This woman obviously knew a great deal about beauty. A week ago, Emmie would have found the remark shallow. Now she was interested. “Why is that?”
“Well, her mother knows how to dress her and fix her hair. She’ll teach her how to use makeup, walk in heels, and all that—that’s fifty percent. The other fifty percent is attitude. Confidence. Fearlessness. And joie de vivre. Nothing is more attractive.”
Emmie nodded. Caleb had the same qualities, older, hardened, expressed in a masculine way. That must be the reason the child had seemed oddly familiar. She reminded her of Caleb. That, and she’d probably seen the child at some family gathering.
“Don’t you want to catch the bouquet?” the woman asked.
“Pickett can’t throw, and I”—Emmie indicated her useless arm—“can’t catch.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re Pickett’s college friend, the professor. Sit down and have a glass of champagne. The toasts won’t start until later, but I talked a waiter into opening a bottle for me and leaving it at the table. I should introduce myself though—before you commit yourself to speaking to me. I’m Lauren Babcock.” Lauren’s daughter had recently died, which accounted for the tragic look in her eyes. That she had died of minor, elective surgery must make her death seem even more tragically pointless and hard to come to terms with.
Lauren’s smile twisted. “I’m Jax’s ex-mother-in-law. I feel like Banquo’s ghost.”
Emmie took a chair. “Attending the wedding of the man who was once married to your daughter, albeit briefly, and many years ago, must be unspeakably poignant for you—in the light of your daughter’s recent death.”
Too late. Emmie remembered that was hardly the way to refer to loss in polite company. In America there were as many euphemisms for death as there were for sex. Fortunately, Lauren didn’t seem to be shattered by Emmie’s unvarnished acknowledgement of who and what she was. In fact, for a moment her eyes focused on Emmie’s face. Emboldened, Emmie went on with what she really wanted to understand. “But why do you call yourself Banquo’s ghost? He was the symbol of Macbeth’s guilty conscience, wasn’t he? Have you come here to accuse someone? Nobody here murdered your daughter.”
“No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I was thinking about how unwelcome the ghost would have been to the people at the feast, and how it felt to him to be invisible.”
Emmie could just imagine how many people had pretended not to see her, while whispering about her behind their hands. Lauren, widow of a successful and well-known businessman, had been a society leader. Many of the guests probably knew her and would prefer not to offend her. But they also knew Jax and Pickett had to marry quickly in order to shut out Lauren’s bid for custody of Tyler in the wake of his mother’s death. They thought it was terrible that Lauren would try to take his child away. It made for an awkward social situation at best.
Emmie was on Pickett’s side, but she didn’t see Lauren’s bid for custody as quite so black-and-white. Emmie was the child of people whose dedication had warred with their duty as parents. They had sent her to her grandmother to raise—a woman who did her duty but resisted emotional involvement.
After his mother died, Tyler had needed someone to care for him full time, and Lauren had been more able to do that than his often absent father. If Pickett hadn’t entered the picture, for Lauren to have custody would have been logical. Although she didn’t agree, Emmie could understand why Lauren thought she was doing the right thing. At least in years to come, Tyler would know that his grandmother had wanted him.
“Pickett wanted you here,” Emmie told Lauren. “I know it’s hard for you, but I’m sure she appreciates that you came. She feels strongly that Tyler needs to have you in his life.”
Lauren swirled the champagne in her flute. “On that, she and I agree. But this topic is too solemn for a chat at a celebration.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t really like social chitchat, and I’m not very good at it. I’m never sure what people are talking about—or why. At least I understand what you’re saying and why it means something to you.”
Lauren gave her a long sideways look and laughed. Her laugh had a rusty, creaking sound. “Mendacity. You have a dearth of mendacity.”
“You mean I’m a lousy liar? You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“You don’t know how to natter on and on about meaningless topics in order to avoid saying all the truths most people are hiding from,” Lauren clarified. “Still, mendacity is a useful skill, and you’d do well to learn it.”
Emmie grinned. “You’re saying I should at least learn to suck up?”
