Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  “Then you might ask yourself, how did you find yourself among us?”

  “Pure chance.”

  He pulled over to the curb and got out of the car. A valet opened my door and handed me out before turning to Ian. Ian handed over his keys with a cupped hand, saying, “Thank you, my good fellow.”

  I knew he was palming a huge tip to the valet. He gave everyone huge tips; it was one of the reasons going out with him was rather fab.

  You had to hand it to the vampires; they knew how to throw around cash.

  We sat on the bride’s side of the stark modern church. The bridesmaids, many of them F.U. alumnae, came up the aisle wearing pale pink dresses, their hair a uniform shade of honey blond, each with a single strand of pearls, a neat little nose, and a perfect tan. Nancy was very detail oriented when she wanted to be.

  Nancy wore a serious expression as she walked down the aisle. Her hair was one shade more golden than her bridesmaids’, and her dress one shade more delicate. The dress, made of a shimmery fabric with a tight bodice and a full skirt embroidered with seed pearls, made her look very fairy princessy.

  Her fiancé, Todd, who’d been two years ahead of us at F.U., stood stiffly at the front of the church. He looked as if he was fulfilling a duty, like filing his taxes or having a colorectal exam. I never understood Nancy’s passion for a man who didn’t seem to have any.

  To Nancy’s credit, the ceremony was neither cloying nor snore-inducingly elaborate. I may even have teared up at some point before I remembered that she was marrying a robotoid who barely tolerated my company.

  After the ceremony, Ian and I stood in the crowd to watch the newlyweds and the wedding party as they posed for photos. I tried to catch Nancy’s eye, but she was out of range. “I’ll introduce you at the reception,” I said to Ian. I recognized some of the Bright Young Things, but they were all too busy talking to one another to notice me. They did, however, shoot glances at Ian.

  The reception was being hosted at Nancy’s socialite godmother’s house. Nancy had cultivated the patronage of Gigi Barton, heiress to the Barton facial tissue and toilet paper fortune (“It’s not worth sneezing at if it isn’t Barton’s!”), and her investment of time and flattery was paying off.

  I had been inside a few of the City’s lavish homes, but Barton House set its own standard. My general impression was: a quarry of marble floors, acres of oriental rugs, forests of paneled walls, and a few museums’ worth of art.

  Nancy’s friends and family were almost exclusively of a light hue. I tried not to be overly sensitive about race, but it was something I always noticed. Most people, Oswald’s family included, felt more comfortable among their own. I smiled at a sorority sister of Nancy’s, and she knit her eyebrows as if she was trying to recollect who I was.

  I was suffering a minor I-don’t-belong-here attack when Ian took my arm in his and escorted me to the receiving line. Nancy’s parents, her mother flushed with pleasure, were at the front of the line. We exchanged hellos and Nancy’s mother said, “You next, Milagro! Is this your special friend?”

  “I would like to think so,” Ian said smoothly. “Ian Ducharme.” When he shook her hand, I noticed that his gold cuff links were engraved with a crest. I wondered if there was a bat on it.

  Nancy’s mother giggled like a twelve-year-old and her father gave Ian a second look. It wasn’t what Ian said, it was the way he said it, as if he’d met the world’s most fascinating people and found you the most fascinating of them all.

  When we got to Nancy, she screamed a ladylike scream and said, “Hi, honey, are you über-thrilled for me?”

  “I’m totally über-thrilled for you,” I answered. “This is Ian Ducharme. Ian, meet Nancy-pants, now Mrs. Nancy-pants.”

  Nancy grinned mischievously and pulled me into a hug. She whispered, “Very interesting! So sorry about the table.”

  Todd greeted me with a terse and unconvincing “Hello, glad you could make it.”

  I looked at Ian, who seemed amused.

  Ian guided me into the crowd of guests, all in tight little groups, only opening when a waiter passed by with champagne or hors d’oeuvres. I was scanning the crowd looking for a friendly face when a brassy voice said, “Why, damn my eyes if it isn’t Ian Ducharme.”

