such enthusiasm that I could hardly interrupt to ask them if they’d care for another round of steamed octopus balls. But most of my immodest staring at the beautiful couple in the lip lock was camouflage. I hoped Verushka might decide that I hadn’t overheard her conversation, after all.
Party planners have a few too many plates to keep spinning to get really involved in the party guests. We have plenty to worry about and a lot of things to hope for. And added to the hope that the Dim Sum wouldn’t get too sticky, and the hope that we’d brought enough Chinese soda, and the hope that Holly wouldn’t faint from the heat of hersteaming cart before we’d finished the meal service, I now fervently hoped that Verushka wouldn’t get angry and suspicious. I hoped she wouldn’t feel awkward and embarrassed, wondering if her secret conversation might have been overheard.
But, of course, it had.
Was Verushka having serious money problems, or just a onetime shortfall of cash? The fear in her eyes was not a good sign. Had she gotten in over her head? Had the gambling bug pushed her beyond what she could afford? I couldn’t help myself. I swear. I just want everyone to be happy. Is that too much to ask?
Chapter 11
I love to plan. I love to cook. I love to party. But I love the relaxing close of a party almost as much. It was eleven o’clock. Dim Sum had been finished hours ago. Many hot mah-jongg hands had been played. We were almost finished clearing away dessert dishes. Our daringly retro Chinese Fireworks Bombe, an amazing bowl-shaped dessert, had been a showy success. Even Trey, who had a nasty habit of ignoring the food, was impressed. He noticed the auspicious number of seven lit sparklers and gave me a less than cynical smile.
The party was winding down. Coffee drinks had been served and refilled. Some of the guests had begun packing up their personal mah-jongg sets. Others were sitting around, lazily nursing their cappuccinos.
Wes, Ray, and I were finished cleaning up Buster Dubin’s small kitchen, and I told Ray to go home, counting out the money I owed him in cash, apologizing for coming up a little short. I told him to come by the next afternoon, Thursday, and I’d have the twenty-five I still owed him.
“No problem.” Ray showed a lot of straight, white teeth. “Dubin peeled me a C.”
I smiled. The art of tipping is yet another of Buster’s many talents. I looked over at Holly, who was semicollapsed on a kitchen chair. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”
Holly was sprawled upon the kitchen table. Without lifting her head from the crook of her bent elbow, upon which itwas resting, she attempted to nod. “Dubin gave me a hundred, too. He’s a sport.”
“You should go home,” I said. “Really. You want someone to drive you? Ray goes right by…”
“No, I’m fine.” Holly hoisted her head up and attempted to steady it in an upright position. “I think Ray has plans for the evening, don’t you, Ray?”
“I told Marisa I’d drop her off.” Ray grinned at me. “I can take care of Holly, too.”
“Marisa Tager?” Wesley stopped polishing a silver cake server and looked over at Ray. “Her dad is worth forty million, Ray. And I thought she was dating that guy who owns the Montrose Microbrewery.”
“That right? Hunh. That’s not the way I hear it. But, you know…” He gave a dazzling smile. “I’ve been wrong before.”
Nothing got to Ray. At twenty-two, Ray Jackson was the freaking poster boy for self-confidence. We were, of course, well used to Ray’s good-humored bragging.
Holly mumbled, “He serves them Singapore Slings, and they follow him anywhere.”
I looked at Ray, intrigued. “So you two are going out?”
He’d met a lot of women over the past year, working our parties. He flirted a good deal. But I hadn’t remembered ever hearing him say he was seeing any of the party girls he’s met on the circuit.
“Now, hey. Did I say that? Anyway, Marisa was telling me her
Party planners have a few too many plates to keep spinning to get really involved in the party guests. We have plenty to worry about and a lot of things to hope for. And added to the hope that the Dim Sum wouldn’t get too sticky, and the hope that we’d brought enough Chinese soda, and the hope that Holly wouldn’t faint from the heat of hersteaming cart before we’d finished the meal service, I now fervently hoped that Verushka wouldn’t get angry and suspicious. I hoped she wouldn’t feel awkward and embarrassed, wondering if her secret conversation might have been overheard.
But, of course, it had.
Was Verushka having serious money problems, or just a onetime shortfall of cash? The fear in her eyes was not a good sign. Had she gotten in over her head? Had the gambling bug pushed her beyond what she could afford? I couldn’t help myself. I swear. I just want everyone to be happy. Is that too much to ask?
Chapter 11
I love to plan. I love to cook. I love to party. But I love the relaxing close of a party almost as much. It was eleven o’clock. Dim Sum had been finished hours ago. Many hot mah-jongg hands had been played. We were almost finished clearing away dessert dishes. Our daringly retro Chinese Fireworks Bombe, an amazing bowl-shaped dessert, had been a showy success. Even Trey, who had a nasty habit of ignoring the food, was impressed. He noticed the auspicious number of seven lit sparklers and gave me a less than cynical smile.
The party was winding down. Coffee drinks had been served and refilled. Some of the guests had begun packing up their personal mah-jongg sets. Others were sitting around, lazily nursing their cappuccinos.
Wes, Ray, and I were finished cleaning up Buster Dubin’s small kitchen, and I told Ray to go home, counting out the money I owed him in cash, apologizing for coming up a little short. I told him to come by the next afternoon, Thursday, and I’d have the twenty-five I still owed him.
“No problem.” Ray showed a lot of straight, white teeth. “Dubin peeled me a C.”
I smiled. The art of tipping is yet another of Buster’s many talents. I looked over at Holly, who was semicollapsed on a kitchen chair. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”
Holly was sprawled upon the kitchen table. Without lifting her head from the crook of her bent elbow, upon which itwas resting, she attempted to nod. “Dubin gave me a hundred, too. He’s a sport.”
“You should go home,” I said. “Really. You want someone to drive you? Ray goes right by…”
“No, I’m fine.” Holly hoisted her head up and attempted to steady it in an upright position. “I think Ray has plans for the evening, don’t you, Ray?”
“I told Marisa I’d drop her off.” Ray grinned at me. “I can take care of Holly, too.”
“Marisa Tager?” Wesley stopped polishing a silver cake server and looked over at Ray. “Her dad is worth forty million, Ray. And I thought she was dating that guy who owns the Montrose Microbrewery.”
“That right? Hunh. That’s not the way I hear it. But, you know…” He gave a dazzling smile. “I’ve been wrong before.”
Nothing got to Ray. At twenty-two, Ray Jackson was the freaking poster boy for self-confidence. We were, of course, well used to Ray’s good-humored bragging.
Holly mumbled, “He serves them Singapore Slings, and they follow him anywhere.”
I looked at Ray, intrigued. “So you two are going out?”
He’d met a lot of women over the past year, working our parties. He flirted a good deal. But I hadn’t remembered ever hearing him say he was seeing any of the party girls he’s met on the circuit.
“Now, hey. Did I say that? Anyway, Marisa was telling me her
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