Day Forty-Five
It was time. Norman pushed back his chair and clinked his glass of champagne with a fork to get the party’s attention.
He stood and looked at the ragtag group he’d assembled around his dining table; as they quieted and looked his way, he placed one hand in his pocket to fiddle with the ring he’d stashed there.
His heart racing, he knew it was now or never. “Jesse,” he began.
In hindsight, throwing a dinner party was ill-advised.
But it was something they had loved doing before their move to the desert, and Norman thought it might help them feel like their old selves.
In Venice, they had prided themselves on curating their guest lists.
A city councillor or state senator might be seated next to a poet.
A local busker might play the guitar, while their accountant chopped parsley.
Not everyone knew each other, but everyone had something to contribute to the symphony, and the resulting dinners would sing.
After a hard sell, Jesse reluctantly agreed to Norman going ahead with his list. “But only if you invite the pet psychic. And if she can’t guess the menu, she doesn’t eat. ”
It turned out the actual guest list was much worse.
“You invited my mother?” Jesse screeched the night before the party. Norman was already hard at work on dessert, individual lemon poppy seed Bundt cakes he was preparing to put in the oven.
Norman held his ground. There was always a guest that made Jesse reluctant, a wild card who more often than not surprised them by making the night. Would that wild card this time be Gail? Probably not. But he was trying to foster a sense of family.
“Without telling me?”
“I’m telling you now. Also, I invited Randall.”
“Randall Randall? Our neighbor Randall?”
“Actually, I think his last name is Moss.”
“I know his last name is Moss. Why?”
Norman portioned the last of the batter into the little pans before offering Jesse the spoon to lick, which he declined. “Your mother needed a dinner partner.”
“Dinner partner? What is this, the Gilded Age?”
“I would like a dinner partner,” Lally stated, materializing out of thin air. Jesse jumped. She had taken to spending so much time in their guest room that they often forgot she was there. She gladly relieved her brother of the spoon, squealing when she tasted the batter.
“You’re growing a dinner partner,” Jesse sniped. Lally failed to verbalize a response given the spoon in her mouth, but she was not pleased. Suddenly, Norman snatched the spoon back.
“Ow!” Lally cradled her mouth. “I think you chipped a toof.”
Norman apologized. “I don’t think you’re supposed to have raw batter in your condition.”
Lally frowned. “My pregnancy is not a ‘condition.’ ”
To placate her, Norman suggested she invite Harlan, even though he still wasn’t entirely clear of their relationship status. Lally said she would think about it, which didn’t clarify anything.
“Randall and my mother, really? What are you thinking, they might fall in love? Get married? She made her money in a toy box, so she can live in a toy house?”
“Why does it have to be anything other than maybe she’ll have fun?” Norman dumped the mixing bowl in the sink with an annoyed clang. “Maybe we could all just have some fun.”
“I could use some fun,” Lally agreed, and she slunk back to her room to call Harlan.
“Is this going to be another gourd farmer situation?” Norman asked Jesse once they were alone. Lally had never really had much luck on the romance axis.
Jesse shrugged. “She seems quite taken with him.” Norman was annoyed that he was not willing to engage more than that. The oven beeped and he slid his little cakes in.
By Saturday afternoon they were ready to entertain in fashion. Or, Norman was, as he had done the lion’s share of the prep work. Jesse wore an overwrought expression while doing the bare minimum, his mouth slack as he folded cloth napkins.
“What’s wrong?” Norman asked when he noticed Jesse grimacing.
Jesse swore it was just a headache, and Norman gave him two Advil and told him to lie down.
He noticed Jesse taking three Excedrin several hours later before showering; apparently the Advil hadn’t done the trick.
He dressed and plastered on a brave face to meet guests, but to Norman’s trained eye, his expression was tortured and off, like an architectural rendering without any doors.
Luisa Flores, the English Department head at COD, was the first to arrive.
She was perhaps an unlikely guest, but after the wedding, where Norman first fully appreciated Jesse’s abilities as a teacher, he insisted Jesse invite someone from work.
And Norman thought Jesse’s return to the classroom was a good thing, something that had given his life structure while Norman was gone; he wanted to see it continue.
“My husband couldn’t make it,” she said when Jesse answered the door, handing her host a bottle of wine and pushing her way to the kitchen. She sniffed the air and found whatever was cooking to be agreeable. “That’s a lie. He could have made it. I didn’t want him to.”
