Mad Girls In Love (55 page)

“You'll look like a princess.” Dorothy sighed. “If only I had something dressier. I guess my suits will have to do.”

“They're perfect for a woman of your vintage,” I said. “You'll be lovely.”

The Pomeranians were scattered around the kitchen, some resting on the linoleum with their hairy legs stretched out behind them; others rooting for crumbs. It was a balmy night in the high seventies, and the back door stood open. The smell of wisteria drifted into the room.

I had just picked up a bottle of fingernail polish, to hold against the purple gown, when the phone rang. I barely glanced up. Dorothy said hello, then cleared her throat and held out the receiver. “It's somebody named Ian? He sure does sound spiffy.”

I set down the bottle with a clunk and took the receiver. “Ian?”

“Darling,” he said. “How are you?”

“It's nice to hear you.” I hugged the phone and began to turn in a circle, winding the cord around my body. Only the British could turn a two-syllable endearment into an erotic paragraph out of a D. H. Lawrence novel.

“I've missed you so,” he said. “That's why I rang. I've booked a flight tomorrow morning. My aeroplane should land in Atlanta around three

P
.
M
., or thereabouts. I've never been through customs there, so I don't know how long it will take.”

“You're coming to Atlanta?” I chewed my thumb, wondering if I could somehow arrange to meet him.

“Only for a layover.” He paused. “I'm coming to see you, darling.”

“Here?” I sank back against the counter.

“Tell me straight away if I'm being intrusive.”

“No, no. I'm over the moon.”

My mother was over by the door, fluffing out the purple gown. She didn't appear to be listening, but I knew better.

“I shall arrive in Nashville tomorrow evening. How close is Crystal Falls to Nashville?”

“Two hours. I can pick you up.”

“And miss your dinner? It's just not on. I've hired a car.”

“A limousine?”

“No, I believe it's called Hertz.” Ian paused. “I'll ring when I arrive. I've taken the last available room at the Holiday Inn.”

“I'll have my cell phone,” I said. “Call if you get lost. I'll come and find you.”

“In that case, I might manufacture a crisis. I've packed my ancient tuxedo.”

“It's not ancient,” I said. “It's lovely. And I can't wait to see it on your gorgeous body.”

“Bitsy?”

“Yes?”

“I'm crazy about you. Simply mad on.”

Again, I glanced at Dorothy, who had stopped fooling with the gown and was looking more horrified by the moment.

“I know you are afraid,” he continued, “but my darling, not all love ends tragically, does it?”

The question was typically British: he didn't expect an answer, and that was lucky for him because I wasn't prepared to give one.

When I hung up, Dorothy started. “All right. Who is Ian?”

“He's a book editor,” I said. “I'm trying not to love him, but it's damn hard.”

“Oh, my stars.” Dorothy sat down hard in a chair, her legs sticking straight out, and the dogs began to growl.

“What's wrong?” I hurried over. “Are you dizzy again?”

“No, no.” Dorothy impatiently flipped her hand. “It's just…Well, I didn't know about this Ian fellow. I'm afraid I've done something behind your back.”

“What?” I froze.

“You're going to be furious.” Dorothy ran a hand through her hair. “Do you remember the secret phone call?”

I nodded.

“Well, don't pitch a fit, but…I've invited Louie to the wedding.”

“Well, you'll just have to call and uninvite him.”

“I thought you said uninvite wasn't a word.” Dorothy fixed me with an innocent look. “Anyway it's too late. He's in town. He arrived this morning, while you were out shopping. He's—”

“He's here? In town? What a cock up.”

“That better not be a foreign curse word,” Dorothy said. “I am your mother, and the Bible says you can't talk mean to me. Anyway, Jennifer said it was perfectly all right for Louie to come. After all, he was her step-daddy.”

“A blip on the radar,” I said dryly. “Thanks for asking
me
.”

“You're welcome.” Dorothy gave me a cunning look. “It might do you good to see him again.”

“So we can catch up on old times?”

“Don't be cute. You can put him next to that English fellow and do a side-by-side comparison. I like to do that with cantaloupes.”

“These are men,” I said. “Not melons. Besides, I don't want to see Louie.”

“Well, you're going to. Not at the rehearsal, just the wedding. You know how he appreciates fine wine and food. He'll get a kick out of Jennifer's very formal, five-course meal.”

“He just
better not
be at my table,” I said.

Dorothy blinked.

“Dorothy?”
I cried. “Is he?”

