In the tent, the band struck up a fanfare.
Roy closed the folder, handing it back to BJ. The three women hurried to the tented bubble.
The cake had been wheeled in on a linen-draped cart to where NolaBee waited. Holding out her low-tar cigarette, she rested her other hand on the hip of her loose, short silk dress—a shrunken Southern-belle flapper. “Come on, you all, cake time,” she was calling to the few guests who still sat at their tables. Waitresses edged through the crowd, proffering trays. Everyone, even the teetotalers and children, took a glass of Mumm’s.
It was prearranged that Linc make the toast.
“I’ve known this delightful Southern lady since 1943, soon after she moved to Beverly Hills, a town she has enriched by her lively presence. She’s related to me in a great many ways that are too confusing to go into, but even if she weren’t, I’d have fallen utterly for her. She charms everyone who comes in contact with her. I give you our most beloved birthday lady. NolaBee Wace. Mama.”
The assembly raised their tulip-shaped glasses, toasting.
“Now Linc,” said NolaBee coquettishly. “I reckon that was a nice-enough speech, but you mustn’t go around mentioning all those dates. Don’t want the folks here to figure out my age, do we?”
Laughter.
As NolaBee plunged the beribboned knife into rich chocolate cake, the band played. “Happy birthday . . . happy birthday dear NolaBee [Mama, Grandma, Great-Grandma, Aunt, Cousin] . . .”
The munificent shared warmth surrounded Roy, and her singing wavered.
Charles—Gerry’s son—gripped her hand, and Linc, who was holding Marylin’s shoulders, put his free arm around her. The sisters turned to each other: their eyes were wet as their lips curved in smiles.
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Everything and More Page 56