Exactly one month later, on Christmas Eve, the five of us stood around another grouping of flowers and candles with Dr. Wittish.
Austin had outdone himself decorating Mulberry Hill. Two huge Della Robbia wreaths festooned with gleaming apples, pears, lemons, limes, and a single pineapple hung from red velvet ribbons on the wrought-iron gates to greet the wedding guests. He’d lined the driveway to the house with hundreds of glass hurricane lamps, inside each of which burned large red bayberry candles. All the tree trunks on the oak alley had been wrapped with tiny twinkling white lights, and on the porch of the house itself, miles of spruce roping were interspersed with the waxy magnolia leaves, holly berries, and dried hydrangea blossoms. More white lights covered the six-foot fir on the hanging balcony over the front door, and the door itself was flanked by a pair of eight-foot-tall hand-hammered brass figures of the angel Gabriel, whose trumpets crossed in the exact middle of the door.
And parked near the doorway, festooned with ribbons, stood Daddy’s favorite touch, a gleaming white 1959 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.
With Stephanie off my back, I’d easily completed Mulberry’s restoration by the first week in December. Will had been so pleased—thrilled, really—that he’d given me a very special Christmas gift.
All modesty aside, the house looked spectacular that night, lit almost completely by candlelight. A fire crackled in the fireplace in the front parlor, where we’d placed the big Frazer fir Will and I had driven to North Carolina to cut ourselves, and the mantel was lined with boughs of holly, spruce, fir, and magnolia, wrapped with wide cream silk ribbons.
I’d hired a string quartet to play in the back parlor, and they’d arranged themselves artfully around the room, where they were the perfect accessories to the magnificent furniture and paintings.
Miss Nancy had offered to hire the caterer for the event, and I, with a hundred other details to take care of, had gratefully accepted her offer. She’d dimmed the lights of the glittering Waterford chandelier, but the heavy mahogany table was covered with the Georgian silver candlesticks I’d bought in New Orleans, plus silver trays of the tiniest, most delicate canapés I’d ever seen.
It was an hour before the ceremony, and I’d been so busy all day, I hadn’t had a single bite to eat. I was famished. When I thought nobody was looking, I snuck downstairs, barefoot, with only a thin satin robe covering my slip, and swooped down on the table and snatched up what turned out to be a morsel of crab cake. Miss Nancy, dressed in a floor-length green velvet dress with a red ribbon wrapped around her walking cane, came into the room just in time to catch me at my thievery.
She slapped my hand smartly. “Get your mitts off the goddamn crab cakes,” she exclaimed. “That’s for company. And get your ass upstairs before the guests start arriving and catch you in nothing but your drawers.”
“Ta-da!” Both of us whirled around to see Austin, standing in the dining room doorway flushed with excitement. He was still dressed in jeans and a white chef’s smock.
Two men in white shirts and tuxedo pants stood beside him, staggering under the weight of the biggest wedding cake I had ever seen.
“Good Lord!” Miss Nancy said.
“Put it over there, on the sideboard,” Austin directed. “And don’t break any of those Steuben wineglasses.
“Do you like?” he asked, when the men had disappeared into the kitchen.
Nancy and I stood in front of it, turning this way and that to take in every detail. The cake was a three-foot-tall scale model of Mulberry Hill, accurate right down to the balcony with a tiny tree fashioned from a sprig of rosemary trimmed with silver dragees.
“It’s amazing,” I breathed. “How did you do it? Or did you?”
“All by myself. All it took was five years’ worth of back issues of Martha Stewart Living,” Austin said, preening just a little. “It’s a lemon pound cake, with lemon curd filling and white chocolate ganache icing, and all the windows and doors are marzipan.”
He turned from the cake to give me a disapproving stare. “And just what are you doing down here in your shimmy, little miss, when we have a wedding here within an hour?”
The three of us poured ourselves a glass of champagne, and then finally I ran upstairs to get dressed. I was upstairs in the master bedroom, brushing on some mascara at what should have been Stephanie’s dressing table, when Austin knocked and then darted inside.
“Oh Austin!” I had to catch my breath. He’d changed into a black Armani tux, starched and pleated white shirt with black pearl studs and a red plaid cummerbund and matching bow tie—with black velvet monogrammed evening slippers.
“You like?” he asked, whirling around so that I could get the full effect.
“You’re divine,” I said, deliberately using his favorite adjective. “It’s all divine. And you are the best best friend any girl ever had.” I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him directly on the lips.
He wriggled out of my grasp and stood in front of the full-length mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing his hands over his waist. “Is the plaid too much? Too precious maybe? It’s the LeFleur tartan, you know.”
“Do the LeFleurs have a tartan?” I asked.
“They do now,” he said, twinkling. “I designed it myself. Do you think it’ll work for New Year’s Eve, too?”
“In Madison?” I said dubiously. “I think it’s a little formal for here.”
“No, silly,” he said impishly. “New Orleans. I’m spending New Year’s Eve in New Orleans this year.”
“With Robert?” I was jumping up and down with delight.
“Who else?” he said coquettishly. “Now please, Keeley, get dressed.”
