Chapter 12
Monica had told me the party was scheduled for eight o'clock, the dress casual. I didn't go outside all day Saturday, kept peeking out my living-room window expecting to see Larry. By seven o'clock I had settled down somewhat. If Larry was coming he'd have been here by now, I reasoned.
I took a hot bath to relax me, then put on beige chinos, a yellow button-down shirt, and a cream-colored sport jacket. I didn't want to be the first one there, so I left at nine, figuring most of the guests would have arrived and I could blend in more inconspicuously.
When I rang the front doorbell my heart jumped into my throat. Monica's smile allayed my fears.
"Glad you could make it, Ted."
I nodded and entered, closing the door behind me.
"The bar's set up on the back patio," she said. "Go get yourself a drink."
I nodded again, cursing myself that I couldn't find my words.
I ordered a Chivas on the rocks from a waistcoated bartender and looked around the large and rather ostentatious patio. Thirty or so people were milling about, many locked in conversations in groups of two, three, and four. The patio was constructed of decorative three-foot-square salmon-colored ceramic tiles with swirl patterns on them. The bar sat under a small white canvas canopy and was attended by two twenty-something boy-men in white long-sleeved dress shirts, black vests, black bowties, and white linen gloves. A high thick hedge surrounded the yard, and another cut across it where the tiles ended, some thirty feet from the house. Pleasant fragrances wafted through the air from the flowerbeds behind.
In front of the hedge that bisected the yard were several granite benches. Carly and Chloe sat on one with Joel and another boy, whom I assumed was Nathan Podloski. They drank from glasses of Coke, chatting and laughing. I turned my head before they could see me and walked away from the bar, continuing to scan the patio. Monica's husband Aaron was engaged in conversation with Livvy Bresman's husband Chuck. Aaron looked more dapper than I could have imagined, in a sky-blue summer-weight cotton suit that hid his pudgy body well, and a white oxford shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His hair, combed neatly from side to side, looked a little thicker than the balding pate I had seen two days earlier. His lined face appeared now to have a bit of a tan, in contrast to the earlier pastiness I had noted. He was listening to Chuck attentively, nodding his head politely, no doubt hearing the story of the prodigal son or some other uplifting tale. Chuck had foregone a jacket and was wearing navy-blue gabardine pants and a white golf shirt with a logo on the pocket. The shirt ballooned out a bit over his belly due to his small paunch. As I watched them, Aaron's eyes began to wander. When he saw me he smiled, and his sophistication immediately vanished in my mind. Once again I saw the fleshy doughboy body and sperm-slick lips of a few days earlier. My cheeks burned and the scotch curdled in my stomach. I looked away.
In a far corner of the patio, under the fast-setting orange sun, Crystal Taylor was talking with Greta and Clarence Hillcrest. The Hillcrests had lived in the house currently occupied by Monica and Aaron Beldham. They had moved out about a month ago, after Clarence's employer offered him a promotion that required relocating. I suspected that Greta hadn't put up much of a fight—our five-month relationship, started when her marriage fell into the doldrums, had ended badly. I think she expected me to sweep her off her feet and propose to her, saving her from a loveless situation. But that wasn't my style—at least the proposal part. I'd had to resort to calling her names—pig, cunt, slut—to pry her clinging hands loose from my pant leg. Shortly after that they moved away. I hadn't seen her since. Hadn't wanted to. A fresh pain bit into my gut at the sight of her now. Things on the patio suddenly seemed very claustrophobic. I had to escape.
I went back into the house and wandered into the kitchen. Monica and a woman I assumed was the caterer were putting the finishing touches on platters of hors d'oeuvres. Oysters on the half shell with little white ceramic tubs of seafood sauce; mini sausage rolls; California-wrap sandwiches of ham and Swiss cheese, and prosciutto, lettuce and tomato, sliced on the diagonal into finger-sized portions.
Monica saw me and said, "Getting chilly out there?"
It wasn't. I nodded anyway.
She smiled. "You're very quiet tonight."
"I'm a little under the weather," I said.
My drink was down to ice and water. Monica took it from me. "Why don't I refresh this? You can go downstairs, where it's warmer. There's a bunch more people down there. What's your poison?"
"Chivas," I said. "Thanks." I left.
The basement rec room was spacious and open, maybe forty feet square. A large wide-screen TV was mounted on one wall, with an elaborate-looking home theater system in a dark wood entertainment stand beneath it. The TV was off, but soft music played in the background. I was surprised to find a larger crowd down here than the one gathered on the patio outside. Despite the numerous couches and chairs, most were standing, creating a sea of people
In a few minutes Monica showed up with my drink and then left. I stayed by myself, surveying the room. There were quite a few people I didn't recognize, for which I was grateful. Being a high-powered lawyer, I figured Monica probably had many professional colleagues and acquaintances, and judging by the nattily dressed group in attendance, no doubt that was who most of them were. The overhead lights were dimmed low, a couple of table lamps providing spotlights on a few in the crowd. A fresh pain almost doubled me over when I saw Larry Taylor talking with Connie and Gary Macmillan in a dark corner. I took a large gulp of my drink.
In the duskiness of the room Larry's skin looked even blacker than normal, and his body huger. He was wearing the same outfit he had worn on our double date with Alicia and Mandy—gray wool slacks and a black silk shirt unbuttoned almost halfway. Connie seemed to be admiring his chest while Larry and Gary talked. Gary was a good-looking guy, friendly and affable. I never could figure out why Connie was unable to keep her eyes, and her hands, to herself. I doubted I was the first dalliance she'd had during the course of her marriage. As I watched her laugh at something Larry said, pressing her hand to his shoulder, running her tongue sexily over her lips, any doubt I had turned into a certainty. She had been equally as flirtatious with me, leaving the message clear, the invitation open. And I had accepted it and had pounded her pussy and ass every chance I got, my like of Gary be damned. I had never made friends with any of the men in Coventry Park. I'd always felt uncomfortable in their presence, many for good reason. The closest I'd come to any kind of camaraderie was with Larry. Until I'd set him up for the fall. That relationship was untenable now. I only hoped it didn't turn murderous.
Despite my fascination watching Connie's little seductive tricks, I melted back into the crowd to avoid being seen. I swallowed the last of my drink, and was surprised to find Monica at my elbow with another. She took my empty glass, handed me the fresh one, and said, "Feeling better?"
"Yes. Thanks," I said.
She hooked her arm in mine and looked at me with gleaming eyes. "Are you enjoying the party?"
"Sure," I lied.
The proximity of her body made me remember how tight her pussy had been. My cock began to rise in my pants. I thought I saw her glance down at it briefly before she said, "Can you stay until the end?"
I took a gulp of my drink and looked at her. The hour or so I'd already spent here felt like a life sentence. But I couldn't get the image of her naked and riding my cock out of my mind.
"I guess," I said.
