32. Homicidal Mangoes
HOMICIDAL MANGOES
Asher
When we reach the car, I toss Mark the keys.
He catches them easily, gives me a flirty, dirty look. “So you do want me to drive.”
I grab Mark’s hip. “Yes, I want you to drive tonight. Been wanting that the whole time.”
He growls. The look in his eyes is incendiary. “Me too.”
I dip my face to his neck, drag my nose along his skin, inhaling Mark. “Mmm. Now you smell like the beach. I like this smell on you.”
“Turns out, I like this beach,” he says, a little breathy.
I pull back. Meet his eyes. “Is that so?”
Mark doesn’t look away. “It is. I like this beach . . . a lot. ”
My gaze drifts down to his throat. Then back to his dark blue eyes. “I do too,” I say.
I don’t think he’s talking about the beach. I’m not either.
And there’s nothing to be done about that, except enjoy the hell out of tonight.
By the time we arrive back on Star Island, I’ve tucked this afternoon’s beach detour?in all its tingly perfection?away in a corner in my mind. Maybe I’ll revisit it another time, but we’re back to being the best men now, rolling up alongside a restaurant truck in the driveway.
“That’s for dinner on the pool deck?” Mark asks. “Hannah said Flip had called someone.”
“That’s right,” I agree, parking the car in the last available space. “His parents wanted to swoop in for dinner, so he called the Cote d’Azur Bistro and asked them to cater a meal.”
“We could have handled that,” Mark says.
“No, we could not.” I set the parking brake and kill the engine. “You and I are maxed out, Banks. Let’s retire from party planning, okay? Let’s go eat a meal that we didn’t plan, cook, negotiate, or shop for.”
Mark blinks. “Sometimes I forget that’s even possible.”
“Come on.” I climb out. “You’ve never met Flip’s parents, right?”
“No. Neither has Hannah, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, I can.” Just thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Dubois makes me grin. “Monsieur still does some consulting work in Hong Kong. And she insists on spending springtime in their house in the Dordogne. And they go everywhere together, spending the year circling the globe.”
“Wow. Sounds intense.” Mark follows me to the door of the mansion.
“You have no idea.”
The house is quiet. But in the dining room, three strangers are putting the finishing touches on a table set for eleven people.
“Wow. Do we have the timing or what?” Mark asks, eyeing the seafood salads that are landing at each place setting.
“We better have the timing tonight. Ticktock.”
Mark snorts and follows me through the open French doors.
When we emerge onto the pool deck, we find the whole crew.
Flip is chatting up Hannah’s college friend Yasmin, who must have arrived while we were gone.
Hannah and Bridget—both in sundresses—sit side by side on the edge of the pool, watching Rosie splash around the shallow end.
Mark’s parents look on, holding cans of soda.
Flip turns around, squinting at me. His expression says where have you been?
“Is everything okay with the photographer?” Hannah asks, rising to come and speak with us.
The photographer?
A beat goes by before I remember my own lie. “All set!” I say quickly. “I’d misunderstood her. She’s asked someone to take her other job for tomorrow so she can be here in person. And then she and I got to chatting. You know. Shop talk . . .”
Mark gives me a stare that says maybe I should shut up now.
“So, where’s Madame et Monsieur?” That’s how Flip and I always refer to his parents.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Hannah says with a frown.
“Was traffic on the causeway terrible? I don’t want to start dinner without them.
” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The caterer is getting cranky, though. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold them off.
Will you say something soothing to them? Use that Asher charm for me?”
“Sure, princess,” I say, squeezing her arm. “But I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
“Why?” Hannah leans to the side to try for a better angle toward the driveway. “Did you hear a car?”
“No, but look.” I gently take her shoulders in hand and rotate her until she’s looking out at the bay again. An eighty-foot yacht cuts through the water en route to the mansion.
“What the ever-loving . . .?” Hannah breathes as the white vessel aligns with the dock. A sailor, wearing smart navy shorts and a button-down shirt, complete with a white captain’s hat, jumps down and secures the boat to the private dock.
“Flip’s parents don’t do traffic,” I explain. “They will pay any amount of money to be conveyed in style and comfort.”
The sailor, using practiced, quick motions, ties a fancy knot on the rope before another dude in the same getup lowers a metal ramp between the boat and the dock.