  Gigi Barton, her beautifully angled face recognizable from photos in dozens of society columns, descended on Ian. A former model of indeterminate age, she wore her garish outfit with panache: a designer dress in a wild print of neon colors, blue eye shadow, fake eyelashes, and a mass of blond hair. Her signature look was layers of mismatched costume jewelry around her slender wrists and long neck. She was famous for saying that she’d rather invest her money in stocks, not rocks.

  Gigi gushed about a ski weekend at Ian’s chalet, asked about his beautiful sister, mentioned boating in the Aegean, and swore eternal love now that they were reunited. She embraced me as her new BFF and confessed that she no longer regretted all the wedding hassle, since we were there.

  Suddenly the waiters circled us. Other guests were drawn into orbit by the gravitational pull of our delightfulness.

  When it was time for the meal, Gigi said to us, “Where did they put you? Let’s sit together.”

  I found out exactly why Nancy had apologized about the table. My little calligraphied place card was on the table by the door used by the waiters as they rushed back and forth to the kitchen.

  “Well, this is a bitch,” said Gigi, observing the table. “It’s not going to do.”

  “Darling, please don’t concern yourself,” Ian said. “We are very happy to sit wherever there is a place.”

  “Lord Ian, you’re not sitting by the kitchen in my house,” Gigi said. She went to the raised dais where the wedding party was seated and grabbed her own place card. Then she spoke to Nancy and Nancy’s mother. The conversation looked quite animated, judging from the raised arms and dismayed expressions.

  Gigi teetered back on her high heels. “Things will be fixed in a jiffy.”

  She waved her arm and the head waiter was at her side. After a few words with him, waiters rushed to slide open pocket doors on a wall to reveal an intimate jewel of a room. All the guests at our table were moved to a table there. A waiter cleared Gigi’s setting from the top table and moved it to ours. Nancy looked momentarily upset, then regained her cheerful expression. Todd glared in our direction.

  An older man in an ill-fitting navy suit, his wife in a shiny polyester flowered dress, and their adult children and spouses tentatively entered the dining room. The woman said, “I’m the bride’s aunt Tiny. I guess we’re supposed to be here now,” she said, as if she didn’t know whether this was a reward or a punishment. Tiny was pleasingly plump, and I guessed that her nickname came from her small, birdlike voice.

  Gigi patted a chair. “Make yourself comfortable and let’s get acquainted.”

  “Hi, I’m Uncle Dill,” said the man. “Glad we don’t have to sit with all the fancy people.”

  Gigi thought this was hilarious. When she stopped laughing, she said, “Uncle Dill, you’re at the fanciest table of them all, so you must be one of the fanciest people.”

  It was like being in the VIP room of a club that usually won’t let you in the door. Gigi’s cellar was raided for her favorite wines, and the service was flawless. Our conversation seemed wittier, and everyone was instantly more attractive.

  Nancy’s cousins, who lived in Indiana near their parents, and I shared Nancy stories.

  Sharon, who was close to our age, said, “You know that her parents sent her to a speech therapist, right? They thought she had a learning disability.”

  “How much money did they throw away on that?” Aunt Tiny asked Dill, who shook his head. “Turns out that girl just liked talking nonsense, and she still does.”

  “That’s what I’ve always loved about her,” I said. “She’s like an impressionist painter with language, giving you a feeling of something’s essence.”

  Uncle Dill choked on his win
e. “What the heck did they teach you girls in that snobby school of yours?”

  Gigi kept batting her false eyelashes at Ian. I couldn’t tell if this was how the superrich socialized or if she was disrespecting what would have been my territory if this had been an actual date. Other than that quibble, I was having a great time. I smiled at Ian. He returned my smile, his dark eyes looking into mine, and I felt an understanding between us. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite identify the nature of the understanding. I hoped it was just a friendly connection.

  In the main room, toasts were made to the happyish couple. We knew because our table was chattering away when we realized the hall had gone silent. Todd’s voice, amplified by a microphone, said, “And we’d like to express our gratitude to Gigi Barton, who has been so kind to host our reception. Gigi?”

