"Well, don't you look adorable!"
"Thanks," I mutter. I've got to admit I feel weird about this whole thing. Yes, I want to help Angela out, but I wish I could be co-hosting this cocktail party, not looking and acting like a caterer/bartender.

I'm wearing a black bow-tie, a white dress shirt, a plaid vest, black slacks, black socks, black shoes. And a little blue apron.

Mona is in a turquoise kind of flapper outfit, with a very long matching scarf.

"You look like Isadora Duncan."

"Thank you. If the party gets dull, I'll do an interpretive dance."

I shake my head. "Oh, yeah, Angela would love that."

"Who cares what Angela thinks as long as the men enjoy it?"

You know, my last mother-in-law was like Mrs. Rossini, a traditional Italian lady. She cooked, she nagged, she pinched cheeks. Well, Mona pinches cheeks, too, but not on the face, according to Bobby Governale.

Angela wanted Mona to babysit the kids, but she said there was no way she was missing "our first party." Never mind that it's Angela's party and I'm just the help. Anyway, Dr. and Mrs. Ferguson are looking after Sam and Jonathan tonight. Good thing Angela likes and trusts the Fergusons, because this is the first time anyone has sat for Jonathan outside his home, and she's nervous about it.

And she's of course nervous about the party. Out-of-town clients and all the company big-wigs are coming, even her boss's boss, the president of the company. (She did not appreciate my President Grant joke.)

"What about this outfit?" Angela asks, coming downstairs again, this time in a black silk dress with a very high neckline. I mean, it's practically a turtleneck. And the skirt is very long, with no glimpse of her long legs. She looks classy but too modest. You'd never guess what a dynamite body she has underneath. I feel lucky to know. Then I realize I need to stop thinking about her body, especially right before a work party.

"Dear, are you going to an Amish wedding?"

"Mother. What do you think, Tony?"

Is she asking me as her housekeeper or as her husband? Or as her boyfriend? Or just as a man?

"You look good. You always look good."

Mona shakes her head. "You're not going to let this one slip away, are you, Dear?"

"Shut up, Mother!" She goes over to look in the mirror by the front door and that's when I see that the dress is backless. I'm not exactly a back man (who is?), but, wow, that's a sexy back! Especially because I didn't expect to see it exposed.

"Would you like a shawl, Dear?" Mona teases.

Angela blushes. "Is it too daring?"

"It's perfect," I murmur.

Angela blushes more and Mona grins. Then the doorbell rings.

"Tony, can you get that while I go up and change?"

"You're not going anywhere, Young Lady."
"Yes, Mother," Angela grumbles. She peeks out the window. "Ugh, it's that weasel, Jim Peterson!"

"Micelli, man the battle stations!"

"Yes, Ma'am," I say, saluting, and then I go stand behind the bar.

Mona lifts up a tray of hors d'oeuvres and puts on a welcoming smile. Angela shakes her head, takes a deep breath, and opens the door to Mr. Peterson.

"Why, Jim, I'm so glad you could make it."
"Thanks, Angela. I hope I'm not too early."

"No, no, right on time."

"Oh, but it looks like I'm the only one here."
"I'm sure the others are on their way."
"Of course."

"Shrimp?" Mona asks. I can see she's struggling not to make that into an insult. Not that he's short, I mean in height. Hell, I've been spending too much time around her lately. I know how her mind works far too well.

"Why, thank you."
"Jim, this is my mother, Mona Robinson. Mother, Jim Peterson."

I'm a little afraid of what they'll say to each other, because, insulting as Mona can be to Angela, she's like a mama bear with anyone who attacks her daughter. Luckily, more guests show up then and the moment passes.

I'm kept pretty busy, making drinks and helping Mona get more of the hors d'oeuvres. So it takes me awhile to notice that Angela's boss's boss, that Grant guy, is looking awfully friendly with Angela. No, he's not pinching any of her cheeks or doing anything I could punch him for. (Good thing, because he'd probably fire her and then she'd fire and dump me.) It's just something about the way he talks to and about her. The way he puts his hand on her arm.

I tell myself that I'm being needlessly jealous. It's not like she's responding to him. I mean, she's not pushing him away, but she's not encouraging him. And maybe this is how things are in the advertising world.

And then he puts his hand lightly on her back, her bare back. I want to leap over the bar and yank his arm off!

"Barkeep, I'd like a Gibson."

It's Peterson. "Yes, Sir." I have to think a moment what a Gibson is. I mean, I know it's a cocktail.

"Gin and vermouth," Peterson prompts me.

"Yeah, right, sorry, Sir. With or without a pickled onion?"
"Well, I'm getting pickled, so why shouldn't the onion?"

I give him the expected chuckle.

"You're not really a bartender, are you?"

"Well, no, Sir. I'm, uh, Mrs. Bower's cook." I figure men can be cooks, right?

"Her cook, huh? It figures she'd have something cooking at home, as well as at the office."

"Just what are you implying? Sir."

"Well, you've got to admit that you don't look like the typical cook. And she is a young divorcée."
"She's my boss and that's all."

"Hey, no offense. I'm sure Grant will be relieved."

"Grant?"

"Yes, you see the young man with the graying hair?"
I've been doing my best not to look at that man. "Yeah, I see him."
"Well, that's your boss's boss's boss. And your boss is his little 'protégée.' That's French for—" He winks!

"You know, maybe you've had too much to drink. Sir."
He laughs, not a nice laugh. "Oh, come on, everyone knows that she's a two-bit tramp who's sleeping her way to the top. I know she's after Claude's position, and I'm sure she'll assume any position Grant wants."

I've been trying to control my temper but that's it. I lose it. I take two bottles and say, "Here's the gin. And here's the vermouth." I pour the bottles on his balding head. "And here's the pickled onion." I toss it into his mouth, which is wide with shock and outrage.

