Mad Girls In Love (56 page)

“It looks like leftovers from Rotary Club,” whispered Dorothy. “But I bet they jacked up the price for Pierre's family.”

Claude went by, refusing to make eye contact with any of us, but Samantha stopped in front of me. “Your dress is, wow, a real showstopper,” she said, arching her eyebrow. With one hand she reached out and grabbed Claude's arm, yanking him back. He glanced at me, then turned his gaze on Samantha.

“How sweet of you to notice.” I smiled.

“She bought it in London,” Dorothy piped up.

“Well, it's just so eye-catching,” Samantha said. “Isn't it, baby?”

Claude muttered a terse, “Nice to see you.”

Nice to see me?
Was that all he could say after twenty-two years?

Apparently so. His jaw tightened, then he put his hand on Samantha's shoulder and said, “They need us at the head table, honey.”

They crossed the room to take their seats at the table with Pierre's parents and grandmother. We found our places at the far side of the room. I was seated between Mack and Dorothy. A middle-aged couple who introduced themselves as Samantha Cole-Jennings's aunt and uncle were already sitting.

Toward the end of the meal, the lights were dimmed and a waiter rolled out the large-screen TV from the bar. Claude walked up to a podium and grabbed the microphone. His eyes flat and shiny as he strutted back and forth holding up a video tape. I remembered the time he'd brought Jennifer to the Nashville airport so she could fly to England with me and Louie. Even though Jennifer hadn't liked the UK, I would always be grateful to Claude for allowing her to come. “I'd like to direct your attention to the screen. I've put together a little video commiserating the lives of Jennifer and Pierre,” he said.

Commiserating?
Even Dorothy had picked up on the gaffe.

“The boy is pie-eyed,” she whispered.

After a bit of fumbling, the video was crammed into the VCR. Background music started up, Barbra Streisand singing “The Way We Were.” First, there was a photograph of a newborn Jennifer, then it faded into a photograph of a newborn Pierre. The pictures whizzed by, those misty memories of Pierre, Jennifer, Claude, Miss Betty, Chick, and Claude's second and third wives. Not a single picture of the way Jennifer and I were. Not a single picture to show that Jennifer
had
a biological mother. Dorothy leaned over and pinched my arm. “What happened to all those snapshots that I loaned Jennifer?”

“Shh,” hissed Samantha's aunt, shaking her finger. When she turned, Dorothy stuck out her tongue.

On the TV screen, Jennifer's picture appeared. She looked to be five or six. Her small face was split into a smile, and she was holding up a fish. Everyone in the room said, “Awwww!” and someone shouted, “Daddy took his little girl fishing. How darling!”

“That's
your
fish, Mack,” Dorothy said, nudging him. “Quick, stand up and tell them.”

“I don't give a rat's ass,” he said, reaching for his wineglass.

“Shh,” hissed Samantha's aunt.

“Hush yourself,” Dorothy snapped. “They can't reinvent history.”

“They just have,” said Mack.

 

The video ended with an engagement photo of the couple, then the toasts began. At first, they were lighthearted, and somewhat comical, but as the evening dragged on, they became increasingly long-winded and maudlin, fueled by endless bottles of house champagne and chablis, which kept materializing on the tables. At one point Miss Betty stood up, weaving slightly, and said, “I wish you all the love and happiness that Chick and I have had.” Then she reached behind her, groping for her chair, and sank down.

Dorothy whispered, “That's more like a curse.”

Chick staggered to his feet and raised his glass. “Pierre, I'd like to offer the three rules of marriage: Never tell her she's wrong, never call her frivolous, and never, absolutely
never
tell her she looks fat, even if she asks.”

The audience laughed, and several paunchy older men stood up and clapped.

Samantha rose from her chair, her right hand lingering on Claude's shoulder, and began telling how she and Jennifer had met last year in a local boutique. “We fell in love with the same Gucci bag,” she explained.

“Dior, not Gucci,” Jennifer called from her seat and lifted the satin clutch for all to see.

In a halting voice, Claude advised Pierre to take good care of his Jennikins. “I didn't always get it right in my life, but I tried,” he added, wiping his eyes.

“What a shithead,” Mack said.