“Is everybody here?” I asked.
“Everybody who is anybody,” he replied. “The house is full to busting.”
“What about Daddy? Have you checked on him? How’s he holding up?”
“He was kind of nervous. Until I gave him his gift. I think that cheered him right up.”
“And what kind of gift did you give him?”
“A tee-tiny little sterling silver flask,” Austin said. “Full of single malt Scotch. He took a swig of that and mellowed right out.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Go back in there and take it away from him. We can’t have him passing out in front of Dr. Wittish.”
“He’ll be fine,” Austin said airily. “You just worry about yourself. How are you holding up?”
“Me? I’m fine. No problem. Cool as a cucumber.”
“Really? Then why are you still sitting here in your shimmy, when the cream of Madison society is sitting downstairs waiting for that string quartet to start playing Mendelssohn?”
“I’ve got time,” I assured him. “I just want to sit here for another minute or two, and then I’ll get dressed. I’ll be down in five minutes. I promise.”
“You’re thinking about your mama, aren’t you?’ he asked.
I nodded, and a lump rose up in my throat so that I couldn’t speak.
“See you downstairs,” he said, and he kissed my forehead and left.
I sat down at the dressing table and took the tiny cut-crystal flask out of my evening bag. I shook the bottle vigorously, removed the stopper, and touched the last drops of Joy perfume to my wrists and earlobes. Then I slid my dress over my head, zipped it up, and stepped into the highest pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes they were selling that season. I gave my hair, twisted into Mozella’s most elaborate upsweep, a quick spritz of hair spray, and then it was time to make my entrance.
I had to hold the dress’s train bunched up to my knees as I took each stair slowly and deliberately. At the bottom of the stairs, crowded into the hall and parlor, I could see the crowd of glittering guests, and the mingled scent of the flowers and perfume and candles rose up and nearly made me swoon, and I hurried down to join them, gently working my way through the crowd into the parlor, where Dr. Wittish waited patiently in front of the fireplace.
Now the quartet was playing the
first sweet strains of Mendelssohn, and there was a low collective “aaah” as Serena, radiant in a long-skirted ivory satin evening suit with a sweetheart neckline, made her way down the stairs, clinging to my father’s arm.
The guests parted to let them pass, flashbulbs popped and motor drives whirred. Gloria stood on the other side of the fireplace, like me, dressed in black velvet, although my gown was sleeveless, with a deep plunging V-neck, while hers was a more modest long-sleeved number. We both held the bouquets of white stephanotis Austin had made for us, and Daddy, as he approached the makeshift altar, had a single white rose pinned to his lapel. He was beaming, and I thought he must be the most handsome man in the room.
Serena’s dark hair was pinned off her neck that evening, to show off the diamond necklace Daddy had given her as a wedding gift. Daddy towered a good six inches over her, and looked down at her with such undisguised adoration that I was blinking back tears even before they’d begun to repeat their vows. I glanced over at Gloria. She was crying. I heard a sniffing off to my left, and sure enough, Austin was bawling like a baby.
Half an hour later we were all drinking a champagne toast in the dining room. Serena hadn’t wanted much in the way of formality. No receiving lines. Just champagne, and good food, and wonderful friends.
She cut the cake and fed it to my father, who by the look of the glow on his face, had long ago drained the rest of the Scotch from his tee-tiny flask. I felt a warm hand on my bare shoulder and looked up into Will’s dark eyes. He looked gorgeous in his black tux, and his red hair, which still needed cutting, gleamed like copper in the glow from the candlelight.
“Nice night, huh?” he asked.
“Perfect,” I told him. I stood on my tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. But he turned his face just slightly and my lips brushed his, for just an instant.
“Thank you for tonight,” I told him.
“For what?” he asked. “You and Austin did all the hard work. I just stayed out of the way.”
“You’ve done a lot, and you know it,” I said. “Daddy and I can’t thank you enough.”
“How does it feel?” he asked. “Watching your father get married?”
“It feels right,” I said simply. “He and Serena are so sweet together. They’re like a couple of teenagers. She makes him happy. And I couldn’t ask for any more than that.”
“No regrets?” he asked.
“About what?”
“A.J.?”
I made a face. “What about you? Any regrets about Stephanie?”
“Christ!” he said. “When I think how close I came. If it hadn’t been for that grotesque fountain, and the absolute fit she threw over it, if I hadn’t walked up and seen it with my own eyes…”
“She turned out to be a real ball-buster, didn’t she?”
“Literally,” Will said. His hand was still on my back, and he pulled me just the slightest bit closer. “Mmm,” he murmured. “You smell really nice tonight. I never noticed that about you before. Do you always smell this nice?”
“It’s a special occasion,” I pointed out.
“The first time I met you was a special occasion too,” he said, grinning wickedly. “As I recall.”
“When was that?” And then I remembered. The night of my rehearsal dinner. “Oh my God,” I said. “When I think of how I must have looked that night I could still just die of embarrassment. There I was, covered with strawberry margarita mix, barefoot, and having just thrown the biggest hissy fit in my entire life. I can’t believe you watched me vandalize A.J.’s car, without even saying a word. And then you pop up out of that ridiculous yellow Cadillac of yours, and point out that I can’t even spell. That was a great first impression, wasn’t it?”
