by Amanda Brown
Lance’s fingers closed around Pippa’s. They began circling the floor while the guests started in on the first course, truffled shad with roe. “Were you two discussing social Darwinism or something?”
“Survival of the fittest did come up.”
As their offspring danced, Thayne and Rosimund looked dotingly on from the head table. “That boy of yours is the luckiest man on earth,” Thayne commented, pressing her fork into a mound of shad roe. What a waste of a good truffle! “There aren’t many women with Pippa’s looks, personality, and pedigree. And accomplishments! Lord! Gold Girl Scout, cheerleading captain, debutante, Kappa Kappa Gamma, and she speaks fluent Czech.” “Her degree is in?” Rosimund inquired.
“Pippa is still deciding. Nowadays it’s considered much wiser to take a few years off rather than major in something silly.” Thayne meticulously removed a bone from the shad. “Lance is the only boy I know with a degree in ceramics.”
“He has a fine eye for art. Since he has the means to become a major collector, it was a perfect choice of major. He can always study political science when he becomes bored with winning Super Bowls.”
Thayne peered across the dining room. One of the bridesmaids seemed to be straddling one of the groomsmen. It was difficult to see clearly with all this gold dust Rosimund was blowing in everyone’s eyes. “Those friends of his are mauling my bridesmaids.”
“Perhaps you need glasses, dear. Your bridesmaids are doing all the mauling.” Rosimund sighed. “I wish you could have had one Houston woman among them.”
“For your information I did find one bridesmaid from Houston. She gained thirteen pounds in six months, lied to me about it, and had to be dismissed.”
Rosimund quietly masticated her black and white truffles as she tried to think of a way to run Thayne over with her Volvo and get away with it. “Where did you find that suit? I seem to remember seeing something like it on the Paris runway eight or nine years ago.”
“Alfred Fiandaca made it for me last month. Light and dark blue are the Kappa Kappa Gamma colors.” Thayne squinted at Rosimund’s ensemble. “Isn’t red completely out this year?”
“Do you follow fashion fads? I suppose that’s the difference between old money and nouveau riche.” Rosimund lovingly straightened her tiara. “When did your ancestors come into wealth, dear? I’ve forgotten.”
“Twenty years after yours did.”
“Twenty years can be an eon. Ask Prince Charles. Well! Wasn’t that delicious. I’m so looking forward to the smoked baby quail and purple rice.”
Two groomsmen, both football players, wobbled over. The 150-proof bourbon previously in Tiffany flasks now raged through their veins. “May we have this dance, ladies?”
Pippa smiled as the couples joined her and Lance on the parquet. “How sweet! Your friends asked our mothers to dance.”
“They have a little pool going. First guy to seduce either of them wins five grand.” Lance laughed curtly. “Personally I’d rather service my horse.”
Pippa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I suppose I should be glad you find screwing your mother unattractive.”
“That was a lovely comment, chickadee.”
“So was yours. And don’t call me chickadee. I’m not a bird.”
Fortunately Pippa’s father tapped Lance on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”
“Not a moment too soon, sir.” Lance walked off. Robert saw his daughter’s eyes fill with tears. “What was that all about?”
“I think we just had our first fight.” Pippa could barely eke out the words as she watched her fiance stalk out of the tent. “I feel like I’m sliding down a well, Daddy.”
“Preperformance jitters, darlin’. Perfectly normal.” Robert guided his daughter between raucously whirling Rosimund and Thayne. “Lance isn’t sure he can live up to expectations. In this case there are plenty. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
“What is this, true confessions night?” Pippa snapped. “Was anyone in this family actually happy to get married?”
“Happiness comes later,” Robert attempted to explain.
“How much later?”
“When you learn to balance what you’ve got with what you thought you had.” Robert kissed her forehead. “Meanwhile, a well-bitten tongue comes in handy.”
To please her parents Pippa danced with mayors and senators for what seemed like eons. Lance skulked back into the tent as the toasts began. As he slid into his seat beside her at the head table, neither offered a word of apology. In silence they watched Kimberly stagger to the microphone.
“Good evening!” she called. “Have y’all been enjoying those weird little mushrooms?”