Not to be outdone, Dorothy popped out of her chair before I could stop her. “I lift my glass in a toast to the groom, who is charming,” Dorothy said. “I lift my glass to the bride, my granddaughter, who is about to embark into marriage. And, Jennifer, marriage is tough. It's just damn hard. All you can do is take it one day at a time. Sometimes one
hour
at a time.”

She sat down with a flourish, then leaned over and asked, “How did I do?”

“Perfect,” I told her, squeezing her hand.

 

After the toasts, the guests began milling around the ballroom. My cell phone rang five times before I could locate my evening bag under the napkins, and several people from nearby tables glanced in my direction. After I clicked off, I located Mack and asked if he could take Dorothy home.

“Sure, but…don't tell me you picked up a fat-cat date tonight?”

“I'll fill you in,” Dorothy said, grabbing his arm.

As I walked off, I heard her say, “I'm so proud of Bitsy. Why, s
he's just like me.”

When I stepped into the lobby of the Holiday Inn, Ian was standing next to a metal rack, perusing the colorful brochures. Rock City, Dollywood, White Water Rafting. He was wearing a beige shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, black wristwatch, tan trousers, and Doc Martens. His thick blond hair tumbled down his forehead. My heart sped up. I suddenly remembered once, during a long, luxurious bubble bath in his narrow tub, wondering aloud if I'd been born in the wrong century. How lovely to have toured Cuba with Hemingway, I'd said, or to have lived in Tahiti with Gauguin. Now I thought to hell with artsy types and exotic locales. Nothing would thrill me more than one night in Crystal Falls with Ian Maitland.

He glanced up, and his lips spread into that wonderful, crooked smile and I ran into his arms. He lifted me, and the Oscar de la Renta hiked up as I locked my legs around his waist. With a laugh, he swung me around. He smelled of tobacco and Acqua di Parma. I kissed his lips, his forehead, his chin until his entire face was marked with lipstick. Then I leaned back and sighed.

“My love,” he said. One of his hands clutched my bottom, and the other was cupped behind my neck. Then we kissed slowly, luxuriously.

When we broke apart, gasping for air, the night clerk coughed and held up a key. “Toss it here,” said Ian. He raised his hand and made a neat catch.

“Your room is pool side.” The clerk grinned. “And please, no skinny dipping. It's against hotel policy.”

“We'll bear that in mind,” Ian promised. He put me down but we were still kissing when we stepped into the Holidome, a glass bubble encasing the pool and hot tub. Reluctantly I broke away and took a breath. The warm, steamy air smelled faintly of chlorine. The pool area was empty except for an elderly couple sitting at a table and a man swimming laps. The water frothed around him. Dear God, it was Louie. The first time I saw him, he'd been swimming in a hotel pool. I wondered if this was a portent.

Ian held up the key—202. “Shall we?” he said, then he fit the key between his teeth, and he lifted me into his arms again, the purple silk draping around us, falling over our limbs like water.

The next morning, I awakened to the sounds of splashing water. I opened my eyes, confused for a moment. Then I remembered where I was and stretched my hand along the sheet. The bed was empty. I pulled up on one elbow, wondering if I'd dreamed my night with Ian.

He emerged from the bathroom, trailed by wisps of steam, rubbing his head with a towel. “Lovely day,” he said, grinning. I had forgotten how cheerful he was in the mornings. “You look positively crestfallen,” he added. “What's the matter?”

“I'm worried about tonight. I don't know how I'll get through it.”

“The only advice I'm authorized to give is editorial,” he said. “But it might behoove you to float above the fray—a distanced, omniscient observer. Actually, I should say limited omniscient.”

“That might work.” I smiled.

“Say, I do like your hair. Scoot over, I brought you something.”

He unzipped his suitcase, reached inside, and lifted out a white box with Spode stamped in red across the lid. He put it in my lap and sat down beside me while I opened it. “Queen's Bird!” I placed the cup in the saucer. “Oh, Ian. How absolutely sweet.”

“It's not the same, of course; but still, you might grow fond of it.”

“I already am. I'll take it everywhere I go.”

“There's one condition,” he said, drawing me into his arms, taking care not to dislodge the cup.

“What's that?”

“You must take me, too.”

