by Tracy Kiely
“When did it start?”
She twisted her ring as she thought. “It might have started last night when Mom told me that Julia is coming.”
“Julia!” I said, stopping and staring at her. “Julia’s coming? Jesus! Does Avery know?”
“I don’t know.”
We fell silent as we contemplated this potentially awkward reunion. Julia Fitzpatrick had been the best friend of Avery’s late wife, Ann. After Ann died, Julia and Avery became particularly close. Julia’s own marriage was miserable and Avery was terribly lonely. When Julia’s husband, Tom, died, everyone in Bridget’s family had assumed that Avery and Julia would marry. And they might have done so had it not been for the arrival of Roni in Avery’s life. One look at Roni and Avery lost all reason. Julia had said nothing, but the consensus was that she had been deeply hurt by Avery’s desertion.
I gave myself a shake. “Well, so what if Julia is coming?” I said firmly. “She isn’t a vengeful woman. Even if she considers Avery a complete cad for throwing her over, she wouldn’t come to your wedding simply to make trouble.”
Bridget stopped. “You’re right,” she said with a relieved smile, “she wouldn’t. I’m just being melodramatic.”
“Gosh. You? That’s so unusual.”
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”
“True. But I was dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour, so I have an excuse.”
“Whatever. Come on, I’ll race you to the house.”
“You’re on,” I said. “Ready, set... go!” She took off and was soon a blur of purple sprinting in front of me. I made no move to chase her and instead walked slowly up the driveway, listening to gravel crunch noisily underneath my feet. I was glad that I had been able to extinguish Bridget’s fears. Now I just wished someone would do the same for this very uneasy feeling of mine.
I dragged myself up the stairs, heading for my room. Rounding the corner, I was startled by the sound of David’s voice, raised in anger. “I need that money!” he yelled. “You promised me that you’d get it!” His voice was coming from one of the bedrooms, but I couldn’t tell which one. A second voice answered him; it was Roni. “That well is dry,” she said, her voice laced with disdainful amusement. My question as to which bedroom they were in was answered a second later when David furiously burst out of Roni’s room. I had a brief glimpse of Roni’s laughing face before the door slammed shut. David looked terrible. He was wearing a faded green shirt that only served to make his pale and spotty complexion look even worse. I noticed, too, that his hair hadn’t been properly shellacked yet. It was standing out in at least six different directions. Seeing me, he stopped. His face was bunched in a ferocious scowl and his eyes were black with rage. I knew his ire wasn’t directed at me, but I nevertheless took an involuntary step back. David scared the crap out of me when he was like this. The long hallway seemed to shrink with his menacing presence, and I became acutely aware that I was several feet from the top of the stairs. I couldn’t fathom how Claire could live with such a ticking bomb.
Thankfully, David wanted as little to do with me as I did with him. Quickly rearranging his face into a less antagonistic expression, he grunted at me and disappeared into his own room. I let out a sigh of relief. No sooner did his door shut than the door to the hall bathroom opened. Claire emerged. She was wearing an ankle-length cream-colored dress, the kind an ex-boyfriend of mine used to refer to as a “decoy dress.” Pithy comments like that were just one of the many reasons I broke up with him. Claire’s hair was neatly pulled back from her face with a black beaded headband. Unfortunately, this only highlighted her blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes. Apparently, Claire had not had an easy night after dragging David to bed. All the same, she smiled brightly when she saw me. “Have you been out running? Wow. That’s dedication. I don’t know where you get the energy. I’m beat this morning. I could barely pull myself out of bed.”
“Well, that’s where I’d rather be, but Bridget made me go. I think she needed to work off some nervous energy. Not that I was much help,” I added. “I made it as far as the end of the driveway.”
“Well, it is a long driveway,” Claire said sympathetically, returning to her room.
Back in my own room, I debated changing, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee proved too strong. I headed to the dining room, where breakfast was set up on the sideboard. On the way downstairs, I bumped into Megan, who was headed in the same direction. Most everyone else was already there, Peter among them. I poured myself a large cup of coffee, grabbed a poppy seed bagel, and sank down into a chair next to Peter. Looking askance at my outfit, he said, “Dare I ask?”