“You were adorable,” Will assured me. “How could I not hire you?”
My cousin Janey came running up just then. “Hey you guys, come on! They’re about to leave. Serena’s about to throw the bouquet.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me after her, shoving me to the front of the crowd, where I stood with Gloria and a couple dozen other single women of various sizes and ages.
The white Cadillac was pulled up out front, with the motor running, and a big white silk bow tied respectfully to the hood ornament.
A cry went up just then, and Daddy and Serena emerged from the house in a hailstorm of birdseed.
“Bye, shug,” Daddy said, spotting me on the porch and pausing to give me a big hug. “You be sweet, y’hear?”
Serena turned her back to the crowd and tossed her bouquet high over her head. The women all squealed, and reached overhead, but it was Janey who dashed forward at the last second and caught it on the fly.
I wandered back into the house and fixed myself another glass of champagne. The string quartet was still playing, and guests were lingering, seated on the sofas, or standing around, admiring Austin’s decorations.
I went upstairs, to the master bedroom that the wedding party had commandeered to get ready in, and I was sitting at the dressing table, making repairs to my makeup, when Will walked in.
“Oh,” he said, startled to find me there. “I’m sorry. I thought you were downstairs.”
“It’s all right,” I said, dabbing at the corner of my eye with a tissue. “It is your house. And your bedroom. I’m just finishing up here.”
I got up, turned with my back to the mirror, and adjusted my dress.
“I forgot to tell you earlier,” he said, standing in the open doorway. “You look amazing. Incredible. Even better than the night we met.”
“Thank you,” I said, blushing at the rare compliment.
“There’s just one thing,” he said, walking toward me with a frown. “It’s been driving me crazy all night.”
“What?” I twisted around to look at myself again in the mirror.
“This,” he said, standing behind me. He looped his finger under the strap of my black lace push-up bra, which had slipped down onto my shoulder. He bent over and kissed my shoulder, and then my neck, and then the hollow of my throat, and then my earlobes, and then, finally, he turned me around and his lips found mine.
With his arms around me, I forgot where I was, and who I was. And I think he forgot too. After a long time, his hand found the zipper of my tightly fitted dress. The dress had begun to fall off my shoulders when I sensed, rather than heard, someone else in the room.
“About goddamn time,” Miss Nancy roared. And then she leaned in, flipped the lock on the doorknob, and gently closed the door.
Grits n’ Greens Casserole
INGREDIENTS
2 cups whipping cream or half-and-half
8 cups chicken broth, divided
2 cups grits—not instant or quick cooking
1 lg. bag frozen collard greens
2 sticks butter
2½ cups parmesan cheese
½ tsp. fresh ground pepper
1 cup cooked and crumbled bacon
Grease 13 × 9 casserole. Combine cream and 6 cups chicken broth and bring to a boil. Stir in grits and cook over medium heat until grits return to a boil, cover, reduce heat to simmer, and stir frequently to keep from burning, 25–30 minutes. Add milk if needed to thicken to proper consistency. If you’re Southern, you know what that is, if not, think of slightly runny oatmeal.
While grits are simmering, cook frozen collards with remaining 2 cups of chicken broth till tender, about ten minutes. Drain well in colander, squeezing out remaining liquid. Add butter, parmesan, and pepper to cooked grits, and stir till butter is melted. Stir in cooked greens, and spoon into greased casserole. Top with additional parmesan, and crumbled bacon. Dish can be served at room temperature, or heated in 350° oven till browned on top.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks go out to many folks for their invaluable assistance and advice with this book. Frank Garson of Atlanta and Kathy P. Reynolds of VF Intimates patiently explained the bra business to me. Dianne and Patrick Yost of the Morgan County Citizen became my Madison tour guides, as did Adel
aide Ponder, publisher emeritus of The Madisonian. Thanks go to Charles Seabrook of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and Lee Glenn of the Georgia Power Company for trying to educate me about Lake Oconee. Sue Ruby of Savannah gave me interior design advice—and a guided tour of ADAC, and Elizabeth Jackson of Back Roads Antique Salvage told me where to shop for antiques in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Any errors of fact are totally mine.
Hissy Fit, more than any of my other books was truly a collaborative effort. Heartfelt thanks and love go to the best agent in the whole damn world, Stuart Krichevsky, and the fabulous Shana Cohen of SKLA, along with the best editors in the whole damn world, Carolyn Marino and Jennifer Civiletto at HarperCollins who midwifed Hissy Fit every step of the way. And last, but never least, thanks and unending love to my family, Tom, Katie, and Andy, who have been putting up with my own hissy fits for many years.
About the Author
Mary Kay Andrews is a former journalist for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the author of Savannah Blues and Little Bitty Lies. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Visit her at: www.marykayandrews.com
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Also by Mary Kay Andrews
Little Bitty Lies
Savannah Blues
Credits
Jacket art © Helen Chapman
HISSY FIT. Copyright © 2004 by Whodunnit, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books™.
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