entered the living room and made a beeline for Bret, shaking his hand enthusiastically.

  “Good to see you, Bret.
Glad you could come. We missed you at poker the other night.”

  Bret shrugged. “Yeah, I wish I could’ve made it, but I was swamped with work, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know how that goes. Well, next week, then.”

  “Absolutely,” Bret said. “Absolutely, absolutely. I’d hate to miss a chance to rob you of some more money.”

  Relief swept over Laurel as she felt the tension lifting in the room. But then she noticed Jack Knowles standing awkwardly in front of the couch.

  “Bill, honey. Jack Knowles is also here.”

  “Oh, Bret,” Bill said, “I thought of you the other day when I was driving the kids to school. You know how you hate those signs that say slow children at play? Well, there’s this one out on FM 202 where somebody’s gone and punctuated the thing.”

  “You don’t say,” Bret replied, actually grinning.

  The doorbell rang three times.

  Laurel only knew of one person who found it necessary to ring a doorbell that many times, and apparently Bill had the same knowledge, because he groaned loudly.

  “I’ll get it,” Laurel said brightly, trying to remain a good hostess in spite of feeling progressively sorrier for herself for the situation she was in and the complete lack of support she was receiving from her husband.

  “If you don’t, no one will,” Bill hollered after her.

  Laurel answered the door and gave an exasperated sigh when she saw not only Georgina, but Gavin standing on her doorstep.

  Georgina looked confused. “What? Am I late or something?”

  “No, no,” Laurel said. “It’s just that I didn’t make enough food. It’s not you, Gavin,” she said when she noticed his dejected face. “I always love having you visit. It’s just…oh, never mind, I’ll figure it out. Come in, come in.”

  As she ushered them into the living room, Georgina apparently felt she owed Laurel an explanation. “Gavin’s just so well-spoken. And he’s got good Christian values, and that’s important. If our decision doesn’t revolve around good Christian values, what chance do we have of the world supporting it?” Georgina spoke in her normal voice, which was as boisterous as most people’s loud voice, so everyone in the living room heard her.

  Jack Knowles was the first to respond. “You know, not everyone in the world cares about Christian values. Half of so-called Christians are just classified as that because missionaries have come into their countries and tainted the native animist religions with bits of Christian guilt.”

  “Jack is right about one thing,” Bret said. “Not everyone in this world cares about Christian values. In fact, more and more people in this world want to see all of us with good Christian values die bloody deaths. No matter what solution we think we might come up with tonight, there are a billion Muslims out there who are going to want to kill us for it.”

  Georgina stood in the doorway to the living room, wide-eyed. “I was just saying that I thought—”

  Bret interrupted her. “I know what you thought. Forget about it. It’s pointless.”

  “And a little elitist,” Jack added.

  “But mostly just pointless,” Bret said, sure to get in the last word.

  Unfortunately, it was the last word said for quite some time as things became silent and awkward.

  Laurel noticed that they were all still standing and invited everyone to have a seat until the rest of the guests arrived.

  Bret took a seat in the overstuffed recliner. Malcolm found a place on the old chair they kept in the corner of the room that was mostly used to set down discarded purses and scarves. Georgina, Gavin, and Jack sat on the couch with Gavin in the middle. Jack made a point of leaving no space between him and Gavin, showing he supported Gavin’s alternative lifestyle, which caused Gavin to scoot closer to Georgina after he felt his personal space was being invaded by Jack. Bill and Laurel sat in the loveseat, and Laurel grabbed a pillow and stuffed it between her and Bill without even realizing that she’d done it.

  It was no less awkward once they were all seated.

  Looking for a diversion, Laurel grabbed the remote, turned on the television, saw her front yard, and immediately turned off the television.

  She hadn’t meant to say, “Oh, thank God,” when there was a knock at the door, but it slipped out.

  She jumped up from the loveseat and swung open the door to find Dr. Frank Leinenkugel’s handlebar mustache and the rest of him waiting on the step and Melanie Johnston scurrying up the sidewalk, looking hassled.

  “Can’t you get these reporters off of your property?” Melanie hissed as she squeezed past Laurel and into the house without any further hellos.

  Frank watched her pass, smiled politely then said, “How are you, Mrs. Sapphire?”

  A normal greeting, Laurel thought. Finally, a normal greeting.

  “I’m very well,” she said, giving him the stock response she thought he was expecting.

