The Cocktail Collection Read online

  As they disappeared around the corner, I looked over at Mrs. White. She was smiling, but her eyes looked a bit damp.

  “Mrs. White, your home is beautiful,” I started, and she turned her glassy gaze to mine.

  “Call me Penny.”

  “Not until Simon does.” I grinned.

  “Mrs. White it is, then; that boy will never call me anything but. Can I get you something to drink, dear?” she asked, gesturing for me to follow her over to where there was lemonade, coffee, and—

  “Is that a Bloody Mary bar?” I asked.

  “Oh heavens, yes.” She nodded, sweeping under her eyes a bit with a manicured hand. “Olive or celery?”

  “Both?”

  “I always knew Simon would end up with a smart girl.” She winked, and poured. Lots of Mary in that Bloody . . .

  We sat on the couch and chatted, keeping things light. We discussed the design of her home; she was fascinated by interiors and had helped with every room in the house. We talked a little bit about the town, and how many years her family had lived here. Many. And since the men seemed to be taking a while in the library, we eventually moved on to Simon.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see him. Everyone here had resigned themselves to never seeing him again, after he graduated.”

  “I didn’t realize he hadn’t been back since . . . Well, since.”

  “No, he left that June and that was the last anyone saw him. He kept in touch with a few of his friends for a little while, but he seemed to need the break. We all understood, losing his family so suddenly.”

  “I’m glad he came back; this seems like a lovely place to grow up.”

  “It was, and it is. Gail and Thomas, his parents, were wonderful people. So tragic . . .” She trailed off, then turned toward the desk. “I think I have some pictures of them, out on their farm. We spent time out there with them almost every summer. Did you know the Parkers had a farm?”

  I shook my head. I knew nothing. He shared nothing. Not about this. She rifled through some drawers, then brought out an album. “I think this is it—yes! Yes, here it is. This is the summer Todd and Simon got caught skinny-dipping with the Wilson girls. Those two!”

  She laughed, mulling over the pictures. “Take a look at this one,” she said, handing a picture to me.

  I hesitated. Simon had never shown me anything about his family. Should he be the one to show me? Curiosity won out, and I took the picture.

  First, we must be clear: The word farm means different things to different people. This was no vegetable patch. In this scenario it meant rolling hills, a three-story house, and a picture-perfect red barn peeking through the trees. This was a Pottery Barn farm. But it’s what was at the center of the picture that filled my eyes with tears and made me want to hug Simon for the rest of my days.

  His father was tan, tall, and fantastic looking. His mother? Gorgeous. Healthy and vibrant, they stood with their son, just shy of his teenage years. He was at that age when everyone is all elbows and knees, but you could see that this guy was going to be devastating. As I scrutinized their faces, I could see that Simon got his incredible blue eyes from his father, his blinding smile from his mother.

  Though I’d never meet them, I’d never have a conversation with the people who shaped Simon into the wonderfully perfect imperfect man that he was today, I knew I was looking at an extraordinary little family.

  “Oh,” was all I could say.

  “So tragic,” Mrs. White repeated, shaking her head and tsking in a comforting way.

  I handed her back the picture, breathing deeply and making sure the tears that had sprung up were under control.

  She took the picture, the album, and tucked it away. Taking a breath, she threw her shoulders back and the rest of her drink as well. “Now, what in the world are those boys up to? Arthur? Where have you taken Simon?” she called out, jumping to her feet. I asked if she would mind sending me a copy of that picture. She smiled and said she’d send me the original.

  We headed into the library where we found another fireplace, with another crackling fire. Mr. White and Simon were sitting in leather chairs, with glasses next to both of them. Simon’s was empty, but Mr. White’s still had a trace of dark-colored liquor.

  Simon’s face wasn’t pale anymore, but his eyes were the tiniest bit red. As were Mr. White’s. They both stood when they saw us, and Simon crossed to me. I mouthed, Okay? He nodded, and took my hand.

