The F-Word

“I thought you chose the yacht.”

Chester swallows again. “This weekend,” he says, “the party, the wedding…” He throws me a beseeching look. “You’re in business Mark, right?”

“It’s Matt. And yes. Yes, I am.”

“I bet you understand cash flow issues.”

What I understand is that the guy I envision as Napoleon standing in an elevator with a box of detergent clutched to his chest has probably blown a small fortune to please his almost-wife.

I also understand that I want no part of a blood-letting.

Bailey’s hand is still in mine. I give it a little squeeze that means Please, let’s get the fuck out of here. She gives me a little squeeze in return, but it means Hey, I’m just starting to have fun.

“Actually,” she says, “Matthew never has cash flow problems.”

“No?”

“No.” Her smile would do the Mona Lisa proud. “But then, Matthew has a degree in finance.” She looks at Elevator Boy. “He was on The Street for several years.”

The Street. It’s what people who want to impress other people call Wall Street—and I have never once heard my woman use the term.

Chester—I can no long think of him as either Napoleon or Elevator Boy, not when I’m starting to feel sorry for him—looks glum. Violet looks—I’m not sure how she looks. Envious? Surprised? Angry? How about all those things rolled into one?

Bailey bites into her hockey-puck-on-a-bun and chews. “Umm. This is delicious, sweetheart. Try yours.”

Sweetheart? She’s talking to me. I lift the bun and chomp down.

“Good, isn’t it?”

I nod. For a hockey puck, it’s not bad, but I abandon it in favor of the lobster. Bailey turns her smile on Chester. “Do you have a degree in business?” she asks.

Chester shakes his head. “I have launderettes,” he says, so unhappily that I have to struggle against reaching across the table and patting him on the shoulder.

Okay. I’d never go that far, but I do feel bad for the guy. I mean, somebody has to own launderettes. Evidently, Bailey is starting to take pity on him too, because she changes the topic.

“So,” she says, looking at Violet, “you look great.”

Violet stops glaring at Chester. She turns her attention to Bailey, and suddenly I can feel something bad coming.

“Why, thank you,” she simpers. “And you look—”

“Oh, I know.” My girl lifts our joined hands to her lips and kisses my knuckles. “Matthew is always telling me how wonderful I look and I always point out that it’s his doing.” There it is. That lash-flutter thing. I can feel my gut knotting in anticipation of what comes next. “I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but you, cuz, but, well, it’s the sex. You know? Makes your skin glow.” She giggles. It’s the first time in all the years I know her that I have ever heard Bailey giggle. “Plus, it means no dieting. It helps you lose weight, then keeps you trim.” Violet’s mouth has formed a perfect O. Mine probably has too. Chester pretty much looks like a man fighting for his life, but Bailey’s not finished. “Although,” she says, with a little frown, “come to think of it, my Mom mentioned you wanted to take off a few pounds and don’t get me wrong, you look fabulous, but—” She looks from Violet to Chester and back to Violet again. “You don’t seem to have lost an ounce.”

Holy shit.

I stare at Bailey. She flashes another beatific smile. Then she attacks her lobster tail with vengeance. The rest of us watch in silence. When she’s done, she sighs, pats her lips with her napkin and looks at me.

“We’d better go,” she says sweetly. “The ceremony’s at—what time is it, Vi? Seven?”

“Eight,” Violet the Vanquished says.

Bailey gets to her feet. So do I. She loops her arm through mine. “See you guys then,” she says, and adds coyly, “We’ll try not to be late.”

Then we’re moving across the wet lawn, heading for the parking lot. No guys in Good Humor suits this afternoon, so I don’t have to make a bank withdrawal to claim my car.

“Wow,” I say when we reach it.

“Wow, what?”