by Tracy Kiely
In spite of Bridget’s dire premonitions, the wedding ceremony went off with only one minor mishap. Ashley, Bridget’s flower girl, took one look at the long church aisle, chucked her specially ordered rose-filled flower basket, and fled. Her parents spent the remaining part of the ceremony soothing her “shattered nerves” with copious amounts of candy and kisses. Not surprisingly, as soon as she’d consumed one piece of candy, she would burst into tears all over again until another was produced. After twenty minutes or so, it became mildly annoying, but given the intensity of Bridget’s fears, it was not the Greek tragedy I half expected.
Back at Barton Landing, the cocktail portion of the reception was now under way. From the main terrace the band played a sedate selection of classical compositions while below, waiters in starched white coats circulated with assorted trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. The staff appeared passionately dedicated to their jobs. As soon as a shrimp puff or a glass of champagne was consumed, it was immediately replaced with another. At the current rate of consumption, I calculated the entire party would be full and/or drunk by the time dinner was served.
I stood on the side terrace with Bridget and Colin and the rest of their families, waiting to have our pictures taken. We were grouped in front of the enormous rose-covered wooden trellis that ran up the side of the house. The vibrant pink roses stood out full and lush, a glowing testament to Elsie’s green thumb.
I shifted uncomfortably. As predicted, the sun’s heat was intense and I stared longingly toward the refreshment tents, where there was the promise of shade and cold drinks. Chloe stood off to Bridget’s left, impatiently tapping a manicured fingernail against her ever-present clipboard. Even though she was wearing a black sheath dress—a color most Southern women avoid on hot, sunny days—she looked cool and professional. I, on the other hand, felt like an overdone strand of spaghetti in my yellow dress. I was pale, sticky, and limp.
Catching my eye, Chloe moved in my direction. “Goodness, but you look hot, Elizabeth,” she said sweetly.
I took that to mean that I looked like crap, but I nodded good-naturedly. “I am. I’m looking forward to getting under one of those tents and getting something cold to drink.”
“Can’t someone get you something? Where’s Peter?” She looked vaguely around before turning back to me. “I guess he’s wandered off. Same old Peter,” she added, giving me a knowing smile.
Same old Peter? I had assumed that Chloe had only met Peter this morning when he was outside with Graham, hardly enough time to start referencing him as “same old Peter.” Something about her smile coupled with the way she pronounced Peter’s name—slowly, intimately—sent a finger of unease sliding down my back.
“You know Peter?”
From the way her smile increased, I gathered she found the question amusing. The amusement was purely one-sided. For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were a brilliant white, a shade normally limited to toothpaste ads—or piranhas. The feeling of unease was gone. It had been replaced by a swelling panic. Please God, I begged, please don’t let this paragon of cool perfection be an ex-girlfriend of Peter’s. Please, let her be a cousin or, at the very least, an old friend. I amended the last part to an old friend who was a dedicated lesbian.
“You mean he didn’t tell you?” She let out a small giggle, the source of which was not readily apparent to me. I could forgive much, but not that giggle. “He can be so ridiculous sometimes with his old-fashioned ideas of discretion.” She fell silent for a moment as if lost in fond memories. “But, yes,” she said finally, “I do know Peter. We go way back. We were about to take our own stroll down the aisle ourselves, oh, I guess it was about five years ago. But I was so young. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for marriage and a family. We agreed that it made sense for each of us, me, especially, to experience life a bit—you know, date around.” She considered me with a complacent smirk, which I interpreted as satisfaction that Peter’s latest dating “experience” was a sticky, limp thing in a yellow dress. “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s been so great to catch up with him. I gather you two are old friends?”
Old friends? Catch up with him? When the hell had Peter been catching up with Chloe? And why the hell did she think Peter and I were just friends?
“Um... yes, I guess you could call us that,” I began. “But then actually—”
“Have you met his mother, Jane, yet?”