  “I believe lunch is ready,” Mrs. White announced, and led the way to the dining room.

  She disappeared for a moment while everyone settled around an enormous table, with yet another cozy fireplace behind us. As she took her place across from her husband, I asked her if there was anything I could do to help.

  “Thank you, Caroline, but I’ve asked our housekeeper to assist us today,” she said.

  It didn’t seem at all out of place that for lunch that day, I was served roasted sea bass with fennel and leeks on white china, by a housekeeper named Fran.

  Old-ass money.

  Very sweet people.

  In the end, it was a really nice time. The Whites fawned over Simon and showed me pictures of him that were taken with their family growing up. They told stories, Simon told stories, and we all laughed a lot.

  Simon asked about the family that lived in the house now.

  “Very nice people, moved into town from Boston after they were married. They’re both physicians, had their children later in life. Two girls, eight and six. There are several new families in the neighborhood; it’s nice to have kids around again,” Mrs. White said.

  “That’s good. It was a good house to be a kid in.” Simon cleared his throat and went to the window, his shoulders tight. The window faced his home.

  The fire crackled and popped.

  “We should get going. I wanted to drive Caroline around a bit before we get ready for the reunion tonight,” he said, his voice gruff. I started to go to him as he turned. “Thank you so much for having us here today, Mrs. White, Mr. White. I can’t tell you how much— Thank you.”

  Time to go.

  Mrs. White went to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You come back anytime you like, you promise?”

  He nodded.

  We left in a flurry of good-byes and number exchanges. I promised to send them pictures from San Francisco when we got back home, and as Arthur and Simon were saying their good-byes, Penny pulled me aside.

  “You take care of him. He’s still got a ball of hurt in there that’s never come out, and when it does, it’s going to be hell.”

  I nodded. “I’m on it.”

  She studied me a moment. “I believe you are, Caroline.” She caught me into a surprise hug.

  As we got settled in the car, they waved from the front steps before going back inside.

  “They seem like very nice people,” I said.

  “They’re the best,” he replied.

  As we pulled down the driveway, the trees cleared and I could see the house next door. It was magnificent. Brick for days, circular drive, festive for the holidays. Trimmed hedges, wreathes in every window, even the attic windows under the eaves. An expansive lawn with what looked to be the original carriage house set back from the main house.

  “Simon,” I breathed as he slowed down just a bit. “It’s a beautiful home.”

  “It was, yes.”

  He turned the car away.

  Brain wanted to push it, Heart said leave it. I listened to Heart.

  • • •

  I wasn’t sure if Simon would still want to go to the reunion. He seemed so blue when we left the Whites, after having such a good visit with them. I think seeing the house had shaken him more than he thought it would. But once we got back into town, he seemed to rally. His spirits up, he drove me by his high school, the field where he played Little League, and the place down by the creek where everyone went to make out.

  I offered. Can’t blame a girl . . .

  But once we
got back to the hotel, we did share a shower. To conserve water, obviously. And to make sure my Simon had a little extra pep in his step, I dropped to my knees and sucked him off right there in the shower. Because I’m thoughtful like that.

  As Simon and I pep-stepped into the lobby of the Wainwright Hotel, he was cool, calm, and collected. With a touch of afterglow. Dressed in black pants, a white button-down, and a leather jacket, he was sophisticated but cool. A man about town, a globetrotter, a secret cat whisperer who would sell his soul for an apple pie. And he was mine.

  We followed the signs for the Newbury High School Ten-Year Reunion, stopping outside the ballroom to check my coat. As he helped me slip the coat down my arms, he whistled.

  “Babe,” he said in a low voice, “I realize I said this earlier, but you look fucking fantastic.”

  I grinned, spinning around so he could see my dress. I went bombshell, as you do when you’re going to your boyfriend’s high school reunion. Red skirt, black leather boots, and wouldn’t he be surprised later on when he found out that’s all I had on. I figured, go big or go home. And if he needed some cheering up later on, I wasn’t opposed to sneaking his hand under my skirt and letting him get a little touch.

