The Perfect Hosts, page 1
Dedication
In memory of my mother, Patricia A. Schmida
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for the Novels of Heather Gudenkauf
Also by Heather Gudenkauf
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Madeline
Madeline Drake looks out her bedroom window, one hand resting on her belly, one hand shielding her eyes. The hard disk of sun sits like a crown atop what Wes calls their own personal stretch of the Tetons. In the long shadow of the mountain, beneath snowcapped peaks now blazing orange from the early evening sun, sits Lone Tree Ranch and their home. All fourteen thousand square feet of it designed from the ground up with its copper roof, charred cypress siding, and walls of windows.
Madeline knows it is presumptuous, calling the mountain and the three thousand acres at her feet theirs. She knows the mountain belongs only to itself, a stoic deity looking down at her with neither benevolence nor disdain, only indifference. The thought makes Madeline shiver despite the surprisingly warm May evening, and she cups the swell of her stomach protectively.
Below, the back lawn, as green and manicured as a golf course, ends abruptly and gives way to the horse paddocks and barns. A row of hay bales forms a barrier between the yard and a bald patch of earth where the horses chewed the alfalfa down to nubs. A hundred yards from the bales sits a champagne-colored ’55 Dodge pickup truck with a black X painted on the side and stuffed with explosives. Because what gender reveal would be complete without a mushroom cloud of pink or blue smoke to announce whether their baby is going to be a boy or a girl?
And then there is the rodeo. A goddamn rodeo where guests can take part in events like saddle bronc riding, bull riding, barrel racing, and team roping by local talent. There’s even a mechanical bull set up in a corner of the party barn. And to top it all off, Wes has somehow managed to get Reba McEntire to fly in to provide the entertainment.
This isn’t only about learning the gender of their baby, it’s an opportunity for her husband to network, to show off their horses, the property.
Madeline knows that everything Wes does is for her and now the baby. And while the land that comprises Lone Tree Ranch was left to Wes and his brother Dix by their father, they aren’t free and clear. There are taxes and the mortgage on the house, and the cost of raising and training world-class horses and riders is exorbitant. In short, the Drakes have to work hard to keep what they have.
Beyond the truck are miles and miles of tall, windswept native grasses that creep up to the base of mountain. Leggy lodgepole pines look down upon the narrow trout stream that meanders through the property, where gray wolves lower their shaggy heads to drink.
Most of the horses are in a paddock well away from the impending cacophony. Still, Madeline worries for them as she does for the animals who will take part in the rodeo. Any loud noises can be traumatic, especially for the young, skittish colts and fillies on the ranch. But Wes thinks it won’t be much different than the target skeet shooting he and the guys do. It will be better, he said. One loud boom and it will all be over.
“Hey, beautiful!” comes Wes’s voice from below. Madeline pulls her eyes from the snow-tinged mountains to see her husband, head thrown back, holding a bouquet of ivory-colored balloons in one hand and a high-powered shotgun in the other. At his side is their big shaggy lug of a dog, a Great Pyrenees named Pip.
“Hey,” Madeline calls back, feeling anything but beautiful. Not today, anyway. The fabric of her white sundress strains against her midsection. It’s been expanding at an alarming rate over the past several days, and the cloth bites uncomfortably into her skin. But she knows her husband thinks she’s beautiful, and that’s enough.
“You coming down?” Wes asks, pulling his fawn Stetson from his head and pressing it to his chest. “The guests are arriving.”
Wes is right. The steady parade of friends and neighbors is making their way into the yard, where a photographer is waiting to snap their pictures as if they are strutting down a red carpet. Everyone looks as if they stepped from the set of a glam ’80s soap opera based in Wyoming dressed to match the baby’s gender reveal party theme: Pearls or Pistols. The women who normally wear yoga pants and ponytails are dressed in Western-chic cocktail dresses and pearls while the men wear stiff jeans, cowboy boots, hats, and holsters at their hips. Madeline is certain that many of those holsters hold loaded guns. Wes’s friends, rivals, business associates, area ranchers, horse brokers, and bankers certainly do like their guns. Madeline was ambivalent about the idea when the party planner, Alyssa, suggested it. Was it sexist? Definitely, but Alyssa was so convincing, and frankly, Madeline was tired of looking at swatches, menus, and balloons.
“I’m coming,” Madeline assures him. “I have to put my shoes on.”
“Well, hurry up,” Wes says good-naturedly. “I have no idea what to do with these balloons.”
Madeline watches as Wes moves toward the meadow and the truck, stopping periodically to greet guests, the balloons bouncing lazily above him, his million-dollar smile at the ready. Ten years earlier Madeline fell hard for that smile when her sister introduced her to Wes. She was twenty-five and still on the competitive equestrian circuit. Despite the age difference, they were engaged within three months and then married less than a year later.