Norman was hard at work in the kitchen, where he’d spent much of the afternoon blanching and peeling tomatoes, smashing garlic, and pitting olives for his puttanesca.
The simple act of sautéing chopped onion in olive oil was enough to transform the home.
He’d even come around on the ferns in the planter and was looking forward to company joining him in the kitchen.
“Norman, I’d like you to meet Luisa, my boss.”
“Luisa!” Norman exclaimed, wiping his hands on his apron before offering to shake. He shot Jesse a look. Oh no. She’s without a dinner partner. Still, he welcomed her warmly with a glass of wine, and she volunteered to help cook.
“Where’s Mafalda?” Luisa asked Jesse before turning to Norman.
“You should see him in the faculty lounge. He talks about the dog all the time. He must have a thousand pictures on his phone.” Norman wondered if Jesse ever spoke about him.
And their only photo together of late was the one Lally took of the three of them in the Hi-Desert Medical Center waiting room.
Jesse informed her Mafalda was in the bedroom, but assured Luisa they would bring her out later to meet guests. He knew Norman too well, as he then whispered, “Don’t be jealous of the dog.”
Norman was saved by a knock at the door.
“Oh good, you’re back,” Gail said to Norman when he greeted her at the door. She tossed him the jacket draped over her arm. “How was your visit to Mars?”
Norman responded with half a hug. “It’s good to see you, too, Gail.”
Harlan was more polite when he finally showed, but a half step off the beat—something everyone realized when he brought the wrong wine.
(It didn’t bother Lally; she wasn’t drinking.) He shook Norman’s hand vigorously, giving him a skeptical glance up and down.
“So you’re the infamous Norman,” he said, like Norman had been right under his nose the whole time.
Norman wondered if he was one of those people who erroneously used famous and infamous interchangeably, but somehow didn’t think so.
Harlan then squinted as if waiting for an answer to the great mystery of Norman’s whereabouts.
Thanks to Randall, Harlan wasn’t the only straight man in the mix, and Norman rushed to introduce them.
Apparently, the two of them had started off on the wrong foot when his neighbor had caught Harlan red-handed spying on Jesse with Lally, and Randall seemed suspicious still.
Jesse had to assure him it was water under the bridge.
Randall called Harlan “Impala” all night, and Jesse smiled with recognition; he wasn’t the only one who appreciated a good nickname.
Norman watched Randall pull Jesse aside. “I don’t think we should welcome him into the fold,” he said of Harlan.
Jesse, for his part, looked confused. “Are you in the fold?”
Norman stifled a laugh. At their old parties, Jesse would go out of his way to make everyone feel welcome, but tonight something was off.
Jesse even seemed less spirited with Gail, and so Norman begged him away to the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” Norman asked, and Jesse rubbed his temples like his headache persisted.
“Sorry. I don’t feel like myself.”
Norman poured him some water.
People gathered in the kitchen for bruschetta, which Norman served on slices of toasted baguette.
Randall eyed the open planters in front of the island with suspicion.
“Can you believe this?” Gail said, gesturing like it was a gaping hellmouth to the underworld.
“And that one’s supposed to be an architect. ”
“You should have seen it before,” Jesse said, referring to the old cactuses. He kept the wine flowing, and it helped everything except maybe his headache. The doorbell rang one more time, and Jesse took a quick head count. Everyone they were expecting was here.
He answered the door reluctantly.
“Jesse del Ruth,” the man said, and it took Jesse a moment to place the dashing Asian man on his doorstep as his literary agent, a man he hadn’t seen in person in years.
“Brian Leung? What are you doing here?”
“YOU’RE BACK,” Brian emphatically exclaimed. Norman looked up at the exclamation. He was the one who had been gone, but Brian seemed to be addressing Jesse.
Jesse seemed equally confused. “Excuse me?”
“Your new book! It’s one hell of a barn burner.”
For years, Jesse had been ducking his calls or making excuses, and he just assumed Brian had long since dropped him. “I sent it to you on a whim. I wasn’t even sure you still represented me.”
“Of course I still represent you. And I’m going to get you one hell of a deal.”
“Brian?” Norman appeared over Jesse’s shoulder, ushering the unexpected arrival inside. “What is this about a new book?”
“Jesse didn’t tell you?”
Norman tried to mask the hurt on his face; Jesse looked down at his shoes. They would have to get into it later.