Rain picked at the screen in Clancy Jane's bedroom window. Deep in the woods, an animal howled, making the hair stand up on her arms. She'd been lying in bed, eating mangoes, surrounded by a dozen felines, but now she sat up, tilting her head toward the window. She heard the cry again. It didn't sound like a wolf or coyote; in fact, in all the years she'd lived on this mountain she'd never heard such a mournful sound. It frightened her—what if this creature ate cats? It shrieked again, and the kittens stood on their toes and arched their backs. Only Jellybean seemed unalarmed. Her paws were folded beneath her chest, green eyes focused on Clancy Jane's mangoes.

“Maybe it's a banshee,” she told the cat. Jellybean closed her eyes and purred. Clancy Jane set the mango dish on the floor, licked her fingertips, and rolled onto her side, dragging a pillow over her ear. From the woods, she heard another cry and wondered if she'd get any sleep. Tomorrow was Jennifer's wedding, and truth be told, she'd rather stay home, all comfy in her cotton pajamas, her cats perched all around her, waiting for her to open the bedside drawer and pull out the small tin of liver treats. She used to believe that her cats adored her, but now she had their number. Cats were in it for the food.

From the bedside table, the phone rang. No one but her daughter ever called this late, so Clancy Jane flung off the pillow and groped to pick up the receiver. “'Lo,” she whispered.

“Hi, Mama,” said Violet. “Hope I didn't wake you.”

“No, I've got insomnia.”

“Drink some hot milk and you'll feel better.”

“I'd rather have a Valium.”

“Too addictive.” Violet laughed. “Listen, I didn't tell you before because I wasn't sure I could make it, but I'm coming to Jennifer's wedding. My flight arrives in Nashville at two o'clock tomorrow, barring unforeseen complications.”

“When you were little, I never dreamed you'd grow up and say things like that.”

“I'm sorry. I'm still in my therapeutic mode.”

“Well, lose it quick. I can't wait to see you, baby. I haven't driven to Nashville in years, but I'm sure I can find the airport. What time does your flight get in?”

“No, that's okay. I've rented a car, and—please don't get mad—I'll be staying at the Holiday Inn.”

“You're staying at a motel?” Clancy Jane swallowed. “But I've got plenty of room.”

“Stop trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Then stop shrinking me.” Clancy Jane twirled the phone cord. She knew this was Violet's way of saying that she could end up staying at Cat Crossing, but she'd booked the room as an escape route. “By the way, don't expect a wedding like yours.”

“It wouldn't be a Wentworth event if it weren't pretentious.”

“Miss Betty wouldn't have it any other way.” Clancy Jane laughed. “Will George be coming with you?”

“We're an evolved couple, Mama. I don't need a man to hang on to. Besides, he's fencing our backyard.”

“You're getting a dog?”

“No.”

“Too evolved for pets, are we?”

“It hurt us too much when Bojangles passed on.” Violet paused. “How many cats do you have?”

“Four,” Clancy Jane said, her standard answer. No matter how many felines were lolling around the house, she claimed to only own four. Any more than that and people would talk.

“So,” Violet said. “When I see you, I'm not going to hear you say, ‘Why don't you visit more often?'”

Clancy Jane's put one hand over her eyes. Her fingers were sticky and smelled of mangoes. “Stay where you want. Visit when the spirit moves you to visit. It's your life, not mine.”

“Thank you. I've waited thirty-nine years to hear you say that.”

“Besides, there's a banshee howling in my backyard, and it'll just keep you awake.”

“A banshee?”

“It could be a coyote.” Clancy Jane peered out the window. The sky was packed with clouds, and she couldn't see the stars. The rain had slacked off, but the Channel 5 radar map had shown a jagged green patch moving over Kansas, Arkansas, and most of Oklahoma. The weatherman had predicted a downpour late tomorrow evening, and Clancy Jane hoped it would arrive after Jennifer's nuptials.

“Just because I'm staying at the Holiday Inn doesn't mean that I don't love you,” Violet said.

“Are you still harping on that?” Clancy Jane bit her lips. “I know you love me.”

After Clancy Jane hung up the phone, she snuggled beneath the down coverlet. The banshee cried again. It sounded a bit farther away this time. Perhaps it was on the move, bad luck in transit. Only God knew where it would go next.