“It's possible,” Dorothy said. “To tell the truth, it's a great possibility. In fact, he's seated between you and me. But if we get there early, I can do a quick switch-a-roo with the place cards.”

“Just pile on the agony.”

“Well, I'm sorry. But I didn't know about this Ian person.
You
didn't even know he was coming. And besides, you need to face up to the fact that Louie was your big love.”

“You make it sound like a one-time event.”

“Isn't it?”

“I hope not,” I said.

“You're such a optimist,” Dorothy said. “But don't worry. Just act ladylike and everything will turn out fine. That's what I'd do.”

When I turned up the road to Hammersmith Farm, we were still arguing about Louie. It was early evening but the sun hadn't set, squeezing its last bit of light into the deep bowl of the valley. I parked the Jeep far away from my daughter's BMW; then I gathered up the skirt of the long purple gown and arranged it over my arm. Across the pasture, at the base of a dirt path that led up the mountain, a U-Haul truck was parked at an angle, and men were unpacking folding chairs and carrying them toward the hilltop where a white tent had been erected for tomorrow's ceremony. From a distance, the workers resembled picnic ants.

I stuffed my cell phone into my evening bag. Sunlight glanced off the Swarovski crystals, sending reflected sparks across the lap of Dorothy's St. John. “You look lovely. “ I smiled.

“Thank you.” Dorothy brushed at the skirt. “I bought it at the thrift shop. The clerk said Miss Betty had just brought it in. We both wear a size twelve. Wonder if she'll recognize it?”

“I doubt it. You always look original.”

“That's because I am,” Dorothy said.

A dark green Jaguar turned into the pasture and pulled up in front of my rental Jeep. Chick, wearing sunglasses and a lightweight blue wind-breaker, climbed out of the Jaguar. He looked like Freddy Kruger, I thought. All that was missing was a ten-inch fingernail. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Miss Betty extended one pale hand. As she rose, her chin-length hair didn't move; it looked as if it had been shellacked. She was wearing sunglasses, too, even though dusk was gathering in the trees. Her frock was simple, a black sheath, with a cashmere sweater tied casually over her broad, fleshy arms. I looked down at my dress, then glanced over at Dorothy. Another car pulled up and three young women hopped out, each one wearing a cotton sundress.

“Wasn't this supposed to be ultra-formal?” I asked. “Or did I misunderstand the assignment?”

“You didn't misunderstand anything.” Dorothy's mouth tightened. “But maybe Jennifer meant we were supposed to dress
down
for the rehearsal, and then go back home and dress
up
for the dinner.”

“There's not enough time.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. “The dinner starts in thirty minutes. That's barely enough time for the rehearsal.”

Chick and Miss Betty were walking across the pasture. Miss Betty was wearing sensible black flats but she still seemed to be having trouble navigating. I wondered how I'd manage in evening sandals. A pasture required Wellies, not Giuseppe Zanotti slides—silver ones, at that. What had I been thinking? I knew the terrain in Tennessee, both geologically and emotionally, and I should have come better prepared.

A white Saab parked in front of the Jeep. As the people emerged, I saw a sockless man in brown loafers and two young women in splashy cotton skirts and denim jackets. A silver Mercedes angled up and Claude got out wearing a pale yellow shirt and navy twill trousers. He'd gotten beefy. His neck was burned red, and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes—the curse of all committed golfers. His blond hair, or what remained of it, was sprinkled with gray. When he turned to the side, I thought his nose looked rather beaked. The passenger door opened and a chunky blonde climbed out, wearing a black sleeveless dress. On her feet were low-heeled pumps.
Whatever happened to Candy?
I thought. Perhaps he'd eaten her.

“That's Samantha Cole-Jennings, Claude's girlfriend,” Dorothy said. “She's been in the paper a lot here lately, what with all of Jennifer's parties. The two of them are the
best
of friends. It just makes me sick to my stomach.”

From up on the hill, beside the path, Jennifer waved to her father. She was wearing a pink shift dress and pointy-toed brown flats. I stared through the windshield. “
That's
a sixteen-hundred-dollar Prada dress?”

“It looks like a Kathie Lee from Wal-Mart,” Dorothy muttered. “And her shoes are straight out of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
”

“So? I look like a female impersonator.”

“Yes, you do,” Dorothy said, “but a gorgeous one.”

With my mother's help, I managed to reach the hilltop without ruining my shoes. Several caterers rushed past us, holding cane-back chairs. Near the tent, three workmen were putting the finishing touches on a fountain. “It's supposed to pump out champagne,” Dorothy said. “Jennifer told me that it's modeled after a fountain in Disney World.”