“Bridget and I went for a run.”
Peter, who knew about my penchant for sleeping in, made an odd noise and asked, “You’re kidding, right?”
I took a grateful swallow of coffee. “Sadly, I am not. She dragged me out of bed so she could work off her nerves.”
His dark brows pulled together in concern. “Is she all right?”
“I think so. She had one of her premonitions.”
“Ah,” said Peter dispassionately. He was used to Bridget’s superstitious tendencies. “Not about her and Colin?”
“No. She’s worried about something bad happening during the wedding. She wasn’t too specific.” I spread a thick layer of cream cheese on my bagel, remembered I still had to fit into my maid of honor dress, and scraped some off.
“Well, I suppose it’s not strange to be jittery on your wedding day,” Peter said, taking a sip of his coffee.
“True, but even so, I can’t imagine anything going wrong on Chloe the Tyrant’s watch.” I took a bite of bagel, decided I’d scraped off too much cream cheese, and added more.
Peter looked blankly at me. “Who?”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot you haven’t met her yet. Bridget’s mom hired this top-notch coordinator. Her name is Chloe Jenkins, but she marches around barking orders and generally inspiring fear, so Bridget dubbed her Chloe the Tyrant.”
Peter choked on his coffee.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Grabbing a napkin, he held it to his mouth and nodded weakly. He seemed on the verge of speech when Claire entered the room. She had added a black beaded cardigan sweater to her ensemble, making her look exactly like an ad for Laura Ashley, circa 1982. “Good morning, everyone,” she said.
Elsie looked up from her newspaper. “Good morning, dear. Where’s David?”
Claire ducked her head and headed toward the sideboard. “He’s not feeling too well this morning. I think he’s coming down with a cold.”
“It’s called a hangover, dear.”
Claire bent her head low as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “Mother, please don’t start.”
Elsie spread out her hands in a defensive gesture. “Fine. Have it your way. I won’t say another word. Except... ”
Whatever Elsie was going to not say was lost in the arrival of Roni. Wearing a tight turquoise silk dress that left very little to the imagination, she was, to quote Jane Austen, at once expensively and nakedly dressed. She sauntered into the room and issued a cheery hello. Not counting Avery’s response, her greeting was largely ignored. Her smile still firmly fixed, she turned to Elsie, who sat absorbed in reading the paper. “Any interesting news today, Elsie?” she asked.
Elsie did not look up. “None at all,” she replied, continuing to read.
Taking a plate from the sideboard, Roni placed a few pieces of fruit on it and sat down next to Avery. Eyeing her daughter’s full plate of eggs, bacon, and toast, she said with a sigh, “Really, Megan. You’re never going to lose weight if you insist on eating like a truck driver.”
Crimson crept up Megan’s neck and across her cheeks. Without a word, she pushed her plate away, stood up, and left the room. I caught a glimpse of her pinched, angry face as she hurried out the door. Harry, who had been sitting next to Megan, glared across the table at his stepmother. “You’re unbelievable,” he sai
d disgustedly.
Roni raised a delicate eyebrow in surprise. “What are you talking about? I’m trying to help her.”
“Help her? How is embarrassing her helping her? She ran out of here completely miserable, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me? You have no idea what you’re talking about. Her weight is making her miserable. She’s constantly complaining to me about it. I’m only trying to help her.”
“By being cruel and making her cry?”
“Of all the nerve! How dare you speak to me like that! Avery, say something!” Roni demanded.
Avery, who had been listening to the exchange with an expression of growing dread, now grimaced. He looked as if he might agree with Harry, but he nevertheless said, “Harry, I’m sure Roni has Megan’s best interests at heart. Let her handle it.”
Roni was not mollified. Scraping her chair back, she rose to her feet in one majestic movement. “That’s not the point, Avery, and you know it. I’m talking about the insulting way he speaks to me while you just sit there and let him get away with it!” Flinging her napkin on the table, she stared piercingly at her husband.