One of the waitresses approaches Wes, and Madeline sees him stiffen. Even from this distance Madeline can see she’s pretty with a heart-shaped face framed by short burgundy-dyed hair. She lays a hand on Wes’s arm, and he lowers his head as if trying to hear what the young woman is saying. He frowns, shakes his head, and hands the bouquet of balloons to her before walking away. The young woman stands there for a moment, holding the balloons, a defeated expression on her face, then rushes back toward the catering tent.
Though Wes is known for being a tough businessman and even tougher boss, his curt dismissal of the young woman is unusual even for him. Madeline chalks it up to the chaos of the day. It’s not every day that Reba is flown to the ranch for a private concert.
Madeline bends over, retrieving her handmade alligator boots from the floor, and sits down on the king-size bed. She looks down, barely able to see the tips of her toes, lifts one leg, and tries to slide her foot into the boot but is met with a hard stop by her swollen ankles. Tears prick at Madeline’s eyes, and she lies back on the bed and considers skipping the spectacle about to take place on their land. The party to reveal the gender of their baby has been scheduled for months, the planning has finally come together, and now she is too tired to enjoy it.
Besides, she doesn’t care if the baby is a boy or a girl. It doesn’t matter one bit, just as long as the child is healthy, which Johanna, her midwife and best friend of nine years, insists is the case.
“Sweetie,” comes a voice from the doorway. Madeline opens her eyes to find Johanna, dressed in a denim shirt and a long fringed suede skirt, standing over her. “Why are you hiding up here?”
“My boots don’t fit,” Madeline says tearfully. “I think the baby has migrated down to my ankles.”
“Not in all my years of being a midwife have I attended an ankle birth,” Johanna says, tossing her long black braid over her shoulder and sinking down on the bed next to Madeline.
“Well, that’s something,” Madeline says wearily, sliding over to make room for her.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Johanna assures her. “There are going to be no ankle-birthed babies, I promise. And even if there are, it will be okay. In approximately six weeks, your baby will be here, safe and sound. I’m going to make sure of it. And then you can start riding those dreadful creatures again.”
“Ha,” Madeline says. “You know you love them. Otherwise, you wouldn’t offer to ride Maize every time you come to check on me.” The horses on Lone Tree are, for the most part, docile, but Maize is Johanna’s favorite.
“I’m kidding. Now, come on,” Johanna says, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and getting to her feet. She holds out her hand. “Trust me?”
“You know I do,” Madeline says, grabbing Johanna’s hand and pulling herself up to a sitting position.
“Wait,” Johanna says, disappearing into Madeline’s walk-in closet. “Wear these,” she says, reemerging a few seconds later with a p air of white flip-flops. “Much more comfortable than cowboy boots.” Johanna bends over and gently slides the sandals onto Madeline’s feet.
“If you say so,” Madeline says glumly.
“I do say so. You look beautiful. Now, come on, put on your pearls, and let’s go meet your public.”
“You mean Wes’s public,” Madeline clarifies, getting awkwardly to her feet. In fact, few of the people on the guest list are truly her friends or even Wes’s. Ranching and raising world-class equestrian horses and training the riders is a cutthroat business, and Madeline has no illusions that any one of the people who are going to raise their glass to toast the upcoming birth of their baby wouldn’t hesitate to stab them in the back if it’s a good business decision. Madeline wiggles her toes. Johanna is right. The flip-flops are much better.
“True,” Johanna concedes, “but you know they love you much more than Wes. You raise his likability factor by a thousand percent.”
“Yeah, right!” Madeline smiles, slipping a triple strand of pearls over her neck. “Everyone loves Wes. But you feel free to tell him he owes it all to me.”
“Oh, I do. Every chance I get,” Johanna says as she threads her arm into Madeline’s and guides her from the bedroom and to the landing that looks over the living room with its hand-scraped oak floors perfectly aligned with the concrete walls, earthy and austere at the same time. The space is softened by plush sofas and chairs in the shades of green found in the trees and flora seen through the expansive window walls. Outside, the Wyoming sky is periwinkle blue. It is the perfect evening for a party, though the forecast calls for a chance of rain.
“You know,” Johanna begins in a conspiratorial voice, “I can tell you if you’re having a boy or a girl. No one else has to know. It can be our little secret.” As always Johanna seems to be able to read her mind. It would be nice to know before everyone else, to have a little piece of this day just for herself. But no, Wes wants to be surprised right along with their guests. Wants their friends and colleagues to share in one of the happiest days of their lives. Wes does love a grand gesture—the bigger the audience, the better.
“Well?” Johanna says, raising her eyebrows. “Do you want to know? It’s almost time.”
“No,” Madeline says, shaking her head. “If you tell me, it will be written all over my face. Everyone will know.”
“True,” Johanna agrees, sliding her arm through Madeline’s. “You’re a terrible liar.”
If only she knew, Madeline thinks.
Together they make their way down the steps, through the great room, and out the glass doors that lead to the terrace where they are greeted by the smoky scent of barbecue. The same waitress that Madeline saw talking to Wes earlier approaches, holding out a tray of steak tartare bites.
