Read Just Like a Man for Free Online Page B

Only the Wainwrights, she thought, could turn a potluck dinner into an elegant, F. Scott Fitzgerald affair.
    "Such a nice evening," Bitsy said when she saw where Hannah had directed her gaze, "decided to move the party outside. So much more fun. Drink?"
    "Club soda, please," Hannah replied automatically. Then she realized that amid all the Forgotten Generation imagery, she had forgotten her pronouns, too. Horrified by the idea of being Bitsified, she hastily amended, "I mean,
I'll
have a club soda, please.
It
would be great. Thank
you.
"
    "Lovely," Bitsy said. "Go on out. Appetizers by the roses. Drinks by the pool. Dinner at eight. Feel free to mingle until then."
    Mingling,
Hannah echoed to herself. Another revolting ritual practiced by the Emerson families at these heinous ceremonies. Bracing herself to shoulder the onerous task she was about to undertake, she headed out into the fray. And as she scanned the faces of the people dotting the patio and nearer reaches of the broad lawn, she told herself she wasn't looking for one face in particular.
    She was
not
looking for Michael Sawyer.
     
    Michael saw Hannah the moment she stepped outside, despite her conservative black outfit. Still, she was the director of the ultra-conservative Emerson Academy, so he could see how she'd want to reflect that. Or make herself invisible to the naked eye so she wouldn't be spotted by some of the other parents and drawn into conversation, since Michael was fast coming to realize that most of the Emerson parents tended to converse about really boring things like golf and Republican politics and 401 (k)s.
    And, man, he really wished the word
naked
hadn't worked itself into that observation.
    He had been thinking—besides the naked stuff—that he himself would be way overdressed for the fourth-grade parent potluck, having come to the Wain Wrights' house straight from work. But he'd figured he'd shed his claret-colored tie and dark pinstriped suit jacket—all right, so Hannah wasn't the only one who exuded conservativeness—once he arrived, and do his best to fit in with what he'd been sure would be an ocean of polos, khakis, and chinos on the male partygoers. He'd also assumed there would be loud eighties tunes blaring from a portable boom box, a couple of grills sizzling with burgers and brats, picnic and card tables loaded down with casseroles and brownies and pies, and an off-kilter volleyball net set up for a good no-rules, last-man-standing tournament. He'd been prepared for someone to toss him a brewski and yell, "Hey, Sawyer, go long!" before hurling a football at him from across the yard.
    Never mind that he hadn't had time yet to cultivate friendships with any of the parents at his son's new school. Never mind that he didn't
want
to cultivate friendships with any of the parents at his son's new school. That was just the way potlucks were. At least, that was how potlucks had been done when Michael was growing up. Then again, he hadn't attended an overpriced private school like Emerson when he was growing up. He'd been a middling student in a midsized public school in middle-of-the-road, middle-class America.
    But there was nothing middle-anything about the guests at the Wainwrights'. Michael had wandered into the backyard to find it peopled by individuals dressed in suits and cocktail ensembles, murmuring low in small groups, twisting wine and martini glasses in their fingers as muted jazz music flowed from what might very well have been heaven above, since he sure hadn't spotted any speakers anywhere. Nobody was playing volleyball or football. And the only thing in the pool was a bunch of floating candles—nobody was playing Marco Polo or having chicken fights. And in place of the picnic and card tables, a seemingly endless buffet—wearing a skirt, no less—circumnavigated the patio, filled with the kind of food that only came from a really nice restaurant. Evidently, to the Emerson Academy crowd, the term
covered dish
on the