Page 4 of The New Year's Party

There will be a craft involving glue guns, various games and capers, with opportunities for embarrassing spontaneous musical performances, and—one hopes—drunken revelations of various and sundry dark secrets.

The menu will be as follows:

Appetizers

Fig spread on crackers

Charcuterie board with local honey

and stone-ground mustard

Salad

Seared scallops

on a bed of arugula with a miso glaze

Main

Filet of salmon

with a side of roasted vegetables

Multigrain dinner rolls

Dessert

Chocolate mousse with whipped cream

and raspberry sauce

Formal attire suggested, high spirits required.

Please RSVP by 12/15/2019 with a text to the host.

Sincerely,

Nathaniel S. Phelps

Host, Chef, Master of Ceremonies and Secrets

P.S. No children and no excuses. BE THERE MOTHERFUCKERS!

Chapter 1

Bennett

December 31, 8:30 a.m.

“So... New Year’s Eve. It’s finally here.” Bennett looked at Olivia, who despite the early-ish hour was chopping scallions at the kitchen counter barefoot, in a pencil skirt, her blouse untucked, her dark curly hair gathered back in a clip. She didn’t respond right away, but he knew she heard him because she shifted her weight. She always shifted her weight when she was thinking.

Damn, he loved looking at his wife. He had ever since he walked into Art History 101 and sat behind the pale girl with the stormy hair and the stunning shoulders. Phelps had scoffed.Really? You moved all the way to Bloomington, Indiana, and you’re spending thousands of dollars so you can look at the back of this chick’s neck while some asshole tells you that da Vinci was apretty talentedguy?

Whatever. Phelps took it all back when Bennett finally introduced him to Olivia—incidentally, at their first New Year’s party, back in 2005. Phelps pulled Bennett aside, handed him a shot, and said,Welldone, Son of the Rust Belt.

“It is indeed December thirty-first,” Olivia finally said, deadpan. Her chopping increased in intensity.

Bennett cleared his throat. Olivia had a way of... well... killing a conversation. Decapitating it, actually. Of course, shehad pointed out recently thathewas in the habit of making statements that didn’t require an answer. He supposed what he’d really meant to do was coax some expression of enthusiasm from her about tonight. But he rallied. He had learned, after twelve years of marriage, to always rally.