Whatever Lauren might have replied was interrupted. “Over here, Pickett!”
“Throw it this way!”
The feminine yells sounded above the babble of the crowd, which grew silent in anticipation.
Pickett was so short she was completely hidden from Emmie by the women grouped around her, but she must be ready for the bouquet toss. Suddenly, the bunch of lilies and roses arced high over the heads of the women and descended straight toward the table where Emmie and Lauren sat.
With athletic grace, Lauren shot up an arm and caught it, before it hit her in the face.
She frowned at it in consternation and shoved it into Emmie’s hand. “Here! You need this. I certainly don’t.”
“You caught it.” Emmie tried to shove it back.
“Only to keep it from hitting me in the head.”
All around Pickett women clamored, “Where is it? Who caught it?”
Lauren squeezed Emmie’s fingers around the wrapped stems of the flowers, her mouth in a grim line. “If I have to try to look thrilled, or engage in banter, or tolerate a bunch of barbed jokes, this evening will go from difficult to unbearable. Take it!”
“Oh look, everybody!” Someone standing at the very back of the crowd around Pickett finally thought to turn and look behind them. “Emmie caught the bouquet.”
Annalynn’s pink face appeared. “Oh Emmie, you’re the next bride. I just knew it!”
“I didn’t—”
Lauren winked. “Mendacity.”
Pickett’s uncle Mason tapped the microphone in front of the bandstand, and in spite of the deafening clacks that rocked the room, enquired several times if it was on. Finally accepting the heartfelt assurances that it was, he announced, “If you’ll all find your seats, Reverend Lanier will say a blessing, and we can begin dinner.”
Emmie had experience with Reverend Lanier. He wasn’t the Episcopal priest who had performed the ceremony or the minister cum surrogate father to Jax who had co-officiated. He was a relative on the other side of the family whose calling and spiritual authority had to be acknowledged, since he hadn’t been asked to take part in the ceremony.
When he asked a blessing he didn’t stint, and he wouldn’t stop until he had requested the Lord’s favor in great detail on everyone in the room. He would also take it upon himself to remind God that Jesus’ first miracle happened at a wedding, when He changed water into wine so that the party wouldn’t have to break up (Emmie’s words not the good reverend’s), signifying His approval of marriage and of making a wedding a festive as well as a solemn occasion—thereby justifying Lanier’s request for the Lord’s blessing upon a party where drinking would go on, which everyone knew his denomination didn’t condone.
Emmie had needed to use the restroom for an hour, and there was no way she could wait until he was finished. She either had to slip out now before he started praying or face the possibility of embarrassing herself. While people found their way to their tables, as unobtrusively as possible, she headed for the large double doors.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Caleb appeared suddenly at her side. “We’re supposed to sit at the bride’s table. It’s this way.”
Since neither she nor Caleb had dates for the wedding, it was inevitable that they had been paired, and he took his duties seriously. He hadn’t glued himself to her by any means, but he’d come over to w
here she was several times to ask if he could refill her glass or bring her some hors d’oeuvres. Attentive. That’s what he’d been. Now with old-fashioned courtesy, he intended to escort her to their table, a nicety almost no one remembered anymore. In fact, Emmie herself had forgotten it. Despite his country-boy air, the man really knew his etiquette.
“I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room—no, I can’t wait—I’ve got to go right now.”
Caleb chuckled at her imperative tone and obligingly reversed direction to lead her toward the hall. “You okay alone?”
“Of course. Go ahead and be seated. Tell everyone to start without me. I’ll be right back.”
Emmie let the door to the ladies room swing shut behind her. And realized she’d made a major miscalculation.
“Oh cripes.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the effort would transfer to the relevant sphincter.
“You’re not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain.” The remark’s tone was more instructive than chiding and came from one of the large upholstered chairs set in an alcove, adjacent to the lavatories.
“I didn’t.” Emmie looked around, seeking the owner of the voice, and saw the little girl, Vicky. She’d spoken to her earlier. “I said ‘cripes’ not Christ.”