“French truffles,” Rosimund corrected from the end of the table.
“Truffles, wuffles.” That got a nice titter. Encouraged, Kimberly continued, “The bridesmaids have come up with three reasons Lance and Pippa are getting married. One, it’s no fun chasing your lover through Prague in the dead of winter. Two, Lance doesn’t want to get confused with Oedipus.”
Kimberly and her friends were laughing so hard that they barely noticed no one over the age of twenty-two was laughing with them. “Three, Pippa wants good seats for Cowboys games.” To what she thought was universal cheering, Kimberly stumbled back to her seat.
“That was pretty vicious,” Woody whispered. “I’m surprised at you, Kimberly.”
“Go back to your own table!” she snapped.
“You’re so drunk, you forgot the toast.”
Woody went to the microphone. “Very nice job, Kimberly. I’m sure you won’t remember anything in the morning, and neither will the rest of us, hopefully. I’d like to propose a toast to the best guy on earth, Lance Henderson. I wish you a lifetime of tribulation. Sorry! I meant jubilation. All this Champagne is going to my head. I’d like to congratulate Thayne and Robert, Rosimund and Lyman, for raising such wonderful children. Lance and Pippa, you’re breaking every heart in Texas tonight.”
Parents and children stood up for bows. “Who is that fellow?” Thayne whispered to Rosimund. “He’s quite eloquent.”
“That is Lances physical therapist. He flies in every two weeks from New York to check the cartilage in Lance’s knees. They’re insured for seventy million dollars.”
As waiters served the next course, a melange of exotic greens and nuts atop a wedge of hard-boiled ostrich egg, Lance began dancing rather pelvically with the bridesmaids. Pippa sat and fumed: in three years they had only danced waltzes together.
“Just look at my boy.” Rosimund beamed from the other side of the table. “So light on his fee—”
She dropped her fork as yet another groomsman yanked her chair back and planted his lips on her neck. “You’ve got my blood boilin’, Mrs. Henderson. Say you’ll dance with me or I’ll kill myself.”
“Why, Lawrence! You do flatter me.”
Seconds later, as Thayne was grimly salting her ostrich egg, she received a similar invitation from another groomsman. The mayor of Dallas asked Pippa to dance. Off she went, leaving her father alone with Rosimund’s husband, Lyman. “Weddings,” he said, shaking his head. “You’d think this was the oil rush of ‘01.”
“I’m looking forward to some semblance of sanity next week,” Lyman said.
“I wouldn’t count on it. If Rosimund is anything like Thayne, she’s going to start planning little Arabella’s nuptials the minute this one’s over.” Robert raised his glass. “Here’s to many years of fine golfing, Lyman.”
“And fine fishing, Robert.”
At the stroke of midnight, just as the Johann Strauss Orchestra packed it in, the Lester Lanin Orchestra swung into high gear in the next tent. Those interested in dessert, coffee, and open bar simply followed the music to the Summer Pavilion. Here the canopy was made up of hundreds of yards of deep green silk embroidered with gold stars. The orchestra sat on a revolving stage in the center of a small lake teeming with goldfish and water lilies. Two gondolas—each longer than the singl
e gondola Thayne had imported from Venice for Pippa’s engagement party—were available for rides. Oarsmen expertly steered them through a Tunnel of Love made up of a hundred thousand red roses. Elsewhere in the tent, fountains modeled on those at the Villa d’Este overflowed with creme de menthe, Amaretto, Grand Marnier, Cham-bord, and other strong colors. In lieu of tables, hundreds of deck chairs were placed about the artificial turf for the comfort of spectators at croquet, bocce, and horseshoe courts: Rosimund was a devotee of English lawn parties. Unlike Thayne, she didn’t expect her guests to cavort till dawn on fruit cups. She offered a sixty-foot-long chocolate buffet. Every conceivable manifestation of chocolate was there in profusion: cakes, puddings, bombes, gelatos, pies, truffles, brownies, candies, pots de creme . . . Thayne could only watch in impotent rage as her bridesmaids piled their plates with two and three of everything.