  He paused, looked her up and down thoughtfully, then said, “You don’t look well. In fact, I’ve never seen you look more stressed out. You ought to be careful, stress is bad for the immune system. You don’t want to mess up your glands like me. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

  Laurel wondered if it was the look on her face, how it’d gone from relief to bemusement so quickly, that made Frank erupt with laughter. She decided not to try to make sense of it and led him into the living room to join all the other lunatics she’d invited to dinner.

  Her anxiety levels spiked, sending sharp pulsating sensations to the space behind her eyes, as she wondered what kind of insanity could have infiltrated her brain long enough to convince her that this would be anything even remotely resembling a good idea. If she’d considered inviting this group to a dinner party last month, before the crisis began, she might have calmly asked Bill to lock her away, and she was fairly certain that he would have just as calmly followed those orders. But just that morning, the idea had seemed pretty genius. Her guests had seemed like the dream team for this particular situation, or as much of a dream team as Wimbledon could produce.

  So basically, she thought, the world is screwed. But then she shrugged off some of that responsibility as she decided that the world must have been screwed already, if it was dumb enough to put all its eggs in the Wimbledon Kentucky basket.

  She thought back to the day when she’d first realized that growing up in Wimbledon wasn’t like growing up anywhere else in the world, but what she remembered even more vividly was the day that she had realized that she would never, ever, ever get out of Wimbledon. That was… how old is Trevor now? Eight years and two months old. The day she had realized she would never, ever, ever get out of Wimbledon was eight years and ten months ago. She often thought of that broken condom as more than just the reason she was a mother, but also as a symbol of her hopes breaking. But that was the most metaphorical Laurel ever allowed herself to be after that day.

  The seating in the living room was over capacity, leaving Melanie and Dr. Leinenkugel standing conspicuously. As Bill began questioning Melanie about whether her husband knew she was here, Dr. Leinenkugel began to light up a pipe.

  “There’s no—” Laurel stopped herself before she could say, “smoking inside.” Aw what the hell. What the hell for anything, really? So she finished with, “…reason why we shouldn’t go ahead and have a seat at the dinner table.”

  Dr. Leinenkugel nodded then he stuck the pipe in his mouth. “That”—puff—“sounds like”—puff puff—“a good idea.”

  Laurel thought the pipe would have looked much more sophisticated if Frank had bothered to change out of his mechanic’s uniform before smoking it. But she guessed he wasn’t used to the norms of social interaction—it must be quite isolating, being an intellectual in a town like Wimbledon—so she excused him for it.

  Laurel guided them toward the dining room, counted the chairs, gasped, ran into the kitchen, and returned dragging two more chairs by her side. She scooted them up to the table and tried not to think about how crowded things
were about to get. Then she realized that she’d only set the table for seven, gasped again, and ran to get more place settings.

  As she scurried back and forth, Bill took a seat while the guests stood in a small bunch in the doorway between the living room and dining room, unsure if they’d been invited to sit or not.

  Laurel didn’t notice their uncomfortable body language until all the appropriate place settings had been made, after which she turned to the crowd, realized their discomfort, and yelled, “SIT!” much louder than she would have preferred to say it.

  Georgina and Jack, who were at the front of the bunch, gave a little jump and nearly sprinted toward the table like a couple of spooked horses.

  An assortment of “Oops,” “Oh, sorry,” and “Oop, just there…yeah, thanks” followed as everyone tried to take their place at the overcrowded table, bumping knees and elbows and brushing up against a few personal parts.

  Once they were settled, Laurel stood at the head of the table and announced the dinner menu in the most official voice she owned. She’d spent most of the day cooking and had blown enough money at the supermarket that when she’d come home, she’d thrown away the receipt first thing to quickly begin the process of forgetting how much she’d just dropped on the food.

  In short, she was looking forward to explaining the menu in detail.

  “To begin, we’ll be having a bleu cheese wedge salad with bacon and chopped red onions…”

  Jack Knowles raised his hand timidly. “Um…I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I get it without the bacon and bleu cheese? I’m vegan.”

  Laurel, feeling slightly derailed, gave a curt, “Oh, okay. Fine.”

  She was about to begin on the appetizer, when Malcolm Goldman raised his hand as well, if possible, even more timidly than Jack. “Could I just get mine without the bacon? I–I’m Jewish, so I don’t eat pork.”

  Laurel’s stare jerked from Jack to Malcolm, and she said nothing. She blinked twice, and Malcolm assumed that meant she’d heard him.