“What does ‘cripes’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“I said it because I’ve got to pee so bad, and I just realized there’s no way I can pull up this dress.” The slim column of taffeta fell straight from her hips to the floor. A kick pleat in the back made walking possible, but it wasn’t the sort of dress that could be reached under—not with one hand.
It was the final indignity, the final assault on any notions of independence she still clung to. Today she had submitted to: help into and out of her clothes, help to disguise a subversive cake, help to climb to and from automobiles, and help to bathe herself and shampoo her hair. Now she was trussed up in a dress that made her helpless even to manage bodily functions.
Vicky left her chair and came over to study the dress. “I see your problem,” she said, her reddish-gold head bobbing as she looked Emmie up and down. “I could help you. I could push it up for you. At school we had a play, and Kelly was a beaver, and I had to hold her tail out of the way when she had to go.”
You’re only helpless if no help is available. Emmie could almost hear Do-Lord’s slow drawl. Was she really going to have to accept help from a child? Everyone else was sitting down to dinner, but Vicky was here. And despite her youth, she evidently had more experience coping with impediments than Emmie did. Emmie mentally threw up her hands. Why not? “Obviously, you have strong qualifications,” she said, surprising herself with how unfazed—even amused by her predicament—she sounded. “How do you suggest we go about it?”
“We better get you as close to the toilet as we can before we start. It was pretty hard for Kelly to walk with her panties down and her tail up.”
The picture that made had them giggling as they as they turned toward the stalls. “Oh, and we probably should use the handicapped toilet,” Vicky added.
“Yeah, that fits,” Emmie laughed.
Vicky colored a little. “I meant because it has more room, not because you’re…”
Emmie was immediately contrite. Inevitably, as Pickett’s best friend, Emmie had picked up a good bit of theoretical understanding of children, but she hadn’t spent a lot of time around them—not even when she was a child herself. She needed to remember, despite her air of competence, Vicky was a child. She couldn’t see things from as many perspectives as Emmie could. “I wasn’t laughing because you said the wrong thing,” Emmie reassured her. “I was thinking, if having to wear this dress when I can’t use both arms isn’t a handicap, I don’t know what is.”
Emmie’s heart warmed to watch Vicky’s freckled little face flit from puzzlement to comprehension, and her eyes light up when she saw the double meaning, got the joke, and laughed too.
When Vicky had Emmie positioned in front of the toilet, she placed both hands just below the top curve of Emmie’s hips and pushed the stiff fabric up. “Don’t you wish you were a boy sometimes,” she asked as she eased the material over Emmie’s hips, “and you didn’t have to pull things up and push things down to use the bathroom?”
“If I were a man I wouldn’t be wearing this dress, that’s for sure.”
Vicky settled her hands to push up another section of material. “Even if you’re wearing jeans, it doesn’t help. You still have to get half undressed, and it so embarrassing, if you have to go in the woods or something.” Vicky worked another section of material up. “And you have to be careful, or you’ll pee on your shoes.”
Emmie stifled a bubble of laughter at the little girl’s artless prattle. “True. I guess I never thought about how lucky boys are. They can stand up. All they have to do is lower a zipper, and they can see what they’re doing.” The hem of Emmie’s dress was above her knees now, and as soon as the top of the long kick pleat passed her hips, all constriction eased. “I think I can take it from here, Vicky. I can reach now.”
Vicky examined her handiwork. “Okay,” she nodded. “You can call me if you need me.” She backed out of the stall and even pulled the door closed behind her, although, of course, it couldn’t be latched. “I won’t let anybody walk in on you,” she promised earnestly.
Emmie sat on the toilet for a minute when she was done, conscious of a relief not wholly due to having eased the pressure on her bladder. And it wasn’t only that she, at last, had a moment alone with her thoughts. It was something else, like a problem or a weight had disappeared, but she couldn’t classify whatever it was.
