After Suzette’s pretentiousness, Jonathan feels like a breath of fresh air. “Yes, I’m Millie,” I say. “You must be Jonathan.”
“That’s right.” He reaches out to take my hand, and unlike Suzette’s death grip, his palm is smooth and he doesn’t make any attempt to break even one of the bones in my hand. “So good to finally meet you.”
Jonathan shakes Enzo’s hand next, and if he is at all threatened by my husband—some insecure men are—he certainly doesn’t show it.
I instinctively like Jonathan. I can’t say why, but it’s just a vibe I get. I’ve worked in a lot of households in my lifetime, and I’ve gotten pretty damned good at reading people.
Especially reading couples.
You can tell a lot from body language. There are certain gestures I’ve seen husbands make that suggest they are exerting their power in the relationship. For example, a kiss on the forehead rather than on the lips. A hand on the small of the back while they walk. It’s subtle but I’ve come to notice it. However, Jonathan isn’t doing any of that with Suzette. There’s nothing to make me think that they are anything more than what they seem—a happily married couple.
“So how are you enjoying the new house?” he asks us.
“I love it,” I blurt out, having forgotten my shame about my house possibly having previously served as a shed for barn animals. “I know it’s small, but—”
“Small?” Jonathan laughs. “I think it’s a perfect size. I would have grabbed that house if it were available. This one is so ostentatious, especially for just the two of us.”
Score another point for Jonathan.
“So you have no children?” Enzo asks them.
Before Jonathan can answer, Suzette blurts out, “Oh no. We’re not children type of people. They’re so loud and messy and constantly need attention—no offense. People who want to make that sacrifice are absolute saints.” She laughs as she says the words, as if it’s hilarious that anyone would want to give up their life to be a parent. “But it’s just not for us. We are absolutely in agreement about that. Right, Jonathan?”
“Right, yes,” he says amicably. “Suzette and I have always agreed on that.”
“It’s not for everyone,” I say.
Although I couldn’t help but notice that while Suzette was gushing about how wonderful it is to be childfree, Jonathan had a morose look on his face. It makes me wonder if they really are “absolutely in agreement” on the issue of parenthood. I wouldn’t judge anyone for not wanting to be a parent, but it’s sad when one person in a couple has to give up their dream to suit the other.
“I was telling Millie that I love how cozy and quaint their house is,” Suzette says. “I agree, this house is just so sprawling and extravagant. Honestly, we just don’t know what to do with all this space. Especially our massive backyard.”
At the mention of the word “backyard,” Enzo perks up. “I have a landscaping business if you are looking for help with your yard.”
Suzette arches an eyebrow. “Do you?”
He nods eagerly. “I have clients in the Bronx, but I am now trying to move out here. Such a big drive to the city.”
“The Long Island Expressway is murder,” Suzette agrees.
Yes, especially the way Enzo drives. Every time he merges onto 495, I’m certain he will die a fiery death. He had a very decent business back in the Bronx, but he’s making an effort to get more clients out on the island so he doesn’t have to keep making that long drive every day. The goal is to transition his business to the surrounding neighborhoods within the next few years. And there are enough wealthy families around here that there’s good potential for the business to grow and expand.
“I am excellent at landscaping,” Enzo adds. “Whatever you want me to do with your yard, I do it.”
“Anything?” Suzette asks in a voice dripping with suggestion.
“All landscape services, yes.”
She rests a hand on his biceps. “I just might take you up on that.”
And then? She just leaves her hand there. On my husband’s arm muscles. For way, way too long. I mean, there’s got to be a limit to how long you’re allowed to keep your hand on the muscles of a man who is not your husband, right?
But it’s harmless. Her own husband is right there after all. And Jonathan doesn’t seem the slightest bit upset over it. He probably knows that Suzette is a flirt and he’s learned to ignore it.
I tell myself I have nothing to worry about.
And I almost convince myself too.
EIGHT
I’ve never experienced quite such an elaborate dinner.
Okay, for starters, we have placecards with our names on them. Placecards! And I can’t help but notice the placecards have assigned Suzette to sit on one side of the table with Enzo, and me on the other side with Jonathan. Moreover, our kids aren’t even at the same table! There’s easily enough room for two more people at this massive mahogany wood table, but instead, another smaller table has been set up across the entire room. We practically need binoculars to see them.
“I assumed the children would want their privacy,” Suzette says.
In my experience, children never want privacy. Ever. It’s only recently that going to the bathroom has ceased to be a family experience. Not only that, but the children’s table is far too small. It looks like it would be better suited for the living room of a dollhouse. I can see from the expression on the kids’ faces that they are not pleased.
“That’s a table for babies,” Nico grumbles. “I don’t want to sit there!”
“Fai silenzio,” Enzo hisses.
Our children, of course, both speak perfect Italian because he spoke it to them all the time when they were little so they’d grow up bilingual. He says they both have terrible American accents, but they sound pretty good to me. In any case, the warning quiets them down, and they reluctantly take their seats at the comically tiny table. I sort of want to snap a picture of them at that little table with their identical miserable faces, but I suspect that will enrage them.
Enzo looks just as perplexed by the place setting in front of him. He plops down in the chair assigned to him and picks up one of the forks that have been laid out. “Why is there three forks?” he wants to know.
“Well,” Suzette explains patiently, “one is a dinner fork of course, then there’s the salad fork, and then you have a spaghetti fork.”
“How is a spaghetti fork different from a dinner fork?” I ask.