“Roni, please,” said Avery in a low voice. He glanced uneasily in Elsie’s direction.
“I’m going outside to have a cigarette,” Roni bit out before turning on her not insubstantial heel and striding away.
Avery turned to Harry. “Why do you always have to start something with her?”
Harry’s mouth twisted in irritation. “I didn’t start anything, Dad. She treats Megan like crap and you know it. Since nobody else thinks to stand up for the girl,” he said pointedly, “I thought maybe I should. But apparently it’s more important to you that Roni not be upset.” Harry, too, threw his napkin down and left.
An awkward silence followed his departure. We all stared at our plates, studiously pretending not to have heard the exchange. All except Elsie. With her eyes still on the newspaper spread out in front of her, she said matter-of-factly, “The boy’s got a point, Avery.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion, Mother,” Avery snapped, backing his chair out from the table and wheeling it toward the door.
Elsie sighed heavily, her eyes trained on Avery’s retreating form. Graham watched his mother warily. He must have seen something alarming in her expression for he suddenly tensed and said sharply, “Let it go, Mother.”
“Let what go?” she responded, her eyes wide with a practiced look of innocence. No one was fooled.
“Whatever it is that you’re planning,” said Graham. “Let them sort out their own troubles.”
Elsie sniffed and got to her feet. “I can’t imagine what would give you the absurd notion that I could ever involve myself in other people’s affairs,” she said loftily. “And now, to announce my departure, I will also throw down my napkin in a fit of pique.”
After matching her words to action, Elsie marched out. Anna, who had been happily receiving scraps from almost everyone in the room, reluctantly followed. At Elsie’s exit, Bridget laid her head down on the table and put her hands on top of her head. “Great. This is just great,” she moaned. “I’m getting married in eight hours and most of the members of my family aren’t speaking to each other.”
Blythe walked over to her daughter and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Never mind, dear. I’m sure they’ll all have sorted everything out by then. In the meantime, I need to go over a few last-minute details with you.” Noticing Bridget’s hands, Blythe leaned in and suspiciously peered at her fingernails. “Bridget! You’ve painted your nails purple! No! Absolutely not! What happened to the pink shade I bought you?”
Bridget popped her head back up. “You were serious about that? It looked like overdone cotton candy. I thought you were kidding.”
Blythe took a deep breath, while Bridget gazed appraisingly at her nails. “I think they look nice,” she said stubbornly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” said Blythe firmly. As she propelled Bridget out of the room, she launched into a rapid recitation of the two dozen or more things that needed immediate attention.
Graham watched his wife and daughter leave, his black eyes sparkling with laughter. “In about five minutes, I expect Bridget will wish her mother was one of the nonspeaking family members,” he predicted. “But speaking of last-minute details. Peter, could I borrow you for a few seconds? Since you are in the hotel business, I want to ask your opinion on the setup for the reception tonight.”
Peter stood up. “Sure. I’ll be glad to help.”
“Thanks. This way,” said Graham, as he exited through the French doors at the back of the room.
Peter squeezed my shoulder lightly. “See you later,” he said, following Graham.
I waved good-bye, took another sip of coffee, and finished my bagel. Claire sat with me for a few more minutes before excusing herself as well. The dining room was now empty save for me, and I settled into my chair and enjoyed the quiet. Resting my head against the top rung of the high-backed chair, I idly studied the long room. Icy lime green walls were topped with intricately carved crown molding. To me, it had always looked like thick icing on a wedding cake. A long mahogany sideboard ran along the left wall. Along the right stood two enormous hutches, each displaying several patterns of china and crystal. At the far end of the room was a set of tall French doors. There were three sets of these double French doors in all: one in the dining room, one in the living room, and one in the study. Each led to the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house.