“No, thank you,” Madeline says, now too nervous to eat. This was the night. The night they will learn if they are having a boy or a girl. Although Madeline doesn’t care either way, she knows this one little tidbit of information will make it all the more real. The waitress turns to Johanna.
“Oh, no. I don’t eat meat,” Johanna says giving a little shudder.
The waitress lingers, and Madeline examines her face. She is beautiful, with large cat eyes that are a startling green against her pale skin. And she is young. Younger than Madeline initially thought. Twenty-one if she’s a day.
“You look familiar,” Madeline says. “Have we met before?”
“Probably at another event,” the girl says. “I’ve worked for this caterer for about a year. Were you at the Whitneys’ anniversary party in March?”
“Yes!” Madeline says, making the connection. “You were the bartender at that one.” She is about to ask her what she was talking to Wes about earlier when the waitress turns to Johanna. “You’re a doula, right?” she asks shyly.
“Actually, I’m a midwife,” Johanna says.
“There’s a difference?” the young woman asks. Madeline reads her nametag. Mellie. She then zones out as Johanna goes into detail about how midwives can provide medical care during pregnancy, birth, and after, while doulas stick to information and emotional and physical support.
The back lawn has taken on the festive air of a carnival. The ceiling of the clear-top tent is festooned with pampas grass, wildflowers, and Edison bulbs of various lengths. Dozens of linen-covered tables are set for the barbecue dinner that will be served later. Picnic glam, the party planner called it.
The evening would begin with games that Alyssa has insisted will be a hoot: Name That Baby Song, Guess That Celebrity Baby, Pacifier Hunt, and more. Madeline immediately nixed the How Big Is the Bump? game. There is no way in hell that she is letting people guess the circumference of her belly. Still, Madeline knows a ridiculous amount of money is at stake in the pool that includes the sex, length, weight, hair color, and God knows what else. Madeline also knows Alyssa has overplanned, that this crowd will spend most of their time drinking the expensive alcohol and gossiping about the person just out of earshot.
After the fun and games, there will be the dinner consisting of shaved fennel and celery salad, ribs, barbecue-spiced hot-smoked salmon, and grown-ups’ s’mores made with cinnamon graham crackers, milk chocolate ganache, candied pecans, sweet coconut, and a topping of almond-scented toasted meringue. Madeline would have been happy with a plain old s’more, but Alyssa said the guests would swoon over these, so she agreed.
Just before dusk, the guests will gather behind the long row of hay bales to watch the big reveal. Waiters and waitresses will be standing by with flutes of champagne topped with either pink or blue cotton candy depending on whether the explosion shows they are having a boy or a girl. Madeline, of course, will have sparkling cider. Then comes the rodeo where some of Madeline’s students will show off their equestrian skills, and young men and women new to the rodeo circuit will try and catch eyes in hopes of landing a sponsor. Then the guests will get their chance. Men and some of the women will drunkenly ride one of the more docile broncos while the crowd whoops and hollers. Finally, Reba will take the outdoor stage that was erected for the event.
“I may have a new client,” Johanna says, pulling Madeline from her thoughts.
“She’s pregnant?” Madeline asks, looking at the young woman with new eyes. “No way.”
“Apparently she’s four months along,” Johanna says. “I’m going to meet with her later, get more info.”
“We hate her, right?” Madeline says. “I swear when I was at four months, none of my clothes fit me anymore.” A niggle of something tugs at her. Why was a young, pregnant waitress talking to her husband? How does she even know who he is?
“You’re gorgeous,” Johanna assures her. “Hey, do you see Dalton?” she asks.
Madeline searches the crowd for Johanna’s husband in the sea of cowboy hats. “Not yet,” she says. “Didn’t you two drive over together?”
“No, separate. He’s coming in from a job, and he’s pissed at me again.”
“Why?” Madeline asks, though she can guess why. Johanna and Dalton haven’t been getting along for a while now, and though Johanna hasn’t come right out and said it, Madeline is beginning to wonder if there is someone else in the picture.
“Who knows?” Johanna says, rolling her eyes. “It’s always something. Hopefully I can avoid him for most of the night. I’m not going to let him ruin your party. Hold on,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket and glancing at the screen.
Just then, Alyssa comes bouncing up to them, clipboard in hand, a slightly harried expression on her face. “Madeline,” she says, tucking a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I can’t seem to find Wes. Any idea where he might be?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Madeline says, scanning the yard. It’s hard to tell who’s who with the dozens of cowboy hats obscuring faces. “He has to be around here somewhere.”
Alyssa bites her lip. “I really don’t want to bother you with logistics. This is supposed to be your special night.”
“Excuse me, but I have to take this,” Johanna says abruptly, holding up her phone.
“Another mother-to-be?” Madeline asks.
“Always,” Johanna said with a little sigh. “I’m sure it’s nothing, only Braxton-Hicks. If I see Wes, I’ll tell him to come find you.”
Madeline nods, well familiar with the pesky false contractions that she, too, has been experiencing. As Johanna rushes off in search of a quiet spot for her phone call, Madeline turns back to Alyssa, who is intently studying the sky.