  “Whoops, that’s me!” our hostess said with a hoot. She stood up and walked into the hall. She waved to the guests and they all clapped, and then she came back to our table and kicked off her heels. “Now, Lord Ian, tell me all about your summer plans.”

  He looked at me and said, “I have intentions, but no plans thus far.”

  I turned back to Nancy’s cousins and asked, “You said she beheaded your Barbies?”

  Afternoon became evening. The band played, the dance floor became crowded, and the flower girl and ring bearer fell asleep under a piano. Ian and I danced with each other and with others, who all assumed we were a couple.

  Nancy insisted on having a slow dance with me. “Let me lead,” she said. “I’m so OD’ing on girly stuff I’m practically peeing pink.”

  “You look stunning today.”

  “So do you,” she said as she steered me haphazardly on the dance floor. “You were not supposed to show up the bride.”

  “I’m not showing up the bride. All eyes are on the bride and will the bride please not bash her guest into the waiters?”

  “Where did you find that guy? He looks like he eats glass and ravishes virgins for breakfast. I’m all goose bumpy.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d like him.”

  “I do. He’s utterly lustalicious,” she said. “Are you sure he’s not your lover?”

  “Ouch, will you stop stomping on my feet? No, he is not my lover.”

  “Have you slept with him ever?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Ha, I thought so, you dirty girl.”

  Ignoring her snipe, I said, “I live with Oswald, who is away doing reconstructive facial surgeries on poor kids. He can fix a cleft palate in fifteen minutes and sculpt a nose when a nose is no more.”

  “I riddle you this, how is a nose not a nose?”

  “When a dog eats it. Evelyn Waugh wrote a very amusing story about a girl who was too appealing until a dog chomped on her nose.”

  “So you’re sticking with this story that you’re shacked up with a surgeon?” She gave me a look, and, yes, it did sound implausible for someone with a history of dating unemployed arty types.

  “Okay, Oz hates weddings and he’s out with his buddies for the weekend fishing and drinking beer and sneaking off to a strip club.”

  “You could have just said so in the first place. Isn’t Gigi fabulous?”

  “Gigi is fabulous. How does it feel to be married?”

  “I am loving it so far. I’m going to go all Miss Havisham and wear my wedding dress every day forever.”

  “Excellent plan, and I had no idea you’d read Dickens.”

  “Don’t be silly. I watched a Dickens festival on TV when I had the flu. I think I’d like to be a pickpocket someday or collect bodies from rivers.”

  “You’re full of brilliant schemes today.”

  “Marriage is very inspiring. Todd and I have everything worked out on a twenty-five-year plan. Actually, his financial planner came up with the schedule and now I don’t even have to think about when to have children or what charitable board to join; I check the calendar and it tells me.”

  The idea was so hideous that I wanted to shake her until sense came to her. But maybe Nancy was the sensible one, while I merely la-la’d about with no concrete goals. “I hope it works out for you, Nancy. Make sure the financial planner schedules me in.”

  “Oh, absolutely. I insisted on girl-bonding time,” she said. “Now that I’m a wedding expert, I can help you when you get married.”

  I thought with horror about the year of planning and the enormous sums of money that had gone into this production. I imagined Evelyn Grant stopping the ceremony with a list of objections to the marriage. “I think I’ll just exchange oaths under the sky and hire a guy to play the ukulele.”

  “Every girl wants a big wedding. Every girl wants to be a princess for a day.”

  “I am not every girl,” I answered.

  “I don’t know why I am friends with such a weirdo.”

  At the end of our dance, Todd approached. I thought he wanted to dance with his bride, but instead he held his arms out to me. “Milagro, if I may.”

  Nancy smiled and skittered off with the best man.

  “Of course, Todd. Congratulations.” I didn’t like touching him. He was stiff and moved badly.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes, it’s a lovely wedding.” Todd and I had never been buddies, but things had gone downhill calamitously when he’d joined CACA.

  “It must be nice to be sitting at Gigi’s special table,” he said coldly. “Sebastian was supposed to be my best man.”