  Now we were less than ten feet from the check-in desk, and as we neared the group that was gathered there, he stalled just the tiniest bit. I squeezed his hand, and his eyes met mine. Those sapphires were bright tonight.

  “Come on, Wallbanger, show me off,” I teased, and he grinned.

  We moved toward the desk, and when he told the lady his name, I heard a gasp behind us in line.

  “No fucking way. Simon Parker’s here? He came?”

  Word quickly spread, and by the time I had his name tag affixed to the front of his jacket, everyone was buzzing. Walking inside, I suddenly could appreciate the feeling movie stars must have when they get out of a limo at a premiere.

  Everyone was staring at us.

  chapter twelve

  We walked into the ballroom amid whispers and darting glances. The place was packed, young professionals decked out in their finest junior partner/corporate raider/banking magnate’s kid check-me-out clothes. And the guys were impressive too.

  High schools were the same across the country. This one happened to be set down in one of the wealthiest towns in America, but there are still universal truths. Every single one of the Breakfast Club archetypes was represented here, and a few hybrids as well. And they all had their eyes on Simon.

  Who was oddly relaxed. Once we hit the room, his shoulders went back, his stride lengthened, and he cruised. Along the walls were blown-up pictures from yearbooks: cheerleaders, football players, someone in a wig from a play, and someone in a wig streaking the soccer field. And there was Simon, up on the wall with a crown on his head and a hottie on his arm. Homecoming king.

  “I just got it,” I said, looking up at him a little starry-eyed.

  “You just got what?”

  “You were the shit in high school!”

  His eyes crinkled, and he blushed the tiniest bit.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned. I wondered if you’d show,” I heard behind us, and as we turned, a strange look appeared on Simon’s face. Johnny Wall Street stood there, backed by the Billionaire Boys Club. All of them great looking. All of them bigger than life.

  Simon looked at them all, narrowing down on the guy in the middle. “Henderson.”

  “Parker.”

  I watched the testosterone spark. If it had been a Western, tumbleweeds would have blown through. But since it was Wall Street . . .

  Cue cocaine.

  The tension only lasted as long as a chorus of Usher’s “Yeah” before—

  “What the fuck, dude! I can’t believe you’re really here! Fucking A, man— Parker’s back in town!”

  Wall Street backslapped a now-grinning Simon and pulled him into a giant, swarming man hug amid calls of, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about” and “So fucking stoked that you’re here, man” and “Dude, Tammy Watkins got new tits and they’re fucking huge, you gotta see ’em!”

  I stood back and watched as he was swallowed whole by this group of guys. I’d never met them, never heard him mention any of them before, but they knew Simon in a way that I never could.

  These guys were there when Simon was growing up, when his entire world was midterms and Jackass and getting some girl to take her sweater off. My money was on Tammy Watkins.

  And into this privileged enclave of white-bread preppies came the death of Simon’s family. And Simon retreated, taking the first opportunity he had to remove himself entirely, moving as far across the country as one can for college, short of Hawaii. He went into a profession that took him all over the world, and chose to live in his adopted city of San Francisco. The only tie that he had to anyone in this world was Benjamin, for whom I was more grateful than ever.

  But he’d come home, and this family was ready to make sure he knew he’d been missed.

  Simon grinned big, shaking hands and high-fiving with his crew, and then he spotted me out of the corner of his eye. “Caroline, c’mere—you gotta meet these guys.”

  The penis sea parted, and I walked to the center, where he stood. “This is Caroline,” he started, and I heard at least one wolf whistle. Glad I wore the boots. “And this is Trevor Henderson.” Wall Street stuck his hand out and I shook it, looking up into his handsome face. Warm brown eyes twinkled down at me, not letting go when I was also introduced to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

  I’m not kidding. The apostles were all around us. Was it blasphemous that they were all hot? No matter, Trevor was still holding my hand.

