Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (13 page)

Eighteen

It’s a myth that black widows eat the male after mating—that only happens a very small percentage of the time. Often times, the female spider will leave the male alive and he can go on to mate with other females. Still, black widows have a large red hourglass on their bodies, a sign to predators that they are poisonous.

This is just a small sampling of the information I’ve learned so far by talking with Hunter J. Kensington IV, for all of ten minutes. Since Priya hasn’t yet arrived, I’ve been trying to be inconspicuous, hanging out in the kitchen with the caterers. Apparently, this is also a trick used by fourteen-year-old boys who walk into a party, only to discover that they’ve been lured to a gathering for adults. (“I had no idea Hunter would be so young! His father is so old,” my grandmother would tell me later.)

Hunter’s been rambling off factoid after factoid about black widows gleaned from his eighth-grade science class (their webs lack shape and form, their venom is more dangerous than that of a rattlesnake), under the guise of making conversation with me. I’m not sure whether it’s that he’s too young to realize that a conversation entails a bit of give and take—that you should expect the other person to speak occasionally—or if it’s that when you are a Kensington, you’re simply not accustomed to caring what other people have to say.

I give Hunter the benefit of the doubt and he moves in for the kill.

“So, that’s why people say,” Hunter explains, “that Mr. Morganfelder named this place Viuda Negra. It means Black Widow. Because Mrs. Morganfelder killed all of her other husbands.”

“Who?” I say, momentarily distracted by the mention of the Mattress King’s actual name. I often forget that the Mattress King has a name. That they all had names.

“Your grandfather?” Hunter says, making it sound like a question, even though I know he’s actually telling me.

“He wasn’t my grandfather,” I say. “He was my grandmother’s seventh husband.”

“That’s what I said,” he says.

“No,” I say. “You said he was my grandfather. He was my grandmother’s husband. There’s a difference.”

Hunter shrugs.

“Do you want to get something to drink?” Hunter asks, and I say yes.

We walk toward the tent where tonight’s party is being held and I’m struck by the sheer excess of it all. The tent alone took an entire day to construct. Imported caviar, lobster served two different ways, three different types of vodka, hundred-dollar bottles of champagne—it’s all too much. As are the men in their white dinner jackets and the women in their designer cocktail dresses. I look at the party guests and immediately see that I don’t fit in. I am the Sabrina to their Larrabee.

I stand on the grass, just outside of the tents. Looking into the tent is surreal—it doesn’t look like real life at all. And it certainly doesn’t look like a party that I’m about to walk in to. What it looks like is a movie set. I hear the orchestra in echoes, and the tent casts a faint glow on all of the partygoers.

There are three large chandeliers hung inside the tent, and lights set up strategically to give the inside of the tent a pinkish glow. Each table is outfitted with a gigantic floral arrangement—roses, peonies, and hydrangeas float atop tall glass vessels, filled with rose-colored water. The columns that hold up the tent are draped in white fabric; in fact, there’s white fabric everywhere you look. On the bars, on the stage where the band is set up and already playing, on the tables and chairs.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Hunter asks with a smile as he guides me toward the first of the three bars set up outside. Hunter orders two glasses of champagne and the bartender pours them for him without a second thought. Having been in Southampton for a couple of weeks now, I feel like nothing can surprise me. Certainly not serving alcohol to minors.

“Hannah?” I spin around and see Nate Sugarman.

“Nate,” Hunter says, putting his body between Nate and me. “How are you? I see you’ve met my date.”

“Your date?” Nate asks Hunter, trying to conceal a little giggle. “Well, good for you.”

“Thank you,” Hunter says to Nate, then looks up at me with a crooked smile. “Hannah, let me get you another drink. Nate, would you like something?” Nate shakes his head no, and Hunter is off at the bar. I hadn’t realized that I needed another drink, but when I look down at my champagne flute it turns out Hunter was right—I need another.

“Hunter lost his mother this winter,” Nate whispers in my ear. “So be nice to him.”

“I’d be nice to him anyway,” I say, and look over at Hunter. He’s just a few feet away, talking to an adult, but he keeps looking over his shoulder to make sure I’m still there. I smile back at him and he blushes.