He's not the only one who looks like that. "Tony!" Angela gasps. "What are you doing?"

I don't know what to say or do. I've ruined her party and attacked her colleague. OK, I didn't hit the guy but I abused my bartender's privileges. And all because Jim Peterson fed into my fears and jealousies, as well as verbally attacked the woman I—I am very fond of and secretly married to.

He puts on a smarmy grin. "Angela, it's OK. Your hot-tempered 'cook' and I had a little disagreement about football."

"An—Mrs. Bower, that's not true!"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Oh, shit, what do I do now? I can't exactly tell her what the "disagreement" was about, can I? Not in front of everyone, including Grant. And obviously I can't make Peterson admit it, because it would make him look bad, as well as of course Angela and Grant.

Then Grant says, "So what was it about?"

I again struggle to control my temper, even though I wished I'd Gibsoned him. And I wouldn't have left the toothpick out of the onion. I swallow and try to remember that this party is very important to Angela and I'm trying to support her. "He's right," I say quietly. "It was about football."

"Some people take sports very seriously," Mona says.

"Hey, you're a fighter, Jim! I like that spirit," Grant says, patting him on the back.

Maybe he was just patting Angela's back earlier. Maybe Peterson and I were both reading too much into it. I feel like an idiot. And some fighter Peterson is, huh? Making nasty remarks about Angela to her employee. I wonder if he does that at work. I wonder what he meant by "everyone knows."

The party somehow continues after that, although only for another half hour. Angela ignores me till every guest but Mona is gone.

"Angie, I'm sorry."

"Don't call me that!" she snaps.

I thought she liked it. OK, it started out with me calling her Abby, but I think of "Angie" as my special girl, the side of her that I'm the only one who knows. Not Mrs. Bower, my boss who's glaring at me.

"Tony, was it really about football?" Mona asks.

"Of course not! I would never ruin a party over football!"

Angela crosses her arms. "Oh? Basketball? Hockey?"

"Hockey, maybe."

"You humiliated me in front of the clients, my boss, and my boss's boss!"

I scowl at the mention of Grant.

Mona asks, "Tony, what did Peterson say?"

"I can't repeat it."

"Was it that Angela's a two-bit tramp who's sleeping her way to the top and does her best work in the sack?"

"You heard?"

"That's not true!" Angela says indignantly.

"No, yeah, I know." And I do. I realize that my Angie, I mean my Angela, would never do anything like that. A part of me believed Peterson, which is why I got so upset. But she's talented and hard-working and she's no tramp. Hell, the woman has only been with one man despite three marriages! "I meant, Mona, did you overhear what that snake said?"

"No, but that's what he'd likely say about a pretty young woman who's his rival for a vice-presidency."

"Yeah." I hadn't even thought of that angle.

"Of course, it doesn't help that Grant was flirting with Angela."

So it wasn't just me being jealous and Peterson being slimy! I look at Angela, who's blushing.

"Dear, would you like to tell us what's going on with you and Grant?"

Angela sighs and takes a chair. Mona and I sit on the couch.

Still blushing, Angela quietly says, "We've been mildly flirting for awhile now. Very mildly, since I was married. He's still interested, especially since I'm divorced from Michael, and of course he doesn't know about Brian and Tony. And he asked me out last week."

"He did?" I again try to control my temper.

"Yes, but I said no. I let him think I'm still getting over my divorce from Michael."

"So you didn't say anything about Tony?"

"How could I? And anyway, it doesn't matter."
"I don't matter?"

"No, no, Darl—Tony, of course you matter. But I mean that I don't think it would be a good idea to date Grant anyway. I had no idea that Jim would say such ugly things, but that aside, it would be unwise to date my boss's boss."
"Yes, workplace relationships are risky," Mona teases, and I know she means me and Angela, too.

"Oh, how can I face everyone on Monday?" Angela sounds like she's going to cry.

"Angela, I'm sorry. If you want me to apologize to Peterson, I will."

"No! You were very sweet to defend me, and it's not your fault. I just hate the idea that Jim and his cronies will be gossiping about me and Grant."

I cough. "Uh, and about you and me."
"Us? Tony, what did you tell him?"

"Nothing! But he was slinging innuendos about us before he talked about you and Grant. I told him nothing's going on, but I don't think he was completely convinced."

"Can you blame him?"

My "Mona!" collides with Angela's "Mother!"

"No, really. Do you think Joanne Parker is the only one wondering how two healthy, attractive young adults can live together without fooling around? Hell, I wonder, and I know what iron willpower you two have." We both blush, but she continues. "And as long as everyone's talking, why not give them something to talk about?"

"Mother."

"Come on. You two have the house to yourselves tonight, or you will as soon as I knock some sense into your heads and make a graceful exit. Why are you wasting the time worrying about who said what about you?"

"Mother, I'm not going to sleep with Tony just because everyone assumes I have, or am about to."
"No, you're going to sleep with him because it's what you both want. And need."

"Mona, we can't! She's still married to Brian."
"No one in Fairfield knows that but the three of us."

"The government knows we're married, Mother."

"Not the Connecticut government. OK, so you can't bone each other in Nevada—"

"MOTHER!"

"Angela, you want me to give her the Jim Peterson treatment?"

"OK, OK, I'm going. Wait your six weeks if you want to."

"One month," Angela says quietly.

"And a day," I add.

"Not that you two are counting down or anything," Mona teases as she stands up.

Neither of us says anything.

"Goodnight. Be good. And if you can't be good, be careful." And she exits.

"Um, maybe we should, um," Angela says.

"Clean up from the party?"

"Yes. I'll get the vacuum."