The Gift Bag Chronicles by Hilary De Vries Read Free Book Online Page A

boot. “Charles, Mrs. McIlleney — I mean
Mary
— was just saying how much she enjoyed meeting you,” I say, grabbing his arm.
    “Yes, I had the pleasure a few minutes ago,” he says, thrusting out his hand to Roger. “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve actually met. You must be Mary’s husband. Alex’s told me a lot about you.”
    “Roger, please,” he says, grasping his hand. “Alex was just telling me you’re a big Yankees fan.”
    Charles doesn’t even shoot me a look. Which one might expect, given his interest in sports is even less deep than mine and pretty much tops out at alumni tailgating parties at Yale home games. “Only if they’re winning, and only if we’re not talking about Steinbrenner,” he says. “But hey, after last season’s massacre by the Red Sox, I’d rather be an Eagles fan. Talk about a season. Wasn’t that Atlanta game something?”
    It’s like he’s speaking in tongues. Or maybe all publicists are blessed with silver tongues and souls of brass. Or is it balls of brass?
    “Oh, you boys and your sports,” Mrs. McIlleney says, shaking her head and shooting me that commiserating women-who-love-men-who-love-sports look.
    “Well, what are you going to do?” I say, smiling at her — at them —so hard my face hurts. Or it would hurt if I could feel it. But two hours of cocktails with the world’s smoothest boyfriend, at least when it comes to meeting my parents and their friends — well, a girl could die happy. Or at least put all her worries and frets about whatever it was I was worrying and fretting about on ice. On ice and with another splash of vodka, thank you very much. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party where I wasn’t working, I’ve forgotten you can actually enjoy yourself. Eat. Drink. Talk to people without one eye on the room and the other on your watch.
    Mr. McIlleney says something more. About the Eagles, I think. Or maybe he’s talking to Charles about bird-watching now. Hard to tell because another hand claps to my shoulder, accompanied by another version of “Oh my gosh, is that little Alex?” I turn. The Harrisons, or maybe the Schmidts, in matching crew-neck sweaters, beaming at me over their wineglasses.
    “Oh, I was hoping to see both of you here,” I say, leaning in for another round of hugs.
    I am spun off, pulled away from Charles and his new best friends, the McIlleneys, by the Harrisons — and it was the Harrisons — who are succeeded, some minutes later, by the Atwaters. After that come the Schmidts and more couples whose names I don’t recall or perhaps I never knew, given that it’s been, yes, much too long since I’ve been home and obviously Helen and Jack have made new friends whom I’ve never encountered until now.
    It goes on like this for another hour or so, getting passed from couple to couple until I feel like I’m in one of those elaborately choreographed dance sequences in a
Masterpiece Theatre
episode or a Merchant-Ivory movie. I’m waltzed around by various partners, up and down Helen’s prized Oriental, the votive candles blazing away on the mantel, Jack’s Cy Coleman on the stereo. “Well, it was great meeting you,” I say, prying myself out of my latest conversational cluster — Chartman I think their name was, moved in down the street a year or so ago — and turn for the relative refuge of the kitchen. A seventh-inning stretch, to get some water or see if Helen and Maria need any help, or God forbid, run into my real date, who seems to have disappeared into the crowd.
    I’m just heading down the hall, wondering if Charles is out back giving golf tips to Jack and his buddies, when Amy comes around the corner, carrying a platter of stuffed mushrooms.
    “Hey, nice party,” I say.
    “Yeah
. I mean, I don’t know what you were so worked up about,” she says, shoving the platter at me and turning to the hallmirror to reclip her hair. “Mom always does a nice cocktail hour. So yes, the party’s