I don’t like where this is going.
“We desperately need work on our backyard,” Suzette explains. “I would love to do some serious gardening back there, but I’m afraid I don’t have a green thumb. If you could show me what you can do and give me a little instruction on top of that, I would be happy to recommend you to everyone I know.”
Enzo looks over at me. He opens his mouth, almost certainly about to ask if I’m okay with this arrangement, but then Suzette says, “You know what I love about the two of you? You trust each other, unlike a lot of other couples. Enzo doesn’t have to ask your permission, Millie, for any little silly thing.”
And then he shuts his mouth.
“So what do you say?” she asks him. “Do we have a deal?”
I flash a desperate look at Jonathan, hoping he will intervene and say that he is not okay with this. But he is just sitting there, shoveling bites of that weirdly delicious salad into his mouth, not the slightest bit perturbed. Of course, why should he be upset? All Enzo would be doing is a little yardwork next door. There’s no reason to get jealous.
And let’s face it, it’s not like Suzette is the first woman to hit on my husband. She’s not the first and she won’t be the last.
Except there’s something about Suzette’s flirting that enrages me more than the usual bored housewife who sees my husband as eye candy. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Sure,” Enzo says. “I am happy to.”
Martha comes back out of the kitchen, carrying more plates of food. I glance back at the children’s table to see if they’ve made any progress on their salad—usually something eaten only under threat of punishment—and I’m shocked to discover that even Nico has nearly cleaned his plate. I’m also mildly jealous of the fact that the kids only seem to have been given one fork each.
Martha pulls away our salad plates and lays down a dish in front of me that looks like something Italian. Unfortunately, Suzette had no idea that Enzo is so picky about Italian food. Well, she’s about to find out.
Enzo looks down at the plate, inhaling deeply. “Is this pasta alla Norma?”
Suzette bobs her head excitedly. “Yes! Our chef is Italian, and I guessed from your accent that you are Sicilian, so he thought you might enjoy this.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Enzo to push it away or possibly take a few bites to be polite. But instead, he takes a mouthful of spaghetti, and his eyes almost start tearing up. “Oddio… It tastes just like how my nonna used to make it.”
“I’m so glad you like it!” she gushes. “It does have a wonderful mouthfeel, doesn’t it? Of course, I’m sure it’s not as good as it is when Millie makes it.”
“Millie does not cook this dish,” Enzo says.
Suzette’s long eyelashes flutter. “No?”
Everyone at the table is now staring at me, like I am the worst person in the universe because I don’t make my husband pasta à la Norway or whatever the hell it’s called. In my defense, anytime I try to cook something Italian, he acts like I just tried to feed him poison. Who knew he would like this so much that it would make him cry?
I pick up my fork and spear what looks like a piece of eggplant. I shove it in my mouth, and…
Wow, that is pretty good. I’m not about to start crying over it, but this is some really good pasta.
“Oh, Millie,” Suzette giggles. “You’re using the dessert fork!”
By the end of this night, if I have not stabbed Suzette with one of these forks, it will only be because I’m not sure which one to use to do it.
NINE
“You are mad,” Enzo notes.
I don’t know what his first clue was. Maybe the way I barely said a word as we walked home from the house next door, me carrying the apple pie because even after instructing me to bring dessert, Suzette had her chef go ahead and make some amazing chocolate soufflé. Maybe it was the way I slammed the refrigerator door as I shoved the uneaten pie inside. Or the way I stomped up the steps to our bedroom and shut the door behind me, only coming out to say good night to the kids.
“I will eat the apple pie,” he says as he crawls into bed beside me. “I love the apple pie. I don’t care if you dropped it on the floor.”
“I didn’t drop it on the floor.”
“No?”
I groan. The fact that Enzo has no idea what I am upset about is making it hard to be mad. Also, he’s not wearing a shirt, which makes it even harder to be mad.
“Do you really have to work in Suzette’s backyard?” I say.
He leans back against the pillows and sighs. “Oh. This.”
“Well? Is it really necessary?”
“Why does that bother you?”
“Because.”
“Because is not an answer,” he says, which is irritatingly something I say to the kids constantly.
“I just feel like Suzette has an agenda.”
“Agenda?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You know.”
“I do not know.”
“Oh my God.” I flop over in bed. “Enzo, that woman was flirting with you shamelessly all night! She didn’t let up for a second!”
