coffee table. Everything flew. The nuts barreled across the floor like large marbles.
“George!” Jilly ran to help him wobble back into his chair.
“Sorry.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” Jilly asked.
“No,” said George, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m all right.”
All the others were gathered around Pat, everyone talking at once.
“Stay there, please, George, and don’t move. I’ve got to pick up all these nuts before everyone else trips over them and we’re all on crutches.”
Jilly quickly sank to her knees—not as easy a movement as it used to be—and began to gather up the nuts and return them to the bowl. She had collected most of them when she heard Felicia say, “Mom, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Gathering the nuts,” Jilly answered factually, realizing as she spoke that this made her sound slightly demented. A childish part of her wanted to make sure everyone knew the scattered nuts were George’s fault, especially because as she looked up she met the sensible green eyes of Archie’s mother.
“Hello up there,” said Jilly, trying to make a joke out of it. “The bowl of nuts got knocked over and I wanted topick them up before anyone tripped on them.” There, she thought, she hadn’t mentioned George’s clumsiness.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Pat. “I apologize for showing up at your house like this, but no one met my plane and I couldn’t wait to see everyone.”
“We’re so glad you came,” Jilly told Pat. She set the bowl of nuts on the table and rose. “We’ve had a rather disorganized day because the men went off on mopeds and George had an accident.”
Pat turned her vibrant green eyes toward George. “An accident!” Pat said the word as Jilly would say “chocolate.” “How exciting. How did it happen? Were you on a dirt road? Was it hilly?”
George shrugged carelessly. “I hit some grit and wiped out.” He sounded as if this happened every day.
“Did you have to go to the hospital?” Pat asked hopefully.
“I did,” George announced triumphantly. “Porter and Archie were on mopeds too. They helped me onto the back of Archie’s moped and took me to the hospital. Of course we had to take a taxi home.”
Jilly was torn between guilt at not having asked George how he got to the hospital, and concern that three mopeds were dispersed around the island, driving up the charges on George’s credit card.
“Did it hurt terribly to ride on the back of Archie’s moped after your fall?” Pat inquired.
Proudly, George nodded. “I knew I’d done something pretty bad to my ankle because I couldn’t move it without pain, and the same thing with my wrist.”
“I’ve heard that a sprained wrist can hurt more than a broken one,” Pat said with sympathy.
Oh, brother , Jilly thought. All the others had settled back into their seats to sip their drinks and listen to George’s dramatic account of how he had “wiped out.”
“Pat,” Jilly asked, “may I get you a drink?”
“That would be nice,” Pat said. “Could I have a Manhattan?”
Jilly froze. She didn’t know how to make a Manhattan and she was wondering where she had put her cocktail recipe book and whether she had the ingredients for the drink in the house.
Fortunately, Archie came to her rescue. “Mom, no bourbon. We’ve got wine and scotch.”
“No bourbon?” Pat asked, surprised, as if her son had told her they all drank out of jam jars. Then, without waiting for an answer, she said, “Scotch on the rocks would be perfect.”
“Coming right up,” Jilly said cheerfully.
As she prepared Pat’s drink in the kitchen, Rex swaggered out of the laundry room, rubbed against her ankles, and meowed. He’d had his dinner, but Jilly opened a can of Fancy Feast and gave him a tiny bit more.
“Obviously we’re not going to the Howards’ party now,” she whispered to Rex. “I’d counted on everyone enjoyingthe Howards’ gourmet canapés and returning to the
“George!” Jilly ran to help him wobble back into his chair.
“Sorry.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” Jilly asked.
“No,” said George, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m all right.”
All the others were gathered around Pat, everyone talking at once.
“Stay there, please, George, and don’t move. I’ve got to pick up all these nuts before everyone else trips over them and we’re all on crutches.”
Jilly quickly sank to her knees—not as easy a movement as it used to be—and began to gather up the nuts and return them to the bowl. She had collected most of them when she heard Felicia say, “Mom, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Gathering the nuts,” Jilly answered factually, realizing as she spoke that this made her sound slightly demented. A childish part of her wanted to make sure everyone knew the scattered nuts were George’s fault, especially because as she looked up she met the sensible green eyes of Archie’s mother.
“Hello up there,” said Jilly, trying to make a joke out of it. “The bowl of nuts got knocked over and I wanted topick them up before anyone tripped on them.” There, she thought, she hadn’t mentioned George’s clumsiness.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Pat. “I apologize for showing up at your house like this, but no one met my plane and I couldn’t wait to see everyone.”
“We’re so glad you came,” Jilly told Pat. She set the bowl of nuts on the table and rose. “We’ve had a rather disorganized day because the men went off on mopeds and George had an accident.”
Pat turned her vibrant green eyes toward George. “An accident!” Pat said the word as Jilly would say “chocolate.” “How exciting. How did it happen? Were you on a dirt road? Was it hilly?”
George shrugged carelessly. “I hit some grit and wiped out.” He sounded as if this happened every day.
“Did you have to go to the hospital?” Pat asked hopefully.
“I did,” George announced triumphantly. “Porter and Archie were on mopeds too. They helped me onto the back of Archie’s moped and took me to the hospital. Of course we had to take a taxi home.”
Jilly was torn between guilt at not having asked George how he got to the hospital, and concern that three mopeds were dispersed around the island, driving up the charges on George’s credit card.
“Did it hurt terribly to ride on the back of Archie’s moped after your fall?” Pat inquired.
Proudly, George nodded. “I knew I’d done something pretty bad to my ankle because I couldn’t move it without pain, and the same thing with my wrist.”
“I’ve heard that a sprained wrist can hurt more than a broken one,” Pat said with sympathy.
Oh, brother , Jilly thought. All the others had settled back into their seats to sip their drinks and listen to George’s dramatic account of how he had “wiped out.”
“Pat,” Jilly asked, “may I get you a drink?”
“That would be nice,” Pat said. “Could I have a Manhattan?”
Jilly froze. She didn’t know how to make a Manhattan and she was wondering where she had put her cocktail recipe book and whether she had the ingredients for the drink in the house.
Fortunately, Archie came to her rescue. “Mom, no bourbon. We’ve got wine and scotch.”
“No bourbon?” Pat asked, surprised, as if her son had told her they all drank out of jam jars. Then, without waiting for an answer, she said, “Scotch on the rocks would be perfect.”
“Coming right up,” Jilly said cheerfully.
As she prepared Pat’s drink in the kitchen, Rex swaggered out of the laundry room, rubbed against her ankles, and meowed. He’d had his dinner, but Jilly opened a can of Fancy Feast and gave him a tiny bit more.
“Obviously we’re not going to the Howards’ party now,” she whispered to Rex. “I’d counted on everyone enjoyingthe Howards’ gourmet canapés and returning to the
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