Chapter 1 #3
As I was about to thank my team and ascend the stairs to dress for the occasion, Rory appeared. Though he was simply my husband, a regular guy, he was also the mayor, and people treated him like a celebrity. All eyes turned toward him as he approached me.
I feel the wind leaving my sails even as I introduce him to you for the first time.
Rory was still as good-looking as he had been when I’d married him.
In fact, he’d aged well. His gray sideburns and mild wrinkles gave him an attractive, rugged look.
That’s why the fact that we hadn’t slept together in more than a year grated on me.
I still wanted him. Did he still want me?
That was yet to be determined. He hadn’t yet dressed for the evening and was still in loafers, jeans, and a polo shirt.
“Smells good in here,” he said, bouncing his eyes from person to person and flashing his politician’s smile. Stopping when he found my eyes, he asked, “Did you overdo it again?”
Rory didn’t appreciate my efforts in the kitchen like many others did.
He didn’t hate my food. He loved eating it.
But the closer he came to “game time,” as he called it, the less he cared about food and such things, and the more he cared about us nailing our speech and creating an unforgettable party.
One thing I hadn’t considered when he first told me he wanted to run for mayor was that his appointment would mean I would also find a new role.
Like the First Lady, a mayor’s wife has tremendous responsibilities too.
In his opinion, working in the kitchen had nothing to do with being the mayor’s wife.
I didn’t like the feel of his question, but I had no interest in a public joust, so I simply said, “I think your constituents deserve the best, and that’s what we’re giving them.”
He nodded, knowing I’d won that one. Rory obsessed over many things, and if he became fixated on an idea—like that he needed me upstairs—he had a hard time letting go.
He rubbed his hands together and almost walked away.
I wished he had. Instead, his OCD won, and he said in a degrading and demanding tone, “I need you upstairs. We have a big night ahead.” He glared at me and made a motion with his thumb, a command to follow him.
The admiral didn’t take commands well. As part of my plan to get him back, I’d been letting him get away with such comments.
Not now though, not in front of my staff.
Not in front of the people who looked up to me.
Going against my plan, I looked him right in the eyes and calmly said, “You do what you do best. I’ll do what I do best. You may not appreciate our food, but I assure you the guests tonight will.
” Continuing with my own glare, I made a similar motion with my thumb and added, “Why don’t you go upstairs and prepare yourself? Go put on your mayor cape.”
Rory gritted his teeth. “Margot, stop playing house and get your ass upstairs. Right now.”
How dare he? I was furious. Livid! I crossed my arms and stared at him with angry eyes. Through gritted teeth, I said with fire, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
He bit his tongue, perhaps disinterested in continuing our spat in public. At the same time, I wasn’t sure he worried about what my “lowly” staff thought of him.
Verifying my suspicion, he said, “The rest of these people can cut up your carrots and your celery and pour some ranch into a bowl. You have an important job to do.”
I stepped toward him and put my finger to his forehead. “You can go fuck off.”
You see, I was unraveling.
Rory's eyes bulged, and it was obvious by the red flushing of his cheeks that he was not only suffering from shock, but he was also embarrassed. No one speaks to the mayor that way. “Be careful,” he whispered.
Be careful? I thought, chopping him into little pieces with my eyes. No one speaks to me that way, especially my husband. I will mop the floor with your face.
And such was the evidence of my plan backfiring. Though I’d bitten my tongue for almost a year, my discipline had left the building. Six months ago, I might have capitulated with a playful salute and a yes, sir, as if I were an obstinate child. Sorry, dear, I’ll go to my room and recalibrate.
Realizing how far I’d strayed from my plan, I took a deep cleansing breath, relaxed, and put my hand on his cheek.
The girls in the kitchen didn’t dare move, unable to avert their eyes.
I knew I might enjoy a round of applause from my team if I punched that pompous ass right in his pompous mouth.
Controlling myself, I patted his cheek and said, “Don’t be nervous.