I longed to say that I had. I longed even more to say that not only had I met her and Peter’s father, but that they’d already told me all about Chloe. Then I’d duck my head as if embarrassed, and mumble how “they were very unkind—but I won’t say any of that to you. ”
But the sad fact remained that I had not met Peter’s parents. While Peter and I had known each other as kids, it was because we had both been staying with Aunt Winnie. Our own parents had been elsewhere. Since we had begun dating, I had spoken to Jane on the phone a few times, but both she and Peter’s father, Patrick, had been so busy with their business that a proper meeting had yet to happen. However, I was damned if I was going to mention this to Chloe. I struggled to answer in such a way as to not give this fact away. Apparently, I needn’t have bothered; my face did it for me.
“Oh, so you haven’t met her then!” cried Chloe in a voice that sounded suspiciously like crowing to my ears. “She is quite a character. And while I absolutely adore Jane, she is very particular when it comes to Peter. God, I watched her give so much hell to Peter’s girlfriends over the years.”
“But not to you, I expect,” I said, hoping my smile hid my sarcasm.
Chloe glanced down as if overcome with modesty. “Well, no, we’ve always gotten along just fine.”
Honestly. If it weren’t for the proximity of the wedding photographer, I really think I might have mashed my bouquet into her smug, perfect face. Inner poise, I sternly reminded myself, inner poise.
Ashley skipped up to us just then, singing loudly and pretending to casually swing her flower-girl basket in an overly cutesy manner. In reality, she was taking turns whacking us in the rear with it.
“What a cutie!” Chloe exclaimed after receiving her whack. Catching Bridget’s eye, she added, “Your cousin is adorable, Bridget!”
Bridget was silent. It was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the matter. The photographer called to her and she turned in his direction.
As soon as Bridget turned away, Ashley whacked Chloe again with the basket. Chloe’s smile dimmed, but she responded only by saying, “She’s certainly full of spirit today!”
“Ashely!” I said firmly. “Stop hitting people with your basket. It’s rude.”
“I’m not hitting people on purpose,” she replied with complete and utter insincerity.
“Ashley,” I began sternly. Hearing her daughter’s name uttered in a tone that indicated imminent reprimand, Karen suddenly materialized.
“What’s going on, pumpkin?” she asked brightly. Ashley used her mother’s presence to full advantage.
Letting her basket drop forlornly by her side to the ground, she pushed out her lower lip. “Mother,” she whined, “I was just swinging my basket—honest! But now everyone’s mad at me.” She glanced accusingly up at me from underneath her lashes. For once, Karen did not automatically jump to her daughter’s aid. She studied Ashley’s face for traces of deception. Sensing that her mother was not going to rise up in her usual lioness defense, Ashley upped the ante. Flopping her slight body onto the ground, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. “It’s because I’m little,” she moaned. “Everyone thinks I’m a pain! Nobody likes me!”
Karen’s earlier hesitation vanished in a flash. “Oh, my poor baby,” she crooned, bending down to sooth Ashley’s huddled form.
Chloe followed suit. “Don’t cry, honey,” she purred, as she crouched over the girl. “No one is mad at you! Why, how could they be? You are probably the sweetest little flower girl I’ve ever seen—and I go to tons of weddings!
I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as pretty as you!”
Ashley shifted her arms slightly and peeked out doubtfully at Chloe. “You really think I’m the prettiest?”
I rolled my eyes, but Chloe carried on. “Of course! No question! Now don’t you worry about anyone being mad at you!”
“But Elizabeth was,” she said, glancing in my direction.
Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, Chloe jumped in, “No, she’s not, honey. It’s just this awful heat.” She lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. “It makes some people grumpy.”
While I tried to digest that without obvious rancor, Ashley smiled coyly at Chloe. “You don’t seem grumpy. You seem real nice.”
Chloe winked at her. “Well, thank you, Ashley. I think you’re really nice, too. Now why don’t we see if we can’t get you something to drink?”
“I’ll get you something, pumpkin,” Karen said, pulling Ashley to an upright position again. “Thanks very much,” Karen added with a grateful smile to Chloe before moving away. I received only a cool nod.