“Now we need to reverse the process,” she told Vicky as she exited the stall, the skirt of the dress still bunched around her waist. She probably could have pushed it down herself, and almost had, until she thought that Vicky might like to see her job to completion. As soon as she said it, she knew she had guessed right. Vicky knelt in front of her. With her golden freckled face a study in grave concentration, she drew the hem back to its proper position.
Vicky smoothed reverent, gold-dotted fingers over the bronze taffeta and rose. “I don’t think we wrinkled it much.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Emmie went to the lavatory and waved a hand over the sensor to start the water flow. She caught Vicky’s eye in the mirror. Vicky sat once again in the large wingback chair where she had been when Emmie came in. Her head leaned against one of the wings as she watched Emmie. “Vicky, everyone else is sitting down to dinner. What were you doing in here when I came in?”
“I got tired of playing with the other kids. All they wanted to do was run back and forth between the kids’ room and the big people’s room.”
It didn’t square with Vicky’s earlier announcement that she liked to be where the action was. Emmie wondered if something had happened to make Vicky want to avoid the other children. Before she could ask, the door sighed open, and Grace, her heels tapping lightly on the tile floor, entered.
The evening gown Grace wore was of some filmy material coaxed to drape in a waterfall of pleats through the bodice and float around her ankles where tiny crystals sewn into the hem added an elusive glisten. Emmie had never given a great deal of thought to what made a dress look as it did. Now she was struck by how much more mature Grace’s gown looked. Not like an old-lady dress, but still, vastly more sophisticated than hers. This evening she was noticing nuances of dress she had formerly been blind to—no, not blind to, willfully ignorant about.
“Oh, good,” Grace said when she saw Vicky. “I’ve found both of you. Vicky, your mother is looking for you. Run on now. She was alarmed that you weren’t with the other children.”
Behind Grace’s back, Vicky flicked her fingers in a secret wave as she disappeared out the door.
Grace laid her evening bag on the counter and turned her attention to Emmie. She whipped ti
ny boxes, brushes, and tubes from her purse, and filled a paper cup with water, saying it wouldn’t take more than a minute to fix Emmie up. Emmie didn’t put up one word of protest.
Chapter 13
CAREFUL NOT TO STARE FROM THE DAIS WHERE HE SAT at the bridal party table, Do-Lord kept the wavy white hair of his quarry in his peripheral vision. It wasn’t as easy as it should have been. Not with Emmie right here beside him. He had kissed her on the cheek and told her to “go get beautiful,” but he hadn’t expected her to do it.
Do-Lord had never put a great deal of thought into what made a girl pretty. They either were or they weren’t, and in his experience, most were. His challenge was to find one he thought was interesting.
From the first, his attention had locked in on Emmie like a heat-seeking missile, despite her general frumpiness. Now, no matter how hard he tried to track Calhoun’s progress as he worked the room, Do-Lord’s eyes didn’t want to cooperate. They constantly drifted back to Emmie, transformed almost past recognition. The shimmery bronze material of her strapless dress traced her every curve and fascinated him by changing color subtly every time she crossed her legs or shifted in her chair. Shit, every time she breathed.
As servers removed the dinner plates, the well-bred din of several hundred guests increased.
“Change places with me,” Emmie whispered urgently. “I need to talk to Pickett.”
“Everything okay?” Do-Lord rose and helped with her chair.
“Yes, well, no. I forgot to tell her where to cut the cake.”
Emmie put the cool, milky whiteness of her cheek, which glowed with only a hint of rose, next to Pickett’s warm, peachy one. They looked like moonlight and sunlight whispering together. As she listened to her friend, Pickett’s eyes rested on him speculatively. By the time Emmie got to the end of her recital, Pickett was laughing. She tugged on Jax’s sleeve to get his attention. With a smile, he leaned closer.
Do-Lord put his arm on the back of Emmie’s chair and leaned over her shoulder to hear what they were saying. His body’s relationship to Emmie’s exactly mirrored Jax’s vis-a-vis Pickett. Jax’s light-colored eyes narrowed. In the wordless communication he and Jax had perfected over the years, he read that Jax noticed the same thing.
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 40