Page 4 of The Perfect Hosts

“We wanted to congratulate you,” Sully says, pressing the gift into her hands. “A little peace offering. Where’s Wes? I’d like a word.”

“This isn’t the time or place,” Madeline says, trying to keep her voice low. “Please leave.”

“Come on, now,” Mia says, pulling her face into a pout. “We’re just trying to mend fences, Madeline. Let’s not get ugly.”

Madeline pulls her phone from her pocket and begins typing an SOS message to Wes. Over the buzz of the crowd, she hears her brother-in-law’s booming laugh. Three years older than Wes, Dix Drake is a hulking bull of a man with a quick sense of humor and two ex-wives who are still a little in love with him. Madeline gets it: he’s fun and laid-back. The life of the party. But Dix always seems to disappear when it’s time to go to work and goes through money hand over fist. They argue over everything from the kind of hay to feed the horses to how much they should sell a prized gelding for, but before their father died he insisted that the family business stay in the family. Wes and Dix Drake may have an even more complicated relationship than Madeline and her sister, who she hasn’t spoken to since their father’s funeral.

“Why don’t you go talk to Dix?” Madeline says. “I’m sure he’d love to catch up with you both.” She hands the wrapped package to Mia. “He’ll know what to do with this.” Madeline turns her back to the Prestons and begins to say hello to other party guests with what must sound like false cheerfulness. Out of the corner of her eye she watches as the Prestons approach Dix. With a tight smile, he leans in and whispers something in Sully’s ear. The two stare at one another, faces stony, until Dix claps Sully on the back and turns away.

Package in hand, the Prestons move toward the gift table but are stopped by Johanna, who greets them with her hands on her hips. Johanna knows the history Madeline and Wes have with Sully and Mia. They appear to exchange a few words before Sully hands the package to Johanna and moves toward a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. From across the yard, Johanna catches Madeline watching, and Madeline smiles and waves, but Johanna only lifts her hand half-heartedly and then rushes away, gift in hand.

Madeline spends the next fifteen minutes making small talk with a former congresswoman and her husband until she finally sees Wes coming toward her, rifle in hand. Alyssa must have found him and told him about the forecast. He holds up the rifle. “It’s showtime.”

“Wes, the Prestons are here,” Madeline says, as he grabs her by the hand and leads her toward the hay bales.

“Ignore them,” Wes says. “Don’t let them ruin our night.” Madeline wants to tell him that they already have, but he’s right—this is their day, their special moment.

The crowd that has formed behind the row of bales parts, and two hundred pairs of eyes stare back at them, smiles wide, eyes bright. A man wearing Johnny Cash–black and a Stetson pulls a handgun from its holster, lifts it in the air, and shouts, “Pistol!” Madeline, for a second believing that the man is going to fire the weapon, nearly stumbles. Wes steadies her, and a woman wearing a turquoise jumpsuit cries out, “Pearls!” A dueling chant follows.

“Pearls, pearls, pearls!” the women shout.

“Pistols, pistols, pistols!” the men counter.

I don’t care! Madeline wants to cry out. Why does it matter? And why did they invite these people, strangers really, to their home?

From the crowd, Alyssa reappears, clipboard in one hand and a wireless microphone in the other. She hands the microphoneto Wes, but Dix steps in and grabs it from his fingers. Wes gives a little laugh, shakes his head in resignation, and gives a sweep of his arm, as if inviting Dix to speak.

Dix waits until the chants quiet before speaking. “Welcome, everyone!” he begins. “Thank you for joining us in this momentous event. I know that Wes and Madeline are so happy that you’re here with them tonight to find out who’s going to be taking over their lives in a few short weeks!” His comments are met with knowing laughter. “Rain may be heading our way, so there’s been a change in plans.”

Madeline glances over at Wes, expecting to see him simmering with irritation. Instead, he is smiling broadly and laughing along with the crowd.

Someone from the back of the group lets out a big whoop and shouts, “Pistols forever!”

Dix hands the microphone to Wes who in turn holds it out to Madeline. Madeline shakes her head. The last thing she wants to do is speak in front of a large group—and where is Johanna? It doesn’t feel right to find out the sex of the baby without her.

Again, Wes pushes the mic toward her, forcing it into Madeline’s hands, and gives her an encouraging smile. A challenge. Reluctantly, she takes the microphone and scrambles for something—anything—to say. Finally, she speaks. “Thank you, everyone, for being here and for joining us on this very special day. And whether we have a boy or a girl or anything in between, we’ll be happy.” Madeline hands the microphone to Wes and takes a little step backward to let him know that she is done. When she was competing in dressage, Madeline didn’t mind all the eyes on her. She knew that spectators were really watching the horse, and that Madeline was just an accessory, an extension of the beautiful beast she was riding.

“All right, then!” Wes says, “Are you ready for the big boom?” It’s followed by a cry of “Yes!” and another roundof chants.Pistols...Pearls...Pistols...Pearls...Pistols...Pearls...

“Okay,” Wes says, “simmer down and make sure everyone stays behind the hay bales and plug your ears if you don’t like loud noises.”

Madeline takes a step back, but Wes reaches for her hand. “Where are you going? Let’s do the honors together.” He holds out the high-powered rifle toward her.

Does she want to be the one to send a bullet flying eighteen hundred miles per hour toward a vintage truck holding an explosive device filled with blue or pink powder? No, she does not. Madeline doesn’t like the feel of guns, doesn’t like the heft of them in her hands or the cold metal against her fingers. She doesn’t like the idea of how its simple mechanism can send a tiny piece of metal through the air with such force that it can shatter bone, pierce a spinal cord, or eviscerate organs.

“You do it,” Madeline says, pushing the rifle back toward him. “I’m fine watching.”

Wes sets the rifle on the top the stack of hay bales, bends his knees, and presses his eye against the rifle’s sight. Then he straightens and snakes an arm around Madeline’s waist. “Everyone is watching, Madeline,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just do it.” Reluctantly, Madeline nods, and Wes slides behind her so that his chest rests against her back. He settles his chin onto her shoulder and gently bends her over the bales in a way that feels slightly erotic. The partygoers must think so too, because there comes a cascade of knowing laughs and whistles.

Wes repositions the rifle so that both their fingers rest upon the trigger. Madeline feels his warm breath on her neck, smells his cologne. She doesn’t like the idea of a firearm so close to the baby. Madeline thinks she can feel its tiny heart slamming into its birdcage chest in fear. Or maybe that’s her own heartbeat. “Ready?” Wes asks.

“I was hoping to wait for Johanna,” Madeline says, trying to stand up straight, but Wes’s weight keeps her pinned in place.

“Come on, Madeline,” Wes says, impatiently. “This isn’t about Johanna. It’s about us and our baby. Let’s go, already.”

Off to the side, someone starts a countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven.” The rest of the guests join in. Madeline closes one eye, and the black paintedXon the truck comes into crisp focus. “Six, five...”

“Here we go,” Wes says, smiling against her cheek. He increases the pressure atop the finger that is crooked around the trigger. “No going back now.”