“Larry and Marlene Fletcher from Melbourne?”
Max’s wife stepped out of her sedan in the driveway of their house with an arrangement of yellow gerbera daisies and carnations. “Hey, Max,” she said.
Max was standing in the garage, a yellow rag in one hand and a bottle of spray wax in the other. The sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and his jeans were spotted with wax. Behind him was parked a red 1966 Chevrolet Malibu with a chrome grill, chrome rims, and a black convertible top. “What do you think, Evie?” he asked.
“It’s nice,” said Evelyn, walking up to him. “Did you get my text?”
“Which text?” he asked.
“The one about Larry and Marlene coming over for lunch today,” she said.
His eyes narrowed on her. “Larry and Marlene Fletcher?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Larry and Marlene Fletcher from Melbourne?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She walked past him and entered the house through the fire door, leaving it open behind her.
Max tossed the yellow rag onto the tool shelf in the garage. He walked into the house, his boots tracking dirt from the garage into the breezeway. “Why didn’t you ask me before inviting them?” he asked.
“There are groceries in the car,” said Evelyn, standing at the dining room table. She placed the daisies and carnations in the glass vase on the table.
He joined her in the kitchen. She was taking things out of the refrigerator and placing them on the counter. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Evie,” he said.
“I did,” she said. “Check your phone.” She walked away from him and turned into the hallway.
He took his cellphone out of his back pocket. He scrolled through her messages. “What time are they supposed to be over?” he asked.
She was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. She spit in the sink. “About noon,” she said. “Marlene said she had some errands to run first.”
Max glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. The hands of the clock, shaped like a knife and a fork, were pointing at half past the eleventh hour. He looked out the kitchen window at the backyard. Less than a quarter of a mile away, a heavy and dark cloud loomed over the cornfield behind the house.
Evelyn stepped into the kitchen wearing a red bathrobe and slippers. “I don’t see why you’re making this big fuss about it,” she said.
“I’m not making a big fuss,” he said.
“You’re making a big fuss,” she said. She took some pots out of a cupboard and placed them on the counter.
“How did they even find us here?” he asked.
“Marlene reached out to me,” she said, walking away from him.
“Evie,” he said, walking down the hallway after her. “Don’t make me do this.”
They stood in the bathroom, Max facing Evelyn with his arms crossed over his chest. The shower head was running. Her caramel hair was clipped up. She dropped the bathrobe on the floor. Her naked body glistened with sweat—supple breasts, long legs, narrow shoulders. “Take in the groceries now,” she said firmly, and then she stepped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain over the tub.