I’ll be up in just a minute, and we’ll collect ourselves. ”
Rory nodded, left the room, and pounded up the stairs. Trying desperately to hide my plethora of emotions, I turned back to the ladies, and we finished our lineup.
Then I went to release some pressure.
“No one speaks to me that way,” I muttered to my sweet doggie as we left the kitchen.
Being patient with Rory was growing increasingly difficult.
What could I possibly do to calm down? I wasn’t ready to face him again, as I still had an urge to hurt him, maybe jab a heel into his eye socket, so I stayed downstairs.
I paced around searching like a crazy person for a way to find a release.
While glancing toward the bar in the corner of the living room, I found my answer.
There was a beautiful garland with glass ornaments running along the face of the wooden bar, but I wasn’t interested in my decorations at the moment.
My eyes went to the lines of liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar.
I focused on a bottle of Scotch. Oh, I knew how to get him.
The most apropos song in the world came to me like an early holiday gift.
The words rose from my lips. “A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, the medicine go down, the medicine go down.”
I rounded the bar and poured two fingers of Scotch over a few rocks in a lowball glass.
Humming my song, I walked into our laundry room and opened our utility closet, where we kept our medicine.
I reached past the more commonly taken over-the-counter drugs like Advil and Pepto-Bismol and found the prescription antibiotic I’d taken to fight through a debilitating bout of strep throat a few months before.
This pill’s active ingredient was penicillin, a drug Rory was allergic to.
Not so allergic, in a small dose, that he would die.
I wasn’t there yet. Not yet! But he would most likely break into hives and a terrible rash.
Philippe was sitting on his hind legs looking at me with wide-eyed wonder.
“Don’t look,” I begged. “This isn’t my proudest moment.”
He turned his head, as if working hard to translate my words.
I carefully pulled the gelcap apart and shook one half of the contents into the glass of Scotch. “That should do it,” I said.
While giving the devious concoction a nice stir, I started up my song again. “A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, the medicine go dooowwwwn, the medicine go down.”
It occurred to me as I left the laundry room that the Scotch might not be enough to conceal his poison. I looked at the brown liquid and then shrugged my shoulders. What the heck. I took a tiny sip. I never drink Scotch, but I knew that bitter taste wasn’t normal. What could I do?
Only one answer. I rushed back to the bar and scanned our mixers.
I removed from the shelf one of our mixology books written by a bartender in Manhattan and searched for Scotch.
You wouldn’t believe what I found! He had a drink called The Penicillin.
The recipe called for lemon juice and honey-ginger syrup, which I didn’t have and didn’t have time to make, so I improvised.
I have a thing for Domaine de Canton ginger liqueur and always have a bottle sitting around.
I put in a splash and then ushered my melting cocktail into the kitchen.
Offering a chirpy “hello!” to my team, I found a lemon and squeezed a skosh into the drink.
As I gave it one more stir, I heard Rory coming down the stairs. Those creaky steps had become warning bells. I met him on the last step and held out the drink. “I’ve come to make a peace offering.”
“What is it?” he asked with a furrowed brow.
I didn’t dare tell him the name of the cocktail. He was terrified of penicillin, having accidentally taken it a year ago to bad effect. Even the word would have turned him off.
“Scotch with some ginger and a twist of lemon. I thought it might make you feel better, ease those silky words from your throat.”
He thanked me and took the glass. I hoped he might apologize for earlier, but he didn’t bring it up.
No matter then. As he enjoyed his first sip and gave a nod of approval, I felt much better. Mary Poppins better! Where, oh where, were my white gloves and umbrella? A spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down…
“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I said, finally able to meet his eyes without wanting to throw up.
Rory savored another sip and replied, “Me too.”
I kissed his lips, tasting the lemon and ginger. I told him I loved him, excused myself, and made my way up the stairs.
If he wanted to play his games, I was prepared to be his fiercest competitor.