It took us two weeks to get everyone invited to our little celebration. We resorted to everything short of carrier pigeon and semaphore to reach several of our more far-flung invitees.
There was Roger, for instance, the guy who had painted our house. Sure, he’d painted it the wrong color but that wasn’t his fault.
It was Daniel’s fault, and he was very decidedly not on our guest list.
I had found Roger’s phone number on a slip of paper Daniel had left behind the day he parted company with us…
…and had called him a couple of days later to ask what went wrong with the wall color.
“I kept telling Dan we were using the wrong color,” he said in his charming Southern drawl. “After all, you couldn’t have been more specific about the color you wanted—but he said no, I can’t bear that hideous yellow they chose.”
He didn’t seem overly fond of Daniel, which in itself suggested he was a man of discernment. And then he offered to repaint everything for half price.
We were sorely tempted. But alas we couldn’t afford it.
A few weeks later I was out shopping with Jane when we ran into a clean-cut, redheaded guy who turned out to be Roger.
He apologized again for the color screw-up.
I liked him.
Now I wanted to invite him to the party but had long since lost his number and had no idea how to reach him. Neither did Jane.
But Michael seemed to remember Roger mentioning that his wife worked at the desk of the Puerto Real Inn.
We stopped by the next afternoon, but it was her day off. We asked the guy on duty to have her call us.
She didn’t call, so we stopped by again a couple of days later only to learn that the fellow at the desk had lost our number. All he’d told her was that two guys had stopped by looking for her, which had made her uneasy.
“We just want to invite you and Roger to a party,” we assured her.
“Oh my god,” she said with visible relief. “That sounds great.”
Fifty to go.