“I’ll pose a question Christopher Hitchens asked. If Jesus could heal a blind person he happened to meet, then why not heal blindness?”
She smiled smugly.
“I don’t pretend to know how God works,” she said. “None of us can. We just have to vow to do the right thing.”
“Ah, I see,” he said. “But don’t you find that the ones who jabber on the most about doing the right thing so often don’t?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, her back rigid.
“The Christian right. Just take a look at all these right-wing preachers and politicians. They’re always pontificating about values, and yet half of them lie down with whores and the other half with young boys.”
Whitney caught her breath in surprise, as if he’d just called her a hooker, but then she let it out slowly, clearly willing herself not to get steamed.
“How did you get your start, Richard?” I asked, hoping to chase him off the topic. Though he was clearly in the mood to be provocative, the temptation to talk about himself overrode it. Through a main course of roast chicken, new potatoes, and haricots vert, we heard about the Fleet Street years, the magazine years, and then coming to America. With each anecdote, his tongue loosened even more, until his words were slurred. Whitney listened and even asked a perfunctory question or two, but she could barely disguise her disgust for the man. He seemed to sense that and actually relish it.
At one point in the middle of all this I caught Jessie’s eye, and she flashed me a mischievous look. It was obvious from Scott’s body language that he had the hots for Jessie, who was seated next to him, but he did a decent job of including Jane, on the other side, in the conversation. Speaking of hots, you could almost see the smoke rising from below the table where Devon and Tommy were sitting side by side. She was smirking sexily at everything he said, and he was lapping it up. So did this mean she wasn’t involved with Cap? Or was she flirting balls to the wall to make Cap jealous?
As Richard droned on, I tried to study Devon out of the corner of my eye. Though she often had a fork in her food, it became clear after a minute that she was just using it to rearrange things on her plate. I also realized after a moment that though Tory was pretending to listen to Cap, her eyes kept shooting over toward the pair of dirty flirters.
“I’ve got an idea,” Scott announced suddenly, just as Sandy and one of the young helpers, a redheaded girl in her twenties, were clearing the plates. “Sandy’s made us a fantastic apple pie, and I think we should indulge in it while listening to some awesome music by someone who’s on the brink of becoming a major recording star.”
“How could we argue with that?” Cap said.
Scott rose from his chair, took his iPhone from the pocket of his jacket, and docked it in a nearby iPod speaker. A few seconds later the room was filled with the haunting sound of a woman singing a song with the refrain, “You’ll break my heart a second time.” It was part ballad, part pop song, with a splash of country. I knew it was Devon Barr singing, but it was hard to reconcile the voice with the creature at the table. Everyone just sat there spellbound. When I glanced down a minute later and saw a wedge of apple pie, I realized I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t noticed anyone slide it in front of me.
“That’s absolutely sensational,” Cap said when the track was over.
“Isn’t it?” Scott said. “Devon Barr is going to be huge.”
An awkward silence followed. I was about to ask the release date when Tommy tilted his chair back, a signal, it seemed, that he was about to make a pronouncement.
“Well, well,” he declared. “You were holding out on me, Devon. I had no fucking clue you could sing like that.”
She looked at him slyly.
“I—I thought you didn’t like ballads,” she said. Her words had sounded just a little slurred, which surprised me. I hadn’t seen her drink anything but water before dinner, and her wineglass was nearly full.
“I believe I’ve just changed my mind. Of course, I do need to know who you wrote the song about.”
Devon stared at him intensely. “You’ll have to guess—like everyone else,” she said teasingly. “But what a nice surprise you like it.”
People shifted in their seats collectively, and I half expected someone at the table to shout, “Get a room!” I wondered what Tory was thinking. Turns out I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“Nice surprise?” Tory shouted, her voice shrill with sarcasm. She was just a few feet to my right, and her outburst startled me so much, I nearly jumped. “It’s no fucking surprise at all. It’s why you invited us, isn’t it?”
The whole table just sat there in stunned silence. Devon didn’t answer but stared at Tory, the famous mouth pursed and her eyes squinted, as if she had no idea what Tory could possibly mean.
“You wanted Scott to play your stupid ballad in front of me and Tommy,” Tory said, “so I’d have to sit here watching him get a woody as he listened to it.”
Ahhh, I’d wondered if things might come to a boil this weekend.
“I’m sure Tommy’s just being complimentary,” Scott said. “There’s nothing to get excited about.”
“It’s none of your fat business,” Tory snapped. “You want to fuck her, too, I bet.”
“Oh, please, Tory, that’s enough,” Tommy shouted from across the table. “Stop being so freaking obsessed and eat your pie.”
“Why don’t you stick it in your piehole,” she said. She picked up the cobalt blue goblet in front of her and tossed the remains of her sparkling water at Tommy from across the table—though most of it ended up splashing on Whitney. As Richard watched the water trickle down Whitney’s cleavage, Tory stormed off, digging the heels of her boots hard into the bare wood floor.
Sandy moved toward the table decisively, a large rag in hand, and simultaneously Scott passed Whitney his own napkin for her to dab the water off. Then he turned back to the rest of the table, where we all sat speechless.
“Well,” he said, looking like a guy who’d seen far worse and wasn’t going to be thrown off his game by a minor hissy fit, “who would like to join me for a few hands of poker?”
“I’m in,” Richard said, his voice liquidy. Several other people volunteered as well.
“Not me,” Devon said, pushing back her chair. “I’m—I’m going to bed.” I realized suddenly that she was tipsy, and as she stood up at the table, she wobbled a bit. At her body weight, I guessed, even a couple of sips of wine could leave one blotto. “Jane, lez go.”
“I’m not ready, actually,” Jane announced bluntly. She looked self-satisfied, as if she’d been waiting all night for a moment to assert her independence.
“I don’t care. You gotta come.”
“Sorry, this is one mess you’ll have to take care of yourself,” Jane said.
Devon scowled halfheartedly and moved toward the stairs, swaying slightly with each step.
“Devon, let me help you,” Cap called after her. He started to jump from the table.
“No,” she called out over her shoulder. “Don’t need you.”
Whitney rested her hand on Cap’s arm. “Honey, let her be. She clearly wants some time alone.”
After a couple of awkward moments, people began to rise from the table and take positions around the room. For the next hour or so everyone played cards or pool—except Whitney, who sat tightly next to Cap and seemed to be lost in thought. Despite Scott’s attempts to keep things jovial, the party never regained the festive mood from earlier. At about eleven Tommy threw down his cards and said he was calling it quits for the night. I couldn’t help but wonder what might get tossed at him when he opened his bedroom door. Soon afterward, I said good night, not wanting to be the last to leave, and discreetly winked at Jessie.