Dancing continued. The drinking never abated. Soon wading, swimming, and falling overboard ensued. No one knew exactly what happened between Kimberly and Woody while their gondola was in the Tunnel of Love, but it emerged upside down. Thayne had planned to make a dignified exit at the stroke of one o’clock but that was impossible when a handsome young swain was begging her to tango every two minutes. She even allowed herself a second helping of chocolate chiffon pie to keep her energy up.
At two o’clock Lance waded across the water to the Lester Lanin Orchestra and took the microphone. His pants were soaking wet. He was barefoot. “I’d like to make a toast,” he said. “But first everyone has got to understand that I’m totally, hopelessly sm—smi—”
He paused, trying to form the words. The audience thought Lance was going to say, “Smitten.”
Instead he said, “Smashed!”
Rosimund didn’t cheer as raucously as everyone else. Sensing that her son was about to say things he might regret, she began working her way over to the man in charge of the PA system.
“I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight,” Lance began. “I don’t know about you, but I really love this tent. It’s like Brideshead Revisited stuffed with Texas heifers and longhorns. Hard to believe I’ll be playing football right here in two months. Anyway, thank you all for coming tonight. I’ve already said that? So what, I really mean it. What a tent! There’s nothing my mother enjoys more than dropping a couple million bucks on a party instead of donating to the homeless. You’re my girl, Rosimund! Where are you, darlin’?” Lance blew a kiss into the crowd. “I know it’s going to be a strain, me bringing another lady into the house, but remember, nothing in this world is permanent except death, taxes, and your mother.”
Lance doused his face with water from the goldfish pond. “Some people think of marriage as a prison sentence. Just ask my father. But I hope that’s not going to be the case for me. I hope it will be my refuge. That ring on my finger, that’s going to be my little Pippa smiling up at me all day long.” Lance staggered backward into the arms of the conductor. “Nice biceps there, sir. Anyway, everyone, I want to thank you for coming tonight. It’s the eve of my execution.”
Rosimund finally reached the PA engineer. “Pull the plug on that microphone.”
“If I do, the whole tent goes out,” he replied, which was a lie. Fifteen seconds ago Thayne had stuffed three hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, promising seven more if he turned the volume up.
Rosimund paled. She stepped to the edge of the pond. “Play the loudest piece in your repertoire,” she commanded the conductor. “Lance, you’re exhausted. Come down.”
“You play one note and I’ll break your arm,” Lance growled. The conductor decided not to play one note. “Mother, stop ordering people around. You’re a worse control freak than Tom Landry.” Lance suddenly began to whimper. “You deserve better than me, Pippa. I’m just a jock.”
“Lance, that’s enough,” Rosimund called. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to inherit the mother of all mother-in-laws. Can you imagine what my life will be like with Rosimund AND Thayne coming to dinner? That’s like playing the Raiders without a helmet!”
With that, Lance plummeted into the goldfish pond. His friends splashed in after him. As they carried him out of the tent, Rosimund waded over to a microphone. “Boys will be boys,” she announced with a wasn’t-that-adorable smile.
Pippa had been watching Lance’s monologue from the croquet court. Drunk or no, he seemed at wit’s end. “I’ve got to see if he’s all right,” she told her grandfather, pushing through the crowd.
Thayne intercepted her halfway across the tent. “We’re returning to the hotel.”
“Let me go! I have to see Lance.”
Were that to occur, this wedding had a fifty-fifty chance of incinerating. “Honey, you’ve got to back off. He’s under the influence. Mark my words, Lance will be throwing himself at your feet tomorrow.” Thayne patted her daughter’s hand. “I was in the same condition my own wedding eve. Your father has never mentioned it and I have never forgotten his gallantry.” Thayne strong-armed Pippa into the cool night. “Before we go, let’s peep inside that last tent.”
Rosimund’s fourth tent was a paean to autumn. The canopy was orange silk embroidered with apples. A twenty-foot-high H, constructed entirely of spray-painted foliage and sheaves of wheat, stood in the center. A fifteen-foot high W, constructed of gourds and black plastic bats, stood behind it. Guests could take hayrides on a path winding around the two towering letters. One thousand pumpkins, flown in from somewhere they were actually in season, had been carved into jack-o-lanterns. They were arranged fifty across and twenty rows high on a gigantic scaffolding. Six men on ladders hastened to light their candles before guests migrated in. Caterers were already arranging a breakfast buffet. A rock band, effortlessly resembling scarecrows and ghouls, warmed up in half a barn that had been dismantled in Vermont and reconstructed here.
