Page 62 of The Awful Truth

Mercy’s mother had taught her that, as far as drinking goes, every man has a sweet spot. That moment—however brief—where they’re kinder, funnier, and more receptive to suggestion. Try too early and the response was exactly the same is it would be if he was sober—no. But too late meant he’d have crossed over to a worse reaction than if he had just been sipping a hot coffee. It was an emotional trapeze act—throwing yourself with precision and perfect form to connect with your husband’s best mood. Mercy had seen her mom use it strategically to get her father to agree to everything from ordering Chinese food to buying new patio furniture to replace the rusted-out metal table and chairs. And in the time since Mercy and Travis said, ‘I do’, she had perfected the art. Only in her case, it wasn’t a Walmart end-of-season sale on outdoor furniture. It was trips to Fiji or a new villa on Lake Como. Or this evening, agreeing to get their daughter tested. He wasn’t quite there yet—he drank more slowly when he was playing cards—but he would be soon. She didn’t exactly know why she was so determined to do this tonight. Maybe it was a reaction to her conversation with Miguel the day before. Maybe it was the opportunity of having Antonia there and having a bunch of people around the table that he was trying to impress. But she was going to do it. Even if only to prove to herself what she already knew.

So she sat at the poker table in a red silk dress as Oliver dealt the next round, skipping her because she hated to play and Travis couldn’t care less if she was participating or just watching. She was seated on the far side of the octagonal table from Oliver, between Antonia and Miguel. To the left of Antonia, was Ted, then an empty chair where Charlotte should have been (apparently she’d gotten caught up with some work correspondence and had to bow out). Winslow was to the right of Miguel, and on the other side of him was Travis, who was next to Oliver, as always. The air hadn’t cooled down yet, and Mercy found herself feeling bad for the men, all of whom must be sweating under their tuxedo jackets. Antonia, who was in a sequined evening gown, must be feeling the heat too. It was a gown meant to be worn to a winter ball, not on a hot Mediterranean evening.

Mercy wished for a nice breeze to kick up to cool everyone off and clean the stench of cigars that hung around them. In the absence of a breeze, she’d quietly have the staff set up a fan in the far corner of what now looked like an outdoor games room befitting the best casinos in Vegas. It was remarkable how the staff so quickly transformed the al fresco dining deck, and she briefly wondered where they had stored all the furniture. Then her mind drifted back to the matter at hand—observing her husband.

She was still irked that he had the nerve to override her with Rhett earlier. The children were her domain. Well, their activities and daily schedules anyway. He didn’t have the first clue what the fallout would be for Rhett missing that practice. He’d be sat at the next tournament, and there would be tears. A lot of tears that Travis would never see because he wouldn’t be there.

Her gaze landed on Winslow for a second, who looked tired, but not from lack of sleep. From something much deeper. After all that drama earlier today, she knew he must be feeling humiliated. What a good sport to show up for this farce just for his husband’s sake. Unlike her, Antonia was being dealt in. Her face was expressionless, especially next to her husband, who looked smug as ever as he threw some chips into the middle.

Travis peeked at the two cards in front of him, then glanced over his shoulder. “Indira, where are my sliders at?”

She saw Ted and Winslow exchange a look that said they both knew he had nothing in his hand.

Indira smiled at Travis, even though she probably wanted to punch him instead. “I’ll check with Chef Yuri. He was making the buns from scratch.”

“Well, tell him to hurry up and get that dough to rise. I can’t wait all night!” Travis answered with a loud chuckle to soften his unreasonable request.

“Certainly, Mr. Bishop,” she said before hurrying off, presumably to bitch about how ridiculous her boss was.

“You must have quite the talented chef,” Winslow said dryly. “Defying the laws of fermentation kinetics would be a tremendous feat.”

Travis chuckled again, this time with his eyes narrowed. “When did you first win the world’s best boss award?”

Winslow smirked but didn’t answer.

Nope. The timing was definitely off to bring it up. He not only needed another drink, he clearly had a bad hand. Mercy stood and walked around the table, resting her fingertips on Travis’s shoulder as she picked up his empty tumbler. She took it behind the bar and refilled it with ice and a generous pour of Old Rip Van Winkle Bourbon. She made up a plate of beef spiedini skewers, removing the sticks for him and adding a dollop of marinara sauce. By the time she had his snack ready, the hand was over and Miguel was sweeping the chips in his direction with a wide grin. She set the drink and plate next to her husband and lowered her mouth to his ear. “To hold you over until the sliders get here.”

“You do take care of me, even when I don’t deserve it,” Travis said, pointing at his lips.

She bent at the waist and gave him a quick peck, then returned to her seat to resume her watch. His eyes lit up when he saw the flop, and he grabbed a tall stack of chips with his meaty hand and pushed it into the middle.

“Uh oh, somebody means business,” Ted announced.

“Yes, he does,” Travis answered.

Winslow and Miguel both folded, which caused Travis to make a loud tsking sound. “Come on, you two, it’s play money.” He looked at Antonia, who called him. “Oh yes ma’am, this just got interesting!”

Ted threw in his cards. “I’ll let you two duke it out.”

Oliver turned over a ten of diamonds. Travis slid another pile of chips in. “Count that for me, Oliver. I’m trying to eat.”

Oliver glanced at the stack. “Two thousand to Antonia.”

She shook her head. “No sense spending good money after bad.”

Travis clawed the chips away from the middle, his mouth too full of beef, bread crumbs, and cheese to gloat. Wiping his hands on a napkin, then using it to mop his forehead, he had a long gulp of his drink before winking at Mercy.

It was getting close to the time to leap from her platform into the air, but she’d need to wait for her opening—when there was a brief break in the game. She didn’t have to wait long because Indira returned with a large tray of sliders.

Travis’s face lit up. “Oh, there we go. Looks like I can defy the laws of physics after all, Winslow.”

Winslow gave him a little up-nod and smiled. “Well, your chef, anyway.”

“Quick break for the main course,” Travis announced. “Indira, bring those around the table, and start with the lovely ladies.”

She did as she was told, Antonia and Mercy each taking one from the tray. Miguel waved it off. “No, thank you, dear. I’m already busting out of these pants.” Winslow took one. “I must try one, since the chef went to such great lengths to make them.”

Travis took three. “Thanks, Indira. You and Oliver help yourselves, and make sure Captain America over there has at least four. We’ll fatten him up a bit so the rest of us don’t look so bad.”