I want to ask him to explain further, but the green light blinking on his headset catches my eye. He’s probably busy. “No.” I curve my mouth into a smile. “That’s it.”
I leave with the coffee and boot up my ancient computer. Since I’m not sure about the theme, maybe wine really would be a better place to start. How hard can it be? Google is my friend.
Except when it isn’t.
Hundreds of results pop up. Some don’t make sense, some mention wine vintages that are no longer available. And the price tags! Over a thousand dollars? Does the wine sing and dance on the dinner table too?
I tap my fingers on the island. Sure, Elliot’s rich, but it’s unlikely he wants to spend that kind of money on alcohol. On the other hand, anything under fifty dollars a bottle might be too cheap for him and his family.
Even though this marriage is a total sham, I care about making the first event Elliot and I are hosting a success. It isn’t going to be the kind that’s featured in magazines, but I want people to enjoy themselves and feel good when they leave.
I glance at the clock. It’s already almost eleven, but Elliot hasn’t come out of his office.
Finally, at noon, he makes his appearance in the kitchen. He pulls out the leftover pizza from last night and nukes it. “If you want something different, let me know.”
“Pizza’s fine,” I say.
“Drink?”
“Water, please.”
He hands me a glass of water, then pours himself a scotch.
I frown. “It’s only noon,” I point out, unable to help myself.
“Five o’clock somewhere in the world.” He knocks it back with ease and exhales roughly.
“That bad a morning?”
“Nah. Nothing I can’t handle.” He pulls the warmed pizza out, serves it on two plates, and attacks one big slice at the counter while standing. His weight shifts back and forth, balls of his feet to heels, and he drums his fingers.
“You know,” I say after a thoughtful bite. “It would be helpful if you can at least come up with the menu or give me some ideas about what kind of wine you like.”
“I’m flexible, as long as it has alcohol and isn’t too vile.” He munches on the leftover pizza with gusto, as if to prove that he is indeed as flexible as he claims. “And nobody in the family’s allergic to anything.”
My teeth grind together. “That’s nice, but I don’t know what they want, how much you want to spend on the dinner or…anything.”
“Don’t sweat it. They’ll eat whatever’s on the plate in front of them.”
“Veggie pizza?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “My brothers and sister will love it.”
“But your parents—”
“Will hopefully not show up at all.”
My jaw drops.
“Trust me. Better for everyone that way.”
I shake my head and drop the slice of pizza back on my plate. “If you’re that ashamed of introducing me to your parents, why did you even marry me?”
“No, no. It’s not you. It’s them. I’m…” He gets a second scotch. “I can’t begin to explain the situation with my parents. It’s like…” he searches for words, “such a cliché that even the worst soap opera would be ashamed to use it.”
“But…”
“Okay, listen. My father’s on his sixth wife”—Elliot’s mouth twists into a sneer—“who will be gone in a pointlessly anticlimactic divorce within a year. Mom married some Russian guy after her previous husband died. Rich, of course, from what I heard. Other than that I have no idea. I haven’t even met the man. Only learned about her latest marriage on the news. The guy she married is apparently a big deal in Moscow.”