I’m kind of digging the sailor studs. I think I’ve seen a porno starring guys in those outfits . . . How would Mark look in those shorts? Or ripping off that shirt for me?
I sigh happily. My mind is a wonderful place sometimes.
Mere moments later, Madame Dubois is being helped off the boat by Sailor Stud Number One. And then Monsieur appears, shaking off Sailor Stud Number Two’s offer of assistance, and hops down under his own power.
“They sure know how to make an entrance,” Hannah says. “Holy moly. I knew they were well off, but this is extreme. Mark, am I underdressed? Wait—you’re not the right one to ask. Asher?” She looks down at her dress with a helpless expression.
“You look beautiful,” I assure her.
“Besides,” Mark hisses. “This is your wedding, Hannah. You wear what you want.”
“He’s right,” I add. “Measuring up to Madame’s fashion standards is an impossible task. Flip’s strategy is just to nod and agree with her, and then do whatever the fuck he wants.”
But I don’t think Hannah heard me. She’s already wearing a sort of starstruck smile as she follows Flip toward her future in-laws.
After introductions have been made, the caterers swoop in to beckon us into the dining room, and ask for everyone’s drink order.
“I would like a kir,” Madame explains. “But the wine must be dry, not sweet. A Burgundy, perhaps.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the server says.
Mark asks for a beer, and Flip and I order caipirinhas.
“That is a vulgar drink,” Madame says, elbowing her son playfully.
“Yes, Maman ,” he says cheerfully. “But Miami is a vulgar city. And one must embrace the terroir of his surroundings.”
“Quite,” she says. “Now pull out a chair for your Maman. And what is Hannah drinking?”
Hannah’s face goes instantly pink. “A ginger shrub. The caterer brought me several nonalcoholic choices.”
“Pity.” She snaps her fingers at the server. “Bring Hannah a proper glass of pinot noir. It thickens the blood,” she explains. “I drank wine all through my pregnancy.”
“That must explain Flip’s tolerance for liquor,” I say under my breath, just to earn a snort of laughter from Mark.
I’m successful, so I count that as a win.
Hannah’s face turns even redder. The poor thing will have to pretend to sip it. I make a mental note to steal her wineglass and have a gulp when Madame isn’t watching.
One thing I’ll say about a party with Flip’s parents—it’s never dull.
My phone chimes with a call. It’s Lucy’s ringtone. I pull it out of my pocket as a reflex.
“Asher, darling,” Madame says. “It’s rude to handle your phone at a soiree.”
“Even in a vulgar city?” I try.
“Even then,” she insists.
“As you wish,” I say to her in French, then tuck my phone back in my pocket.
Mark and I take turns ducking out of the room to change out of our ocean-scented swim trunks, then return to the dining room.
The seating arrangements at the table place me at the end, where I have a view of all the drama.
All the Duboises are seated on one side of the table, and all the Bankses on the other.
The contrast is like something out of Schitt’s Creek .
“Does anyone know what these yellow things are in my salad?” Mrs. Banks asks.
“Mangoes,” Mark says, patting his mom’s hand. “They’re delicious.”
“Have you never had mango?” Monsieur gasps. “I was once almost killed by a mango. We were biking in Hawaii . . .”
“Fiji,” his wife corrects.
“. . . And I stopped to fiddle with my backpack . . .”
“Your shoelace .”
“. . . When I heard this whistle near my ear. Like the sound of a mortar shell flying past. Then a loud smack , and the biggest, ripest mango I’ve ever seen had made a crater in the earth right next to my bike. It fell from a fifty-foot tree. I swear, it could have brained me.”
“I don’t think we have mangoes in Ohio,” muses Mrs. Banks.
“At least, not homicidal ones,” Mark snickers.
“Did you eat it?” Flip asks. “Five second rule!”
“Of course we didn’t eat it,” Madame says with a shudder. “But they served lovely local fruit that afternoon at The Ritz.”
Hannah nudges her wineglass toward me, and I take another surreptitious gulp.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“It is my absolute pleasure.”
Beneath the table, Hannah touches my elbow in gratitude.
And on the other side of me, her brother puts his hand on my thigh.
I fucking love Florida, from the clubs to the beaches to the hammocks. Especially the hammocks. I never want to leave.