The Power House Wives. Fredrica Greene
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THE POWER HOUSE WIVES
A Novel
by
Fredrica Greene
Copyright 2011 Fredrica Greene,
All rights reserved.
Fredrica Greene
213 Trinidad Drive
Tiburon, CA 94920
(415) 435-3983
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0310-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
CHAPTER 1
Although she didn't know it, this was to be the last dinner Laurel would give for a long time. Since it was Indian Summer, the theme for tonight was Autumn Sun. Her centerpiece was a flotilla of chrysanthemums and orange candles bobbing in a crystal bowl. She was trying to surround the bowl with a dozen shot glasses each containing an orange mum, to suggest the sun's rays. But the flowers kept flipping out of the glasses like suicidal goldfish. It had looked so easy on The Home Hostess yesterday morning. She refused to be defeated by a bunch of stubborn flowers. With a final thumb thrust in the center of each flower, she shoved them into their glass holders and tamed them into submission.
Tonight she was entertaining Wes's bosses, his new protegé and their spouses. The table was set: eight gold-rimmed dishes, eight damask napkins folded into fans tucked into eight crystal goblets; eight place card holders Laurel had made herself - tiny pine cones sprayed with gold paint with hand-lettered place cards in each. After moving the place cards around like chess pieces too many times to count, she finally settled on the best seating arrangement she could.
Wes would sit at the head of the table, of course. His protegé, Hollis Peterson, and his wife could sit by him. Craig Armstrong and Nathan Lowe, Power House's CEO and CFO would sit on either side of her. That left Craig's young wife Caprice and Zora Lowe. The problem was Zora would be indignant if she didn't get to sit next to Craig.
When Craig was married to Charlotte, Laurel didn't have these problems. Charlotte didn't take offense if she wasn't next to the most important person in the room. She could start a conversation with anyone. Laurel was wrestling with the cards when Wes stormed in with a scowl and cardboard box.
"What's that?" Laurel asked.
He dropped the box on the floor. "I've been canned."
"What?" Laurel's stomach twisted into an instant knot.
"The whole fucking department's shipped out. "
"Where?" She felt woozy."I don't understand. When did this happen?"
"About an hour ago. Armstrong called me into his office and handed me my hat. Company's sold to an outfit out of Minnesota."
Her heart nearly stopped. Not again."We're not moving?"
"Weren't you listening? I'm canned, not transferred."
"That's a relief."
"It's a relief I lost my job?" he said in disbelief.
"You'll find another one. You always do." Laurel clapped her hand to her forehead. "Oh my gosh. Our dinner. This will be so awkward."
"Have you lost your marbles? There won't be any dinner tonight."
"Of course. What am I thinking? I hope it's not too late to call our guests." She knew she should be most concerned with the job loss, but she couldn't help focusing on all that food, sitting in the kitchen, going to waste. All the hours spent preparing for tonight, gone to waste. Setting her feeling of dismay aside, she went to him and stroked his cheek. "I'd better get on the phone. I guess I don't have to call the Armstrongs."
"You got that right."
Fortunately she only had to make two calls. She got the Peterson's answering machine and left a message. She hoped they hadn't left already. The next call was to Zora.
"Isn't this rather short notice?" Zora sniffed "
"I'm sorry."
"Where can I get a dinner reservation anyplace decent now?"
"I'm really sorry," Laurel said. "Something came up."
"May I ask why?"
"I can't talk now." Laurel hung up.
Wes was in the den pouring Jack Daniels into a tumbler."Dinner's ready when you are." Laurel was about to add, "I have a lot of food," but thought better of it.
"I'm not hungry." He sank into his recliner. "You and Justin eat without me."
"Justin's got football practice tonight. He won't be home till late."
"Well then I guess it's just you." He clicked on the TV.
Laurel had no appetite either. Oh my God, she might have to move again. She retrieved the roast from the oven, wrapped it in foil and stashed it in the refrigerator. Wes had promised this was their last move. Tomorrow she'd try to think of how many creative ways she could make it stretch over the next several days. Justin would have to change schools again.
She pulled the cheese cubes off the pineapple, leaving toothpicks sticking out like a startled porcupine. She'd melt the cubes for macaroni and cheese. It was never too soon to start conserving. The last time this happened, Wes was unemployed for four months.
She put away the nuts, the chips, the onion dip, the prosciutto wrapped, out-of-season, criminally expensive asparagus, dumped the marinated brown and white mushrooms she'd so carefully arranged in a yin-yang pattern into a bowl. She replaced the china in the sideboard, unfolded the napkin fans, tossed the place cards in the trash. She absentmindedly popped shrimp balls into her mouth as she cleared away the party that never was and glanced morosely at the chocolate cake topped with a giant blossom of edible chrysanthemum and nasturtium petals. She thought of the day like an empty sandwich, all bread and no filling. Preparation and cleanup, but no party.
She had flitted around the country like a moth her whole life, first with her parents as a military brat, then with Wes's spiraling career. She'd land just long enough to touch down before she had to fly off again. Nine homes in twenty-one years of marriage, always picking up before she could set down roots. This was the first house they'd owned.
Six years ago, when Wes joined Power House, she finally got her own home. She had planted her first garden: a vegetable plot, roses, and a lemon tree whose scent filled the room when she opened the kitchen window. She'd decorated as she pleased. No landlord's restrictions. She had sponge painted the dining room to resemble a Tuscan villa, papered the kitchen walls in a blue and sunny yellow Provincial print, and hung family photos in the hallway without fear of having to patch the holes or forfeit a deposit. She'd set down roots - not just for herself, but for her family. Justin had one more year of high school. It would be the worst possible time for him to change schools.
She was elbows deep in soapsuds, scrubbing the roasting pan, when the doorbell rang. "Can you get that?" she called. When the bell rang a second time, she peeled off her rubber gloves and marched indignantly past the den where Wes sat staring at a game show. Wes never watched game shows. Exasperated she opened the front door to find herself face to face with a young couple straight out of a toothpaste ad - blonde, tan and enviably fit looking.
"Hi, I'm Hap," the bronze god said with a broad grin. "And this is my wife, Robin." Laurel could see why Wes had promoted him to