“It’s just, he probably thinks you’re a mother figure or something,” Nate says.

“I’m not old enough to be his mother,” I say, and feel my face flush.

As Nate warbles his way through an apology (“No, of course you’re not … And even if you were, you look great…”) I realize that I am, actually, old enough to be Hunter’s mom. My grandmother had my mother when she was twenty, and if I’d had Hunter when I was twenty, he’d be fourteen now. Which is exactly how old he is.

Hunter comes back to join Nate and me, wedging himself between us. The older gentleman he was speaking with walks over to us, too.

“Did you know that it’s a myth that female black widows always kill their mates?” he asks. His white hair shines in the light coming off the dance floor.

“I did know that,” I say, smiling in Hunter’s direction. “Thanks to Hunter Kensington, the fourth.”

“Ah, well, he learned it from his old man,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Hunter Kensington, the third. You can call me Trip.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says. I can see where Hunter gets his smile. “Well, Hunter here told me that he met the most beautiful woman in the room, and he was right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Besides your grandmother,” the elder Kensington adds with a smile. I can’t help but smile back. I’m sure when Hunter meets her, he’ll be smitten, too. It is practically impossible to avoid falling in love with my grandmother.

“Your grandmother is quite something,” Nate adds. I don’t know what to make of the statement—is it a compliment?

“Well,” I say, putting my hand on Nate’s arm. “I don’t want to monopolize you all evening. It was so nice talking with you.”

“That’s it?” Nate says, suppressing a laugh.

“It was really nice talking with you,” I parrot back. My grandmother specifically told me that if I ended with the “nice to meet you” part, I could easily extricate myself.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?”

“Are you leaving?” Hunter asks me. His little face looks so innocent as he looks up at me. There is no way I could walk away now.

“Of course not,” I say, and Hunter smiles.

“Want to dance?” Hunter asks.

He puts his hand out for me to take and leads me toward the dance floor. As we walk like that, me following Hunter’s lead, I can feel Nate’s eyes on me. I turn my head around and he is, in fact, staring at me. He’s got an amused smile on his face.

Hunter spins around and puts his arms around me to dance. It’s obvious that Hunter’s had dance lessons; he’s got perfect form. It’s equally obvious that I have not had dance lessons. I have no idea where to put my hands or arms, but Hunter takes the lead and makes it easy for me.

“This is a waltz,” he informs me.

“I don’t know how to waltz,” I say.

“Just follow my lead,” he says with a smile.

He uses subtle pressure on my hands to guide me along, to show me where I should go.

“Isn’t this fun?” Hunter asks.

“It’s not as hard as I thought.”

“Just think, one, two, three, one, two, three,” he explains.

“That doesn’t seem too hard,” I say, and concentrate on my steps. I look across the dance floor and see my grandmother dancing with someone, too. Her form is perfect, and they glide across the dance floor as if they were professional dancers.

I look back down to Hunter to make some comment about the waltz, but his head is tilted up toward mine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was getting ready to kiss me. Luckily, I’ve got about a foot in height on him, so it’s going to be pretty hard for him to make a move on me without my consent.

I have no idea what to do. Should I pretend this isn’t really happening, or is it better to tackle it head on, and just explain to Hunter that I’m too old for him?

I don’t have time to figure it out because in the next instant, there is a loud crash at the other side of the dance floor. We all turn around to see what’s happened, but a crowd forms around the source of the noise. All we can hear is the sound of gasps coming from the crowd, and I break away to see what’s happened.

Eleanor comes fighting through the crowd—against the flow of traffic—and grabs my arm.

“Hannah,” she says breathlessly, “it’s your grandmother. She’s fainted.”

I rush to my grandmother’s side, through the throngs of concerned partygoers, to find that she is already regaining consciousness. A waiter leans down from nowhere and hands me a towel soaked in cold water. I motion with my arms for everyone to disperse. Some of the people listen, others stay to see what’s going on.

“What happened?” my grandmother says, pulling herself up to her elbows. I grab her hand and press the cold compress to her head.

