Even though I knew this was a valid question, the fact that I was wearing a Wish Catering apron, holding a rag, and on my knees on the carpet fighting a stain made me wonder if Mrs. Talbot was really all that smart after all. “Yes,” I said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “I, um, just started.”
“But you’re still at the information desk,” she said, suddenly serious, and I could see Jason in her features, this automatic concern that all be As It Should. “Aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m just doing this occasionally,” I said. “For extra money.”
“Oh.” She glanced over again at Mr. Talbot, who was standing in place chewing, his napkin piled with what, to my eye, looked like a lot more than two shrimp. “Well. That’s wonderful.”
I ducked my head back down, and after a second a woman came up to her, asking about some research trip, and thankfully, they moved on. I’d been dousing, then patting, then dousing for a good five minutes when a pair of motorcycle boots appeared right at my eye level, foot tapping.
“You know,” Kristy said, her voice low, “it doesn’t look so good for you to be on the floor like this.”
“There’s a stain,” I said. “And Monica just abandoned me to deal with it.”
She squatted down across from me, moving her knees to one side in a surprisingly ladylike way. “It’s very hard for her,” she said to me, her voice serious. “She’s self-conscious about her clumsiness, so a lot of the times rather than acknowledge it she just shuts down. It’s a defense mechanism. You know, she’s very emotional, Monica. She really is.”
As she said this, Monica pushed through the door from the kitchen, carrying a trayful of goat cheese toasts. She started across the room, her face flat and expressionless, walking right past us without even a glance.
“See?” Kristy said. “She’s upset.”
“Macy,” a man’s voice boomed from over our heads. “Hello down there!”
Kristy and I both looked up at the same time. It was Mr. Talbot, of course, and he was smiling widely, although I assumed it had more to do with Kristy’s shrimp tray than us reuniting. As she and I both stood, he proved me right by immediately reaching for one and popping it into his mouth.
“Hi, Mr. Talbot,” I said, as Kristy looked on, annoyed. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” he replied. “Martha tells me you’ve taken on this job in addition to your library work. That’s very ambitious of you. I know Jason finds the information desk to be a full-time commitment.”
“Oh, well,” I said, bending down to retrieve my cleaner and rag, as the stain looked, miraculously, like it was actually fading, “I’m sure for him, it is.”
Mr. Talbot, reaching for another shrimp, raised his eyebrows.
“I mean,” I said, quickly, as Kristy switched her tray to the other hand, “that Jason just gives such a big commitment to everything. He’s very, you know, focused.”
“Ah, yes, he really is,” he said, nodding. Then he lowered his voice, adding, “I’m so glad that you understand that, considering the decision he had to make recently about your relationship.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I mean, he is fond of you. But Jason just has so much on his plate. He has to be very careful not to get distracted from his goals.”
I just stood there, wondering how, exactly, he expected me to react to this. I was a distraction from his goals? I felt my face flush.
“At any rate,” Mr. Talbot continued, “I know he hopes, as we do, that you two can work things out once he returns.”
And with that, he started to reach for another shrimp. But as his fingers neared the edge of the tray, zeroing in, Kristy yanked it away with such force that a couple actually slid off the other side and hit the carpet, thud thud. Mr. Talbot looked confused. Then he looked at the shrimp on the floor, as if actually wondering if the two-second rule applied here.
“So sorry,” Kristy said smoothly, turning on her heel, “but we’re on goal to get out another round of appetizers, and we can’t allow ourselves to be distracted.”
“Kristy,” I hissed.
“Come on,” she said, and then she was starting across the floor, and there was really nothing I could think of to do but follow her. Which I did, not looking back, although whether it was to save my pride or save myself the sight of Mr. Talbot eating shrimp off the floor, I wasn’t sure.
Kristy knocked the kitchen door open, walked to the opposite counter, and put down her tray with a bang. Wes and Delia, who were arranging more wineglasses on two platters, looked up at us.
“You are not going to believe,” she said, “what just went down out there.”
“Did something else break or spill?” Delia asked. “God! What is going on today?”
“No,” Kristy said. Looking at her, I realized that I was upset, even hurt: but Kristy, she was pissed. “Do you know who’s out there?”
Delia looked at the door. “Monica?”
“No. Macy’s jerkwad boyfriend’s father. And do you know what he did out there, in front of God and me and everybody?”
This time, neither Wes nor Delia offered any theories, instead just looking at me, then back at Kristy. Outside, I heard Mrs. Talbot trilling again.
“He said,” she said, “that his stupid asshole son put their relationship on hold because she wasn’t in line with his goals.”
Delia raised her eyebrows. I had no idea what Wes’s reaction was, as I was making a concentrated effort not to look at him.