Chloe stood up in one graceful move and smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. Catching sight of my annoyed expression, she smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’m just a sucker for kids,” she said.
“So I gather.”
Chloe glanced carefully around before continuing. Was she making sure her next words were not overheard—or just the opposite? “I can see how you might think she’s a bit spoiled, and I grant you that you may have a point. But who could resist that face? She’s so cute! I know I’d always be indulging my kids—should I ever be lucky enough to have any, of course. Besides,” she added with a glance in Ashley’s direction, “I’ve always had a soft spot for the kids who have a bit of the devil in them. I much prefer them to the polite, well-mannered ones.”
“Really?” I couldn’t resist, so added, “I confess, every time I see Ashley, I never think of polite, well-mannered children with any abhorrence.”
Before Chloe could respond, Mr. Keys, the photographer, anxiously clapped his hands to get our attention. “I need the bride’s family now!” he called.
I focused on him rather than on Chloe’s obvious ploy to demonstrate to everyone within earshot that she was quite ready to be a mother to Peter’s children. Everything about Mr. Keys was round. He had round, wire-rimmed glasses, a round, soft-looking body, a round, pink mouth, and a round balding head. In his right hand, he clutched one of those large white linen handkerchiefs that were popular in the early 1900s. Peering thoughtfully at our group, he alternately coughed into the handkerchief and mopped his head with it. Peer, cough, mop. Peer, cough, mop. We stood patiently while he did this. Mr. Keys might be eccentric, but he was also talented. Finally, a gleam of inspiration replaced the peering. The coughing and mopping stopped and he methodically arranged us according to some unknown master plan. In the midst of the shuffling, Avery called out, “Wait! Where’s Megan?” We looked around, and realizing that she wasn’t nearby, began to call her name. Within seconds she appeared from the terrace, flushed and apologetic.
“Sorry, I was just listening to the band,” she said. “They’re really good.”
As Mr. Keys crankily reshuffled the rest of us to create a spot for Megan, Roni eyed her daughter critically. “Megan,” said Roni, “is that the dress you wore to the church?”
Megan glanced warily down at her outfit before answering. The full-skirted silk dress of midnight blue was sophisticated and flattering. She looked lovely. Still, Megan tensed. “Yes,” she finally said suspiciously. “Why?”
With a perplexed expression, Roni shook her head. “Where did you get it?”
Megan threw her head back and stared defiantly at Roni. “I bought it.”
Roni’s winged eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Really?” Her eyes flickered disparagingly at the dress. As she turned to face Mr. Keys, I heard her add under her breath, “From whom? Omar the tentmaker?” I wasn’t the only one who heard the vicious remark. Megan bit her lip and looked away. Behind me I heard a sharp intake of breath, while another low voice muttered, “That bitch.” The camera flashed just then, forever capturing the moment: Roni smiling obliviously, Megan’s head ducked in embarrassment, Harry’s mouth a hard, thin line of anger, Elsie’s eyes narrowed and focused on Roni, and Avery with his eyes closed. Around them, everyone else wore bright, painfully artificial smiles. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one was worth twice that.
By eight o’clock the reception was in full swing. The band, abandoning its earlier serene melodies, was now blasting out “Mack the Knife.” Guests packed the dance floor and gyrated in inverse proportion to their skill level. The air was filled with the smell of muted sweat underneath expensive perfume. Peter and I briefly joined the fray, but the onslaught of flailing arms and sharp elbows proved too much for us. After a particularly painful jab to my upper arm, I gave up. Deftly avoiding a twirling woman in a fuchsia dress, Peter led me off the dance floor and toward one of the refreshment tents. After getting me a glass of wine and a beer for himself, Peter shifted uneasily on his feet. “Elizabeth?” he said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
My stomach flipped sickeningly and my body temperature instantly rose ten degrees. This is it, I thought. He’s going to tell me about Chloe. I had refused to bring up the matter myself with the knowledge that to do so would only make me appear petty and jealous. I had been down this road too many times before and had finally learned my lesson. I would stay calm and cool. I would be—to coin a phrase—mistress of myself.