  I kept my gaze over his shoulder. Gigi had her long-nailed hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Nancy mentioned it.”

  “It wasn’t enough for you to keep my friend from being at my side, now you drag Gigi to your table to humiliate me.”

  I dropped my arms and looked into his face. He was one of those men you think are handsome because he was tall with sandy hair and blue eyes. But his features were blunt and his expression harsh. “I had nothing to do with that, Todd, and I had nothing to do with Sebastian dropping out of the wedding.”

  “I never liked you. You think that reading books makes you special. You’re not special. Your father mows lawns.”

  “That’s nothing,” said a boozy voice behind me. “My family made its fortune because people have to wipe their asses.”

  I turned to see Gigi holding a tumbler of amber liquid. She hooked arms with me and added, “Luckily, there will never be any shortage of asses, right, Todd?”

  He was speechless, which I found very rewarding.

  “I need some air,” Gigi said to me. “Let’s go out in the garden.”

  It was late and the overcast sky was a dark pewter color. The formal garden was perfectly maintained, with clipped boxwood bordering quadrants of lawn around a fountain.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said.

  “My pleasure. That toad has always rubbed me the wrong way. Good luck to Nancy because she’ll need it.” Gigi sat atop a ledge decorated with mosaics. “I’ve been married and divorced three times. What about you?”

  “Not even close.”

  “You aren’t taking Ian Ducharme seriously, are you?”

  “Ian and I are friends, that’s all,” I said. “He’s the second or eighth cousin of a friend of mine.”

  She chuckled. “Honey, a man like that isn’t just friends with a girl like you. But if you’re not involved with him, you won’t mind if I play through.”

  I didn’t need to ask what she meant by “a girl like you.” When you had more curves than angles, people always assumed that no man would be interested in a platonic relationship. “I have no claims on him. Knock yourself out.” Even as I said it, I felt a twinge of jealousy, which I’m sure was merely female competitiveness and nothing more. What did I care if Gigi and Ian got involved?

  “What do you do for entertainment, Milagro?”

  “I write and I garden. I don’t have a landscaper’s license so my work is smaller projects.”

  Gigi tilted her chin outward toward a magnificent rhododendron. “What do you think of th
e landscaping here?”

  “It’s beautiful, but it feels more like a park than your garden.”

  “Really?” she said. “What would you do?”

  I considered her exuberance and flamboyant style and began sketching out a dream garden. I didn’t think she was listening, but I liked being out of the hot, crowded room, smelling the damp coastal breeze, and listening to the rustling of the trees.

  She finished her drink, tilting the glass so that the ice cubes tumbled together. “Write all that down for me and send it to me, okay?”

  “Sure. Your turn. What do you do for entertainment?”

  Gigi grinned. “I take lovers, buy things, give to charity, play the stock market, and explore ways to stay young, honey.” She saw me looking for telltale signs of plastic surgery, and she said, “I prefer treatments other than the knife. I don’t like being cut.”

  “Neither do I,” I said as I thought of how Oswald used the scalpel on my skin.

  A chilly breeze raised goose bumps on my arms.

  “It’s getting cold. Let’s go back in.”

  Gigi was immediately subsumed by Nancy’s relatives and I went to a table with petits fours, handmade chocolates, and pots of tea and coffee. I drank a cup of tea and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Ian left a group of young women and came to my side. “You look as if your feet hurt.”

  “Nancy trod all over them. I’ll never let her lead again.”

  “Would you like to go?”

  We said our good-byes and business cards were pushed into our hands with promises of dinners, golf outings, sailing afternoons, and whatnot. People always thought Ian was one of them.

  “Here,” he said, picking up a party favor left on a table. He opened my clutch bag and, as he put the favor inside, noticed my phone. “Ah, so you have a phone.”

  “I don’t know why everyone is so surprised. I am not a Luddite.”

  We walked out of the house and waited for the valet to bring the car around.

  Ian began fiddling with my phone. “There,” he said. “Now you have my number in case you should ever need an escort again.