The Stuff That Never Happened by Maddie Dawson Read Free Book Online Page A

curmudgeon he can be. He purses his lips but then mumbles something about a drink being a good idea, and Clark starts talking about the last time he and Padgett were here, which he remembers as being exceptionally good, and he nudges Padgett into agreeing with him. And then the conversation comes to the first of its many halts of the evening. Padgett’s phone lets out a little bleat, and she snatches it up and reads the screen. Clark takes another sip of his manhattan and the waiter takes our drink orders and slips away.
    I lean over and compliment Padgett on the exquisite silk scarf she’s wearing, and she tells me a little stiffly that it was made in Indonesia from silk produced by worms that are fed an organic diet of blah blah blah, and these are evidently happier silkworms than have ever been found in the history of the world. I say, “These are the silkworms who no doubt have health coverage and day care and profit sharing,” and she actually laughs. I feel Grant rolling his eyes—after all these years, I can feel his eye-rolling even if I’m not looking at him—but, screw him, I don’t care. After that, it’s easy to get Padgett to give all her many opinions, on everything from the melting polar ice caps to the vital importance of wearing organic cotton and eating vegan food.
    “So,” she says, definitely warming to me, “do you work, or do you just stay home and raise kids?”
    Clark, who looks as though he might slit his own throat, quickly leans over and tells her that I am actually a very fine, accomplished, award-winning book illustrator with lots and lots of books to my credit.
    “Oh, yes,” Grant says. “She’s just finished the illustrations on a fascinating treatise about a squirrel’s evening called Bobo and His Blankie Go to Bed.” He sees my face and quickly adds, “It’s a silly story, but Annabelle’s drawings are very lovely.”
    “I’m sure it’s wonderful,” says Clark.
    “Thank you, Clark. Grant thinks that now that the children are grown, I could be painting more serious things. He can’t face the fact that I like doing children’s books.”
    Grant makes some kind of protesting noise, but the waiter shows up just then and the subject fortunately gets dropped. Later, Padgett starts making fun of Clark for not knowing what tempeh was when she first met him; and then, when the wine, the food, and my smiling questions have all made her excruciatingly comfortable, she tells a funny, slightly off-color story about their wedding, involving a non-English-speaking hotel employee thinking Clark was really Padgett’s father! Imagine that. And this employee was sure that—ha-ha—the bride’s father was inappropriately trying to gain entrance to their bridal suite during what the clerk was sure was an intimate moment. So there was poor Clark, jiggling his card key in the lock while the employee is meanwhile trying to head him off and get rid of him while the youngsters seal the deal.
    When she’s finished, I laugh, but the two men sit there in silence. Grant grabs his drink, so he can hide his eyes behind the glass, I’m sure.
    Padgett looks around at their blank, even faces. “Like this guy had never seen an old guy marrying a young woman before?” she says, laughing. “And meanwhile, all you wanted was to get in your own hotel room, didn’t you, snoopy?”
    Snoopy?
    I’m surprised that Clark hasn’t tried to somehow stop her from telling this story. Instead, he lets out a high-pitched giggle and dives into the remains of his manhattan. I can’t help it, I start laughing, and then Padgett laughs, too, and Clark seizes her hand and says, “Well, on that note, shall we tell them our news, sweetheart?”
    Oh God , I think. They’re having a kid .
    I sit up straighter in my chair and am glad that I haven’t already drunk too much wine so I can sense the very fun nuances that I’m sure are coming my way. I can feel Grant tense up beside me, ready to ward off all discussions