Plus One by Christopher Noxon Page A

Alex scanned as Seedy Mormon.
    â€œFiggy, sweetie!” The door had swung open and there was Katherine. She looked just like she did on TV but more so, with the big moony face, long tapering neck, and huge hazel eyes unblinking over a fluorescent stroke of coral lipstick. She pulled Figgy into a tight embrace and held it for a good five or six seconds, emitting a long mmmm . “Soooo glad you could make it.”
    Katherine showed them through the door. “Kids—we’ll alljump in the pool later,” she said. “For now we’ve got a trampoline and art stuff outside. And Alex, I think Huck needs you.”
    She trailed off on the introduction once they’d arrived in the kitchen. Alex stopped cold. The room was the size of a gymnasium and had the spare, strictly accessorized feel of a Nancy Meyers movie set. The whiteness was overwhelming—white glass-front cabinets, white leather barstools, a white honed-marble island so large it qualified as a continent. Every visible surface was smooth, stainless, gleaming.
    â€œOh my,” Alex said, suddenly picturing his own kitchen piled high with mismatched kitchenware, banged-up appliances, and unopened mail. “So this is what they call a great room.”
    â€œWe redid everything last year before moving in,” Katherine said, twirling around near the sink. “Or rather, Huck redid everything. He was here with the contractor every single day. He hammered. He plastered. He caulked!”
    â€œI’m known for my huge caulk,” Huck called from the cutting board, his voice echoing off the cathedral ceiling. Alex went over and gave him a one-armed embrace. He wore a short-sleeved polo underneath some sort of black nylon cover that snapped at the back. It took Alex a second to realize what it was.
    â€œDude, is that a man apron ?”
    â€œGot it at Malcolm’s,” Huck said, giving himself a quick brush-off. “Separate pockets for utensils. Keep my best ceramic carving knife right here,” he said, reaching down and then twirling a white blade around like a pistol.
    â€œYour place,” Alex said. “It’s incredible. You did the remodel?”
    Huck motioned toward a cutting board near Alex. “Ton of work, but we got there. You can’t let those contractors get comfortable. Dudes will rob you blind.”
    Alex picked up a mound of scallions and got to chopping. As they worked, Huck monologued about the awesomeness of his tube-amp record player setup, the awesomeness of his jujitsutrainer Sensei Rick, and the awesomeness of his urologist, Dr. Finkelstein. “I went in for the ol’ snip-snip last month,” he said proudly, thrusting his hips forward. “Changed my life. Finkelstein’s a total rock star. You barely feel it—then you get two days watching TV with some Vicodin and a bag of frozen peas.”
    Alex offered an appreciative murmur here and there, but it was clear his participation in the conversation was not required. His only job was to bear witness to the utter excellence of Huck’s life.
    Out the sliding glass doors, Alex watched the kids frolicking across a rolling green lawn. Sylvie and the raven-haired Penelope were running circles around a pair of easels while Sam and Bingwen attempted somersaults on a trampoline sunk to grass-level. The ladies had pulled up seats at the island and were halfway into a pitcher of Bloody Marys. From his station near the stove, Huck motioned majestically at the scene and touched Alex on the shoulder.
    â€œIt just gets better, am I right?”
    Alex swallowed hard, stifling a gag. He wanted so much to like Huck, but declarations like this made it hard. Huck seemed blissfully unaware of Katherine’s contribution, or for that matter any of the nannies, nutritionists, contractors, beauticians, trainers, life coaches, and metaphysical therapists that kept the show going. It seemed to Alex that Huck had made a deal with