Page 101 of The Best Men
“Yes,Maman,” he says cheerfully. “But Miami is a vulgar city. And one must embrace theterroirof his surroundings.”
“Quite,” she says. “Now pull out a chair for your Maman. And what is Hannah drinking?”
Hannah’s face goes instantly pink. “A ginger shrub. The caterer brought me several nonalcoholic choices.”
“Pity.” She snaps her fingers at the server. “Bring Hannah a proper glass of pinot noir. It thickens the blood,” she explains. “I drank wine all through my pregnancy.”
“That must explain Flip’s tolerance for liquor,” I say under my breath, just to earn a snort of laughter from Mark.
I’m successful, so I count that as a win.
Hannah’s face turns even redder. The poor thing will have to pretend to sip it. I make a mental note to steal her wineglass and have a gulp when Madame isn’t watching.
One thing I’ll say about a party with Flip’s parents—it’s never dull.
My phone chimes with a call. It’s Lucy’s ringtone. I pull it out of my pocket as a reflex.
“Asher, darling,” Madame says. “It’s rude to handle your phone at a soiree.”
“Even in a vulgar city?” I try.
“Even then,” she insists.
“As you wish,” I say to her in French, then tuck my phone back in my pocket.
* * *
Mark and I take turns ducking out of the room to change out of our ocean-scented swim trunks, then return to the dining room. The seating arrangements at the table place me at the end, where I have a view of all the drama. All the Duboises are seated on one side of the table, and all the Bankses on the other.
The contrast is like something out ofSchitt’s Creek.
“Does anyone know what these yellow things are in my salad?” Mrs. Banks asks.
“Mangoes,” Mark says, patting his mom’s hand. “They’re delicious.”
“Have you never had mango?” Monsieur gasps. “I was once almost killed by a mango. We were biking in Hawaii . . .”
“Fiji,” his wife corrects.
“. . . And I stopped to fiddle with my backpack . . .”
“Yourshoelace.”
“. . . When I heard this whistle near my ear. Like the sound of a mortar shell flying past. Then a loudsmack, and the biggest, ripest mango I’ve ever seen had made a crater in the earth right next to my bike. It fell from a fifty-foot tree. I swear, it could have brained me.”
“I don’t think we have mangoes in Ohio,” muses Mrs. Banks.
“At least, not homicidal ones,” Mark snickers.
“Did you eat it?” Flip asks. “Five second rule!”
“Of course we didn’t eat it,” Madame says with a shudder. “But they served lovely local fruit that afternoon at The Ritz.”
Hannah nudges her wineglass toward me, and I take another surreptitious gulp.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“It is my absolute pleasure.”