“Actually, the original is in Paris, in the Place de la Concorde,” I said. “They used to execute people there—death by guillotine.”

“Well, don't tell Jennifer,” warned Dorothy. “She'll call you a party pooper.”

Stacked all around the fountain were boxes with André on the sides. Dorothy gave the boxes a dubious glance. “How will they get all that champagne into the fountain?”

“One bottle at a time?” I said.

“Don't be cute,” Dorothy replied.

In the center of the tent, which was large enough for a circus, workmen were laying down black-and-white marble tiles, forming a checkerboard that was reminiscent of the one in Honora DeChavannes's yard. All around the tent was an expanse of thick, cushy grass. It had been freshly cut, and the air was pungent with a sharp, sour smell. “It's sod,” Dorothy explained. “Jennifer said the gardeners unrolled it like it was a Persian rug. You can still see the grids between each square.”

As I approached the tent, a gasp rose from the guests. Miss Betty began whispering furiously into Chick's ear. The bridesmaids, in their thin cotton dresses, twittered behind their hands. The dumpy blonde standing beside Claude lifted her chin and smiled in triumph at Jennifer. A middle-aged woman with a Martha Mitchell bow in her hair rushed over, holding a clipboard.

“For those of you who don't know, I'm the wedding planner,” she said. “Which one of you is the mother of the bride?”

“I think it's the lady in purple,” said a smiling young man with curly hair. He pointed to me.

“Oh?” The wedding planner's eyelids fluttered for an instant, then she extended her hand to me. “If you'll just step over here, Mrs.—?”

“Bitsy,” I said.

“Well, I guess we're ready,” said the planner. “First, let's get the wedding party assembled.”

Jennifer, refusing to look at either me or Dorothy, turned sharply and made her way to the ushers and bridesmaids, who resembled the cast of
Falcon Crest.
She was followed by the curly-haired boy who'd referred to me as the lady in purple. Like the other young men, he was wearing a white T-shirt and chinos. “The fiancé?” I wondered out loud, my eyes going to the man's bare ankles, then up to his face. His thick, brown, curly hair fell past a pointed chin. His eyes were dark chestnut, almost black. And I could smell his cologne—Bvlgari Pour Homme—the same fragrance Louie had favored.

Dorothy told me yes and that she'd seen him earlier in Wal-Mart wearing flash-mirrored sunglasses. This evening, the glasses were gone, and he kept winking at the maid of honor, a brunette with dangly earrings who appeared to be enjoying the attention.

“Did you see that?” Dorothy whispered.

“Yes. Don't you wish we hadn't?”

The wedding planner lined up everyone in order, assigning ushers to me and Samantha, after making sure we were content to share the same row. Next, the woman paired ushers with Pierre's mother, a chubby woman with a round, pretty face. She was wearing a lemon chiffon dress and lots of diamonds—apparently she'd gotten the assignment wrong, too. Finally the planner got to the grandmothers. Then she explained to everyone how they were to enter and exit their rows.

Dorothy glanced up at the darkening sky and sniffed. “It looks like rain.”

“Oh, don't
say
that,” said the wedding planner. “That would be horrid, wouldn't it?”

“Ghastly,” Dorothy agreed.

 

The rehearsal took almost an hour. It was seven o'clock when we reached the country club and found Mack, who was standing under the canopy. Two bridesmaids came around the corner and almost bumped into Dorothy. One of the girls, a Heather Locklear look-alike, profusely apologized, then, eyeing Mack, said to her friend, “Gee, the clean-up crew is early.”

The other girl, a dead ringer for Madonna, rolled her eyes and laughed. “Looks like the janitor's got a gimp leg.”

“He looks creepy,” warned Heather. “Hold on to your pocketbook.”

“It's a handbag,” Dorothy called out. “Not a pocketbook.”

The girls turned and stared. “Excuse me?” said Heather.

“Only sixteen-year-old girls carry pocketbooks.” Dorothy sniffed. “Don't you read the fashion magazines?”

The bridesmaids made faces at each other, then flounced off, leaving the McDougal clan alone on the sidewalk. Mack swept open the door and said, “Ladies first.”

Dorothy stepped into the brightly lit lobby, but I hesitated. I hadn't set foot in this country club since my own rehearsal dinner back in 1971.

“Hey, Sis. You coming?”