“You fainted,” I say. “Just stay still. An ambulance is coming.”

“Oh,” she says as she looks out into the crowd of concerned partygoers.

“Just relax,” I say. “Maybe you should lean back down.”

But she stays exactly where she is. And she doesn’t move her head one inch. She’s looking at something. Someone in the crowd. I turn my head to see what she’s looking at and I see a man. A man who looks like Rhett Butler.

Nineteen

“Why do I always get here just in time for the hospital part?” Priya asks me.

“You could have stayed at the party,” I say, but I don’t mean it.

“I get to your grandmother’s house and they are loading her into an ambulance. Stay at the party? I don’t think so.”

“Thank you,” I say without picking my head up off her shoulder.

The ER doctor comes out not long after going in to examine my grandmother—the hospital in Southampton is so small that there’s really no wait for an emergency. “Your grandmother is fine,” he says as he walks out to the waiting room. I know that he’s speaking to me, but he says it out loud to the entire emergency room—the waiting room is so small that it’s practically overflowing with concerned party guests. Nate is here, as are the Hunter Kensingtons, and the man who looks like Rhett Butler. He’s tried to speak to me a few times, but I’ve been avoiding him so far.

I cannot bring myself to find out if he is who I think he is. I need to concentrate on more important problems first, like making sure my grandmother’s okay.

“Hannah,” the doctor says, “would you like to see your grandmother?”

“Yes,” I say, standing up. Priya stands up next to me and grabs my hand.

Out of nowhere, Hunter comes to my other side and grabs my other hand.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” he asks, looking up at me. The earnestness of his expression nearly breaks my heart.

“No, thank you, honey,” I say. “She’s fine. I can go in there myself.”

“My mother was at New York Presb,” he says. “It was a lot bigger than this hospital. Sometimes I got lost.”

I look into his eyes and suddenly he looks so much older than fourteen.

“I’m so sorry about your mom, Hunter,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says, looking away. And then, looking at me: “Thanks.”

“Will you sit out here with my friend, Priya, until I get back?”

Hunter nods and he and Priya sit down.

“Nothing’s broken?” I ask the doctor as he walks me back to my grandmother.

“Nothing at all,” he says. “She’s really quite amazing for a woman her age. I’ve never seen anything like her before.”

“Tell me about it,” I say as we continue down the hallway. The emergency room is crowded, but it’s easy to spot my grandmother—she’s the one surrounded by all the young doctors. And it’s not just male doctors. Men, women, children, it makes no difference, they are all equally charmed by her.

“Grandma?” I say, and the crowd of doctors parts for me to get close to her hospital bed.

“Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

“She’s fine,” one of the doctors says, “she was just telling us about France.”

She must have thought she was close to death. My grandmother almost never talks about her childhood. In fact, I barely know anything about it.

But in a moment, it hits me. She wasn’t talking about her childhood. What she was talking about is the man who looks like Rhett Butler. Her first husband. The one she ran away with and married when she was just sixteen. The only one who didn’t widow her. The one who broke her heart.

“So, that’s him?” I ask. “The one who looks like Rhett Butler?”

“That’s him,” she says. “I had no idea he was even in the country. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Apparently,” I say. “Are you feeling okay now?”

“Perfectly fine,” she says. “The doctors say I can go home.”

“They don’t want to keep you overnight?”

“Well, I think the one with the patch of gray in his hair wouldn’t mind seeing me overnight, but no. The doctors say I can go.” She smiles at me, and I realize she’s made this little joke for my benefit.

“Then let’s get you home,” I say, and eyeball the paperwork that needs to be filled out for discharge. “You know, it’s funny. With all this talk of me coming out here and meeting someone, I just knew you’d find someone first.”

My grandmother smiles.

“I saw you talking to a very nice-looking young man,” my grandmother says.

“He’s fourteen.”

“Not him, dear, the other one. The one who came for lunch.”

“Nate Sugarman?” I ask, and my grandmother smiles back in response. “I’ve told you a million times already. I’m not interested.”

“I saw you blushing, darling,” she says. “Am I to believe you hate him so much that he made you blush?”