"Ah . . ." Oliver cleared his throat. "I like Jacky."
"I thought you did."
"Surprised she isn't married," he said, "a bit bossy, I guess." He shook his head sadly, reactivating the "creep" sign.
"Well, you're taken."
"Quite so," Oliver said. "Just another hungry breadwinner."
"Half an hour. Oh, Precious, did Daddy make you walk?"
"Mama," Emma said as Oliver retreated to the barn.
It was good that Jacky was coming, Oliver decided; it meant that she had forgiven him or gotten over it or something. Maybe she had a new lover. That was a cheerful thought. He was in a good mood when Jennifer called him in for dinner.
In the following days, Oliver stayed away from Suzanne as much as possible. The few times that they were by themselves were uncomfortable, but at least they could show the hurt they felt, even if they didn't talk about it. Passing in the hallway was harder. Others would notice if they tried to ignore each other; they were forced to be friendly in a phony way, as though they didn't feel the force drawing them together. Suzanne began to look strained. Oliver kept his head down and worked hard.
The day of the party was gray and drizzly, warm for late fall. Oliver stood in the open door of the barn, holding a paper cup of ale and welcoming guests. By mid-afternoon, cars were parked around the first bend of the driveway. Thirty or forty people were milling about in the house giving Jennifer advice and admiring Emma. Jennifer was flushed and pleased. She kept the conversations lively while she brought appetizers in and out of the kitchen. Porter had come through with a quantity of scones, apricot—walnut and cranberry—orange. Oliver took special pleasure in pouring a Glenlivet for Arlen. They stood in amiable silence as rain dripped from the barn roof.