“Sorry.” I smiled at Mack and stepped through the door. We caught up with Dorothy outside the ballroom. Dorothy straightened Mack's lapels, then brushed the sleeves of his jacket. “I had to force him to buy this navy suit,” she said. “But doesn't he look handsome?”

I said he did and kissed his cheek.

“Wait'll you see my tuxedo. It's got one hell of an inseam.” He winked. “Now, where's the bar?”

“Take it easy, honey,” Dorothy warned.

“Hell, I'm fucking middle-aged,” Mack said, laughing. “Leave me alone.”

“Your liver is middle-aged, too,” said Dorothy, reaching up to brush lint from his shoulders. “Besides, it's rude to guzzle up free liquor. Don't you
dare
have more than two drinks. Your sister's already made a fool of herself tonight wearing the wrong dress.”

Mack looked me up and down. “She looks pretty damn good to me.” Then his forehead wrinkled. “Does Jennifer have something against purple?”

“She has something against Bitsy,” said Dorothy.

We entered the ballroom. The same twinkly strobe light still dangled from the domed ceiling, turning in a counterclockwise direction. While Mack went to fetch our drinks, Dorothy dragged a chair over to a corner and sat down. I began to wander through the crowd. I spotted Claude's ex-wives standing on opposite sides of the bar—wife number two was glaring at wife number three, and number three was frowning at Samantha. Somehow they had managed to crack the dress code.

Then I found Mr. and Mrs. Tournear—the hosts of the dinner. I had intended to speak to them at the rehearsal, but they had disappeared before I could get to them. They were not standing in a queue, greeting their guests, as I had expected, but were huddled against the wall, sipping their drinks. Pierre's mother kept glancing from her yellow dress to the rest of the casually dressed women. Pierre's father towered over his wife, and I idly wondered if he'd bought his black suit at the Big and Tall Man's Store. I took a deep breath, walked over to them, and introduced myself.

“Oh, yes, I saw you at the rehearsal,” said Mrs. Tournear. She looked up at her husband. “Didn't we see her, honey?”

Pierre's father nodded but made no comment. Mrs. Tournear squeezed his arm and said, “I nearly ruined my shoes traipsing across that pasture. I wish Jennifer had warned me.”

An awkward silence fell, until I desperately reached into my old storehouse of Southern platitudes. This kind of talk was a skill I had honed during the years with Louie, attending carnival clubs and receptions. At first was I worried. It was a language I hadn't spoken in years. Fortunately it came right back. It helped that Pierre's mother knew the lingo, too, and in minutes we were discussing the versatility of toile. Soon Mrs. Tournear impulsively threw her arms around my neck, giving off heady gusts of bourbon and Escada perfume, begging me to call her Tonya.

I returned the hug, and promised to visit Atlanta real soon. “You're just delightful!” my new best friend gushed, and I was just a little sad that I now lived around the quietly understated British, with their passion for decorum. The only difficult moment came when Chick and Miss Betty stepped up to the Tournears. Chick's eyes were glassy and unfocused. Miss Betty smiled, her lips cemented in the corners. Her eyes were tilted into oblivion, the skin taut from one too many lifts.

“Well, isn't this a
nice
party?” Miss Betty said, focusing somewhere above Mrs. Tournear's head. She turned to me and in a thickened voice added, “I don't believe we've met.”

“But this is Jennifer's mother.” Tonya Tournear looked startled.

“She was just teasing,” Chick said, squeezing his wife's arm. “Weren't you teasing, dear?”

Miss Betty's eyes rounded, then she tossed her head and turned in a queenly way, as if to acknowledge another guest, but bumped into a table. She steadied herself, teetering slightly, then descended upon the bridesmaids, saying, “Thank you all for coming.”

Tonya Tournear grabbed my hand and said, “Can you believe that our children'll be married in less than twenty-four hours?” She began to weep. Then she laughed and swept her fingers under both eyes. “Oh, I prom ised Pierre that I wouldn't cry, and here I go. Tomorrow, I'll have to take a Valium. Not that I'm upset or anything. Well, maybe a little. It
is
sort of stressful. You know what I mean, Bitsy?”

“Yes.” I squeezed her hand. “I certainly do.”

 

I joined Dorothy and Mack in the buffet line. Steam drifted over the stainless vessels of creamed chicken, whipped potatoes, shriveled green peas. At the far end of the table, wedges of pecan pie, still icy from the freezer, were lined up. The crowd closed in, gripping their plates like steering wheels.