Hand-Me-Down

“Calm down, Em.”

“I won’t calm down. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s harmless flirtation. They dated, they’re like siblings.” I shuddered, unable to believe I’d just said that. “I mean, not like sibling-siblings. More like cousins. Kissing cousins. No. That’s wrong, too. Anyway, it’s harmless.”

“They dated?” she asked. “Who dated?”

I glanced at her wineglass. “How much have you had?”

“Anne, focus.” She nodded across the room. “She’s half his age.”

I followed her nod. Dad was talking with the caterer at the kitchen door. Looking a little more animated than usual, but nothing sinister. Well, he was intensely focused on her face. Probably trying to see if he could identify freckle constellations. I expected him to rear back any moment and say: “There! I found Cassiopeia!”

But he didn’t rear. He drained his wineglass and chuckled as the caterer refilled. He gestured, offering her a sip, and when she refused he made serious inroads into that glass, too. Hmm. He wasn’t much of a drinker, normally.

“Ah-ha!” Emily said.

“So he’s flirting a little….”

“She’s half his age.” Emily lived in fear that Dad would marry a woman who was younger than his daughters. “She’s twelve!”

“She’s pushing fifty,” I said. “And he doesn’t have a chance, anyway. Coming on to a caterer is no cakewalk.”

“It’s not funny.”

“What is up with you? She’s just asking if he wants tabouleh.”

“You’ll see,” Emily said. “She’s already got him drinking. She’ll be bringing him waffles in bed, next.”

“Better than cold cereal.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Forget it.”

She stalked into the thick of the party and herded everyone toward the dining room, like a bad-tempered sheepdog. I watched her and sighed. A bad-tempered sheepdog who was feeling out of control of her own life. Her book, her family: Emily always lashed out when she was worried.

I trailed behind as I worried about her being worried. Her book must really be a problem. Maybe she’d told Jamie she wanted another publisher. I glanced at him, settling down between a househusband and a dermatologist. He was extracting his napkin from the napkin-ring, and he smiled when he saw me looking—totally unconcerned.

Maybe it was only my overactive imagination. I took a calming guzzle of wine and surveyed the room. The party had a Moroccan theme and the dining room had been decorated in casual Casbah. The room was lit by candles in the hanging silver candelabra, with other white candles placed among the fuchsia and violet silks lining the table. More silk had been artfully twined around the chair backs and gold-embroidered white pillows had been placed on the seats.