My best friend cut into my unkind thoughts. “I’m calling to let you know that I’m bringing salsa and guac. But it’s the store-bought kind. I didn’t have time to mix and mush.”
My hands froze from arranging the tray. My breath rattled in the receiver.
“I know you have that ridiculous no store-bought food policy, but some of us work seventy hours a week defending the rights of our citizens. And even more hours helping to win the city council position.”
The election was over a year away.
“You’re not even the one running.”
“Yeah, but Keith is. He needs me. He told me I was a key component of his reelection campaign.”
More like his I’m-down-with-the-black-community card, because prior to the election he hadn’t formed real relations with the black populace in his district.
“Fine. I’ll see you in an hour. Just do me a favor and put it in a nice container.”
“Of course.” Sienna’s tone straddled the line between amused and offended.
“All right. See you soon.”
“Byeeeee!” Sienna clicked off.
I’d Swiffered the floors, wiped down the counters, and lit a few vanilla candles for atmosphere. Bending over to my freestanding stainless-steel wine cooler fridge, I selected two white wines for Nikki and Sienna. Earlier, I’d chosen the reds for Raina and myself from the wine cellar Darren had built in the basement a few years ago.
I scanned the kitchen and living room. Everything was in place and quiet, but in a few minutes, my home would be filled with raucous laughter. It had been a few months since we all hung out.
When the doorbell rang I jumped from the couch. It was probably Sienna. Raina and Nikki were always notoriously late. Nikki had an excuse with the kids, but Raina was just . . . Raina.
Peeking through the blinds of my front door, I was surprised to see Nikki. She knocked. “Hurry up, Kara! It’s muggy as hell out here!”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist.” I opened the door and Nikki rushed in like a whirlwind. Surprisingly, tonight she wasn’t in her Stepford mom gear of pearl necklace, pencil skirt, and pumps with an all-hair-in-place bob. Not that I didn’t prefer the look on her, but anytime she was in PTA mom mode, she was in a bad mood. Instead, she wore beat-up jeans, black Chucks, and a hoody. Her bob didn’t have the typical middle part—she’d probably raked her hands through it, something she did when she was frustrated.
Nikki drummed a catchy beat against her thighs. “Girl, where’s the wine?”
“Take a load off. I’ll pour you a glass of Pinot Grigio.”
“My favorite,” she trilled in a musical voice.
“Don’t I know it.” The girl kicked back wine like a toddler with apple juice.
“You can turn on the TV. I know Raina won’t be here on time, and Sienna has stuff going on with Keith.”
Ever the hostess, I poured my friend a healthy portion in a large wine glass that would make even Olivia Pope from Scandal envious.
Nikki smacked her lips and reached for the glass. “Gimme!”
“You’re starting to talk like Junior,” I said, referring to her son. “And how is my handsome man, by the way?”
“He’s a demanding diva, just like his—”
“Mother?”
“Moi?” She shook her head and gave me her best duck-face impression. “Why, I’m the most down-to-earth person you’ve ever had the pleasure to meet!”
Despite her joking, Nikki was unpretentious and came from humble beginnings. It made her role of being a stay-at-home mom and the wife to a husband who earned well over six figures and worked with Atlanta’s rich and famous a challenge that Nikki hadn’t quite mastered.
The doorbell rang again. This time, Raina stepped through the door.
“Hey, girl.” Raina pulled me into a hug. Her light, flowery perfume tickled my nose. I took a step back and surveyed my gorgeous friend. “You look cute.” I pointed at her off-the-shoulder white romper. I was tempted to ask where she got it from, but it would be a waste. I was more of a pressed slacks and blouse type of girl.
Raina patted the turquoise wrap covering her head and struck a pose. “Thanks, boo.” Raina greeted Nikki and then turned back to me. “Where’s Sienna? She’s usually the first person here.”
“She’s running a little late, probably from some fund-raising event with Keith. Anyway,” I shooed her toward the couch. “Go, sit. I’ll get you a plate of nibbles and a drink.”
After a few minutes, Sienna arrived with her store-bought dips.
“Sorry I’m late. Keith had this thing, and I needed to show my face and be the doting fiancée that I am. I couldn’t miss it.” She rushed into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and opened the cabinet.
“What do you need?” I asked. Even though Sienna had been in my home a million and one times, I didn’t like people messing up the order of my kitchen.
“I’m looking for your cute little bowls for the guac and salsa.”
I nodded to the lazy Susan on the counter. “I figured you wouldn’t have time to get the containers. Kick off your heels and relax. I’ll pour you some Chardonnay.”
Sienna kissed me on the cheek with a loud smacking noise. “You are the best!” She leaned against the counter and reached down to take off her navy blue pumps. I raised my eyebrow and nodded toward her conservative shoes. Never, in the fifteen years that I’d known her, had she ever worn boring footwear. She’d always sported ankle-and-neck-breaking heels in bright, bold colors.
“Election season. I have to wear these two-kids-and-one-on-the-way heels.” She shook her head. “I mean hello, I can still be fashionable. Look at Michelle Obama.” She brandished her shoe in the air.
“I don’t disagree with you. But if they’re not your style, don’t wear them.”
She sighed and then pasted on a smile. “No, no. I’m just being a brat. It’s fine.” She waved her hand as if swatting a gnat. “I don’t want to put Keith in jeopardy, and image is everything. I’m five ten in my heels, and that means Keith and I are nearly the same height.”
I shrugged as I scraped the dips into the bowls. “I’m sure you aren’t the first tall woman Keith has encountered. He can deal.”
Or not. I’d prefer not so she could find someone else. Preferably not Ben Carson’s doppelgänger. Sienna had made a lot of sacrifices. Recently she began sporting a fifteen-inch weave instead of rocking her natural hair that she usually wore in a short, curly fro.
Sienna made a noncommittal sigh.
“Girl! Get your ass over here and say hello!” Nikki yelled from the couch.
After pouring Sienna a glass, I grabbed mine and walked into the living room. Nikki was in the middle of blasting some of the moms at her kids’ private school.
“I swear they’re cornering me.”
“Who?” I asked, settling on the couch beside her.
“Sandra, Meegan, fucking Lynette.” She growled and gulped the wine.
We’d named them the Witches of Eastwick, and although Nikki had a flair for dramatics, she was right on the money about them. They made Mean Girls look like child’s play. If you didn’t participate in baking fund-raisers with homemade dishes, and come to every event and PTA meeting, then you were deemed a “bad mother.” The only reason they sniffed after Nikki was because her husband, James, was a tax attorney for celebrities and big-deal CEOs.