After finishing my coffee, I stepped out onto the terrace. It was still early but the sun was already blazing. The weathermen had predicted that we were going to have an Indian summer today and apparently they hadn’t been kidding. It was going to be a scorcher, I thought, cupping my hand over my eyes to block out the sun’s glare. Below me the lawn swarmed with the staff from the catering agency. Clad in bright blue T-shirts emblazoned with the logo ELEGANT EVENTS, they appeared to be everywhere at once. One group was transforming the normally lush green lawn into a sea of circular tables to seat tonight’s three hundred guests. To my right and left, another group was raising crisp white tents that would serve as the food and drink stations. At the base of the terrace, still more were hammering down an enormous parquet dance floor. A canopy of tiny white lights hovered above. In the midst of the organized chaos, Chloe patrolled the grounds. A dark tailored business suit clung to her lithe form and her white-blond ponytail snaked down her back in a long shiny coil. As she surveyed the crew’s progress, she methodically checked off items on her clipboard and barked orders into a walkie-talkie.
I spotted Graham and Peter huddled over by one of the tents. Graham gestured animatedly while Peter nodded thoughtfully. Spotting Chloe, Graham called her over. She briskly strode in their direction and then, strangely, faltered. Over the last few months, I’d never seen Chloe do anything that wasn’t deliberate and organized. She seemed more machine than human. After the misstep, Chloe righted herself and made her way to Graham and Peter. She quickly spoke to Graham, and then she laid her hand on Peter’s arm. She kept it there a good eight seconds longer than necessary (by my count, anyway). My stomach tilted. Chloe was an inhuman tyrant, but she was also exceedingly pretty. Sophisticated, chic, and worst of all, thin, Chloe had an air about her that made me feel as if my ancestors had only recently started walking upright. Graham said something and Chloe was forced to remove her talons from Peter’s arm so she could take notes. Graham’s gestures intensified and Chloe scribbled on her clipboard and spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. Peter’s shoulders shifted uneasily and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around. I recognized that stance; he wanted out of the conversation. I wanted him out of it, too, for that matter. Women like Chloe had been ruining my love life as far back as I could remember. Jutting out my chin in an imitation of my boss when she asks me to pick up her dry cleaning, I walked along the terrace, intent on rescuing Peter. As I passed the French doors leading to the study, a
low voice inside caught my attention. The syrupy floral scent told me it was Roni. I peeked around the door frame. Her back was to me and she was talking to someone on her cell phone.
“I know, sweetie. I miss you, too,” she purred, “but I have to stay here this weekend.” I froze. My brain shouted at me to keep walking, but somehow my feet didn’t have the same moral integrity. “Yes,” she continued, “I think he’s going to sell. What? No. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe. Just trust me, okay?” She paused. Her voice rose petulantly. “I’m not going to double-cross you, honey! Look, I’ll see you Monday, okay? Just calm down—it’ll be fine. Wait, I think I hear somebody coming. I have to go.” With a soft click, she snapped the phone shut. Just as she turned to move toward the terrace, I ducked through the doors leading into the living room. Hidden behind the heavy curtains, I watched Roni walk out onto the terrace. Pausing, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a cigarette. With shaking hands, she lit it. Taking a deep drag, she moved forward and disappeared down the stairs. Before I could process what I’d heard, I became aware of rapidly retreating footsteps behind me. Turning in that direction, I peered across the living room but saw no one. The footsteps headed for the long hallway that led to the staircase, but by the time I got there, whoever it was, was gone. Walking back through the living room, I passed by the door to the study. It was slightly ajar.
Someone else had overheard Roni’s conversation. The question was, who?
Chapter 7
How was the wedding?
Brief, to the point, and not unduly musical.
—NOËL COWARD
At five o’clock sharp, we were standing in the vestibule of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. The richly detailed Greek Revival church dated back to 1845 and had been the Matthews family’s place of worship for almost as long. And although that worship was infrequent at best, it nevertheless was the chosen site for the Matthewses’ and other established Richmond families’ marriages, baptisms, and funerals. Especially funerals, according to Harry, who liked to say that St. Paul’s was “where those in Richmond go, when they go.”