“Way over the top,” Thayne snorted, leading Pippa away. “Rosimund should be ashamed of herself.”
Six
Pippa didn’t sleep all night. Something was terribly wrong with Lance. He had been unreachable for the past few days. He had muffed nearly every line at the rehearsal. En route to the Henderson Ball he had seemed oddly glib. He never did introduce her to Woody. As for that drunken, rambling speech, what was he trying to say? Did he really feel he was going to his execution? Pippa had never heard him castigate his mother, even in private; nor, judging by the dismay on her face, had Rosimund. Lance hoped his marriage would be a refuge rather than a prison. What did he need refuge from? Behind all the wild remarks, Pippa had sensed howling desperation. Was Lance marrying her simply to make his mother happy? Was she doing the same for Thayne?
Unable to come up with a definitive “no,” Pippa stared at the moon. No question she and Lance had allowed this fest to get out of hand. Neither of them had made any attempt to slow down their mothers, although once those two runaway trains got rolling, nothing short of an atomic bomb could have derailed them. But that didn’t mean Pippa and Lance were forced into the marriage, or that they didn’t love each other.
She thought back to the first time they met, freshman year at SMU, History of Texas 101. Thayne had insisted Pippa take the course and note how many times the Walker family was mentioned. Lance sat
next to her. For a football player, he was remarkably literate. And so nice! For the first six months, they only knew each other by first name. Neither wanted to intimidate the other by divulging negative baggage like “Henderson” or “Walker.” Pippa always looked forward to seeing Lance and she increasingly felt the feeling was mutual. A true Southern gentleman, Lance proceeded slowly and chivalrously with her. He didn’t ask her out until Thanksgiving. He planted his first good-night kiss on her hand, not her mouth. Three dozen roses arrived the next day with a note thanking her for her delightful company. Intrigued by his heavy cream stationery embossed with an H, Pippa thanked Lance for the roses on her own heavy cream stationery embossed with a W.
Next day the t
ruth came out. “You mean you’re one of those Hendersons?”
“You’re one of those Walkers? We’re almost kissin’ cousins!”
Lance was too well bred to rush into a turbulent romance. Besides, he was obsessed with football. On his free nights they would study together and, over a few glasses of neat bourbon, discuss Princess Diana conspiracy theories and their mothers. Mothers were a favorite topic.
Then, in Pippa’s junior year, along came Andre, a slovenly, profane, pack-a-day smoker from the backwaters of Louisiana. His blue eyes could burn holes in reinforced steel. He was brilliant, opinionated, and incandescently sexual. He wanted to make art films. Andre stopped Pippa as she was crossing the campus one morning en route to Psych 101.
“Stay right there.” He whipped out a throwaway camera. “You’re beautiful. Don’t move! Turn your head. Look over the hill and smile as if your lover just ravished you and you’re still in flames.”
Pippa had no idea what that smile might look like. “How’s this?”
“Way too virginal, but I’ll take it.”
Andre soon ushered Pippa into the garden of earthly delights, something she had been waiting for Lance to do for three long years. Although he tried not to show it, Lance was crushed by Pippa’s desertion. He remained civil but their late-night talks ceased. Convinced that Andre was the next Truffaut, Pippa followed him to Europe, where he was shooting his first film, Prague-Nosis. It was about a student from Louisiana who, discovering he had terminal cancer, self-medicated with sex and drugs. Pippa got her grandfather to put up fifty thousand dollars for the project. She rented a luxurious apartment in the heart of the historic district and acted as Andre’s secretary, paymaster, cook, and lover.
The year went from bad to worse. One day, after a fight with Andre, she called Lance. They began to have long chats, just like the old days. When Pippa inevitably caught Andre in bed with two Czech actresses, she flew back to Dallas. Lance was waiting at the airport with an armload of roses. Although he had a big game that weekend, he listened to Pippa’s long, tearful tirade and never once said “I told you so” before taking her home.