  “Seriously, dude, she’s smoking,” he said.

  Simon removed my hand from his, laughing. “Cut it out, dick.” This guy was harmless. And had good taste.

  “Come on, they’re serving dinner soon. You can sit at our table. You remember Megan Littlefield?” Trevor asked as the group moved together into the dining room.

  “Um, maybe. Littlefield sounds familiar,” Simon puzzled as we walked.

  “It’s Henderson now; she’s my wife.”

  “You’re married? Wow,” Simon exclaimed, shaking his head.

  “Yep, this past summer,” he said proudly, waggling his ring finger in Simon’s face.

  “Wow,” he repeated, and looked at me.

  I just laughed and crooked my arm through his. “Come on, Homecoming King.”

  We grabbed a drink at the bar, said hello to a few more people, and sat down with his friends. And I say that broadly, because everyone here seemed to have been friends with him at one time or another. As I sipped my cocktail, I watched some of the girls begin to circle. Simon had obviously been a big swinging dick around here, and I wondered how many of them had taken a turn on that swing . . .

  I met Trevor’s wife before they started serving dinner, and as Simon left me to go say hello to an old teacher, I chatted with her. Megan had gone to school with them, two years younger.

  “Didn’t matter, though; everyone knew Simon. He was the guy every girl wanted.” She sighed, a dreamy look on her face. Then she caught herself, and looked guiltily at me. “Sorry, is that weird?”

  “Nope, I totally get it.” I smiled, maybe smirking a little bit. He was shaking hands with an older gentleman, the teacher, I assumed. “So you just got married, huh? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks! It was great. We had it here, even though we live in New York now. It was just easier with the families being here.”

  “New York? State or city?”

  “City. So both, right?” She laughed.

  “And what do you do there?” I asked.

  “I’m not working anymore. I worked until we got engaged, for the Food Network? I was a food stylist. Anyway, once we started planning the wedding, it was just too hard, commuting here to organize everything, so I quit. We got married at—”

  I was seeing stars.

  “Sorry, I can’t even pretend to have heard anyth
ing you said after Food Network. You worked there! And you quit there! Why, woman—why in God’s name?” I cried, my jaw hanging open so wide it was a good thing we were sitting down. Otherwise I’d trip.

  She laughed and raised her eyebrows. “Let me guess. Barefoot Contessa?”

  “Yes!” I screamed. Everyone stopped to look at us, and I turned red. Simon looked over from the bar, and I gave him the all clear.

  I regrouped. “I mean, yes, I am a fan,” I said coolly.

  “Me too. She’s super nice.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  This time Simon excused himself from who he was talking to and started toward me, Trevor and the apostles in tow.

  I know it’s not logical; I know it’s not even physically possible—but I swear on all that is holy, they walked in slow motion. Like in some kind of action movie. Simon took point, Trevor just off to his left, and the rest slightly behind, like geese in a V. Everyone stopped to watch. It was like the sexiest train wreck ever; no one could look away.

  I’d say it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, but music from the early 2000s was on heavy rotation, and 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” gave the boys their own soundtrack. All I saw were the sapphires, and they were laser locked and speaking volumes. I was familiar with this Simon.

  Strong Simon. Authoritative Simon. Big Swinging Dick Simon. And on this, I could confirm.

  Wallbanger Simon.

  He reached our table, sat down next to me with an amused look on his face, and slid his arm around my shoulder.

  Oh. My. God. Simon Parker put his arm around me! Like, in front of everyone!

  Wait, this wasn’t high school. This wasn’t even my high school. But that didn’t stop girls from throwing eye daggers at me from all corners of the room. I smirked a little, preening with my shoulder candy.

  “You want to tell me why you’re over here screaming?” he whispered into my ear, and I melted. But before I melted totally, I got control.

  “Your girl Megan here has met Ina Garten, in person!” I announced, looking fondly at her. “You’re my new best friend!”

  “I bet I could get you a signed cookbook,” she offered.