Taking a deep breath, I put my wineglass down before my shaking hands spilled it down my dress and looked at him. However, his next words were interrupted by the arrival of Harry. As he saw us, Harry’s face split into a lopsided grin.
“How come you two aren’t dancing?” he asked.
“I forgot to bring my body armor,” I said, rubbing my still-tender arm.
“Well, it’s a take-no-prisoners kind of crowd. We Southerners take our dancing very seriously,” he replied.
“I notice you’re not out there,” I said pointedly.
Harry took a sip of his beer before answering. “We Southerners also take our drinking very seriously.”
“No point in spreading yourself too thin,” said Peter with mock seriousness.
“Exactly.” Harry nodded, clinking his beer bottle against Peter’s.
I rolled my eyes. A woman in a powder-blue linen suit moved past Harry and then stopped and looked up at him. “Hello, Harry,” she said quietly.
At the sound of her voice, Harry whirled around and stared down at her. She was a plump woman in her late fifties with chestnut brown hair, light green eyes, and an open, kind face. When he saw her, Harry’s demeanor changed. The sardonic façade vanished, his mouth lost its ironic twist, and the mocking glint faded from his eyes. Without a word he wrapped his long arms around the woman and enveloped her in a giant bear hug.
“Julia!” he said, once he had released her. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, kiddo. I saw you in town today, but I guess you didn’t see me.”
“Really?” said Harry flushing, “I don’t think I—”
“Don’t worry about it. You were in a rush, no doubt getting ready for the wedding. How are you? Have you lost weight? You look tired,” she said, giving him a motherly pat on the cheek.
“Really? Shoot. I thought I looked debonair. Oh, well. Story of my life.” Turning back to Peter and me, he said, “Elizabeth? You remember Julia, don’t you?”
I smiled and extended my hand. “Hi, Julia. I’m Elizabeth Parker, Bridget’s friend... ”
Julia smiled and took my hand. “Of course, I remember you, Elizabeth. It’s lovely to see you again. I was so sorry to hear about your father’s passing. How is your mother doing?”
“She’s fine, thanks. She’s actually dating someone now,” I said.
“Really?” Julia said. Julia worked as a family therapist. Somethi
ng in my voice must have aroused her professional instinct. With a slight tilt of her head, she asked, “How do you feel about that?”
My mother is an English professor with a passion for Victorian literature. Her boyfriend, George, is a man heavy on the brawn and light on the brains, who labors under the illusion that George Eliot was really a man. He’s a nice enough guy, but as Dorothy Parker once said about someone, “His ignorance was an Empire State Building of ignorance. You had to admire it for its size.”
I waved my hands, at a loss for words. “Whatever makes her happy, I guess,” I said finally.
“Loss is hard. It’s a good sign that she’s moving on,” Julia replied.
There was a hint of sadness in Julia’s voice as she said this, and I was sharply reminded that Julia had had her own share of loss. Her daughter, Becky, had died tragically some years back.
Becky was Julia’s only child. As kids, Harry, Bridget, and I played with her, although she and Harry were the closest. Becky’s father, Tom, was an alcoholic who took his anger at his own failings out on his wife and child. I’m not sure when Becky started using drugs and alcohol to numb the demons that plagued her, but by her eighteenth birthday, she had a serious problem. After being told that she was a worthless waste of space almost daily by her father, it was hard for Becky not to believe that on some level it was true. Julia did everything she could to help her daughter, but nothing worked. After attending a party one night, Becky showed up at Harry’s bedroom window, high and drunk. Harry wanted to take her home, but she begged Harry to let her sleep in his room, saying that if her parents saw her in her current condition, her father would kill her. Harry relented and snuck her into his room. But Becky was drunker than Harry realized, and sometime during the night, she slipped into a coma. She never came out of it and died two days later. Julia was devastated.