She grasped it in hers, the pair of them holding hands right next to Juliet's queen on the chessboard. "It's the ultimate chess move, right?" she said. "The ultimate bluff?"
"The ultimate bluff," I repeated, agreeing with her. "You need to put on a good show."
"Tell us what to do," she said, her eyes never leaving Rob's face. Whether she spoke to him or me was immaterial; what mattered now was the fight I glimpsed in her eyes. "Let's end this by beating her at her own game, and playing much better than she ever could."
~
By the time I left them in the house, we'd already unpacked a large number of the boxes. We arranged all the chairs, after decorating them in chiffon ribbons and pretty silk flowers, by the French doors, ready to put into rows in the garden. In the guest bedroom, far from the mangled remains of the bathroom door of her bedroom, Juliet tried on several of the dresses she could barely stand to look at before. She had to admit some were even to her taste. We accessorized from a selection of the many hair clips, bracelets and necklaces that also arrived, and tried on several shoes and veils. If she weren't my client, I would have to admit having a lot of fun with a good friend. Finally, on my way out, Rob pulled me gently to one side. He suggested I remove the veil, and thanked me for making Juliet laugh, at last. I thought leaving her confident and determined was the least I could do, after all the fear she already had to endure.
Caught in a long stretch of traffic snaking through Century Street, I was already running late by the time I reached my pretty, yellow bungalow. Solomon's SUV was nowhere in sight, and crucially, neither was my parents' car. I got out of my VW, jogging towards the house, and jumping over a sleeping Barney on my porch, before dashing inside to set the oven to preheat.
Ingredients covered the surfaces as I emptied the refrigerator and set about chopping vegetables. I took out the bowls and filled them with a variety of chips and dips I purchased. When a pair of arms circled my arms and crossed over my chest, I could barely conceal a squeal. "Jeez, John! I nearly stabbed you with my knife. I could have killed you!" I protested, dropping the knife onto the wooden board.
"With a paring knife? Why are you using that for slicing?"
"I can't find a better one."
"Like this one?" he asked, sliding a chopping knife from under a pile of carrots. "What are you doing?"
"Making carrot sticks. Healthy and nutritious and organic. It says so on the bag."
"Are we only eating carrot sticks for dinner?"
"No! I have several cuts of meat and potatoes and vegetables. And Garrett's bringing cake. Ohmygosh! Garrett is not bringing cake! Sam has chicken pox so they're staying at home. What do I do about dessert? Hand me the flour."
"No."
"It's right there!" I pointed to the shelf.
Solomon pointed to the clock. "Your guests are due in twenty minutes."
"No!" I glanced to the clock, blanching.
"Yes."
"How did that happen?"
"I could explain time, but I'm sure you learned clock-reading in kindergarten."
"Ha-ha. What do I do? The beef won't cook in twenty minutes! And the roasted potatoes take forty minutes at least. I'm screwed! I'll never live this down. I'll be the Graves failure all over again!" I squealed.
"They'll forget."
"They're Irish stock and this is food. They will never, never, John, never forget!"
"I can fix this."
I surveyed the kitchen. Not only was it a huge mess, but also a terribly unproductive mess. It would take twenty minutes at a minimum to clean it; and I still wouldn't have enough to feed my expectant and ravenous family. "I'm a failure."
"You're not a failure."
"Yes, I am," I wailed. "I wanted such good results. I wanted to make an effort and feed everyone, without anyone going hungry or dying of food poisoning."
"You must go to some strange dinner parties if that's your description of a good result."
The mess in the kitchen didn't spell good result to me and I looked around, swallowing hard. There was no way to fix this. Solomon was being way too calm while my heart thumped loudly in despair. On the plus side, I had enough carrot sticks and hummus to feed a small army.
"Go upstairs, and take a shower and get changed," Solomon instructed, taking me by the shoulders and guiding me out of the kitchen. "I'll fix this."
"It's hopeless. There's a takeout menu on the fridge. If we order now, we can put things into serving dishes and hide the evidence before anyone gets here."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
"But..."
"Shower, now."
I made a funny grunting noise, but conceded defeat before stomping up the stairs with all the grace of a depressed sloth. Closing the door to my bedroom, I tossed my day's clothes in the hamper and laid out clean pants and a blouse. Midway through my shower, wafts of something delicious alerted my senses. It wasn't my shower gel. I dried and arranged my hair into a sleek ponytail, and attended to my wound, before getting dressed. Slipping my feet into flats, the mouth-watering aromas continued to make my stomach rumble.
Solomon was carrying dishes to my small dining table by the time I arrived downstairs. A stack of plates, interwoven with napkins, lay on the table, and another dish held the flatware. A vase filled with pretty, fresh flowers served as the centerpiece amidst several hot dishes. "How could this happen?" I asked, breathlessly in wonder.
"It's easy when you know how."
I pointed to the vase. "Where did the flowers come from?"
"Your garden."
"And all this food?"
"You bought it. I just prepared it."
"But it looks like a dinner party!"
Solomon laughed. "That's the idea. Easy fork buffet."
"You're perfect. Too perfect, John. You're unreal. And you saved the day."
"Not exactly the first time," said Solomon as the doorbell rang.
"I will never forget this," I told him, kissing his cheek before I crossed the hallway to open the door. My parents stood on the porch and my mother looked appalled. "We should never have left you to your own surveillance! You got shot again!" she admonished me before reaching out and pulling me against her in a rib-crushing hug. My side winced.
"Barely," I muttered, through gritted teeth.
"Did you shoot back?" asked my father, holding a digital tablet and a large bag in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other.
"No."
"Is it true the shooter used your own weapon on you?" he continued.
"Kind of."
Dad tutted. "What were you thinking, Lexi?"
"Alexandra wasn't thinking, were you, Alexandra?" My mother shook her head as she relieved Dad of the bag he carried and thrust it into my hand. "We brought you a vest, dear, and it's not for keeping warm. It's made of Kevlar."
I peeped into the bag and grinned. "Thanks!"
"Don't look so happy. It's to discourage you from getting shot again, not to encourage you." Mom steamed past and cuffed Solomon on the head.
"Ow!" he said, ducking too late. "What was that for?"
"For letting my daughter got shot."
"I wasn't there."
"Exactly! When are you going to give Lexi her job back? Hmmm?"
"I..."
"Shot, John! My daughter was shot!" my mother yelled.
"Only a little bit," I murmured, holding my thumb and forefinger millimeters apart. "And I don't want..."