By Invitation Only

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  The crowd resounded with a solid “Cheers!”

  I had a feeling that Floyd’s toast might have sounded odd to Susan and Alejandro. There was a hint of opportunism in his phrasing. But I also knew that Floyd would not have meant it to sound that way. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t mean or even too cynical. The band resumed.

  “Nicely done,” I said to Floyd and kissed him on his cheek.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He shook hands with Alejandro and gave Susan a polite hug. BJ, who’d been standing by chugging a nearly empty bottle of André champagne clenched in her fist, was having none of Floyd hugging Susan. She moved in between them. She looked Susan up and down.

  “Really?” BJ said, as though Susan had some nerve to be as attractive as she was.

  “Really what?” Susan said, completely mystified. “This is my friend Judy from Chicago.”

  BJ was having none of it.

  “You really think? Ha!” BJ said, and Floyd took her elbow.

  “Come on, honey. Time for bed,” he said.

  “Don’t honey me! I don’t want to go to bed. I want to dance.”

  Thoroughly amused, Alejandro said, “Well, then, may I have the pleasure?”

  “Well, why not?” BJ said, and Alejandro led her to the dance floor and held her close enough to give her the Heimlich maneuver.

  “What am I missing here?” Alden said.

  “Drama,” I said.

  “Ah, my least favorite thing,” he said.

  I looked around to see Susan and Floyd over by the remains of Irma doing shots with Judy. Those girls were going to hate themselves in the morning.

  Chapter 6

  Moonshine and Make-Believe

  “This is exactly the kind of thing I feared,” Susan said.

  “Don’t be a snob now, amorcita,” Alejandro said.

  Earlier, before the toast, we were walking down the hard-packed dirt road toward Floyd’s residence when I was confronted by a large chicken directly in my path. It was staring at me. I stopped in my tracks and Floyd continued on. A few seconds passed, and as he realized I wasn’t moving, he stopped and turned around.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “That’s a chicken,” I said, and I knew he could sense the fear in my voice.

  “Yes, ma’am, it surely is a chicken.”

  “What kind of a chicken—”

  Before I could finish what I was going to say, he said, “Free range, I reckon.”

  He went on ahead and scooped the chicken up, walked ahead a few yards, and lifted the chicken over a fence, depositing her on the ground. Thank God none of my Chicago friends were here to see this.

  “All right, Molly, you behave yourself.” He was grinning from ear to ear. “That old girl wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “Oh! I wasn’t afraid! I’m just not accustomed to chickens—you know, or engaging in a Mexican standoff with them.” I could feel my face burning.

  “Come on. You’re two minutes from a cocktail. My trailer is just up the road.”

  “Oh! How nice!” A trailer?

  I didn’t think it made me a snob if I said that trailers were not for me, and not because I lived in a penthouse overlooking Lake Shore Drive. I knew enough about the weather in this part of the world to know that if you lived in a trailer, all it would take was one good hurricane to blow everything you owned to kingdom come. I was just a bricks-and-mortar kind of woman. I needed the assurance that my home was literally stable. And having a doorman was good too, that extra layer of security between you and the crazy world out there. A man like Floyd would have none of those concerns. I could just see him tying his trailer to guy wires and stakes in the ground and then holding it all in place with his formidable manly will and his bare hands if necessary. I had a quick mental image of him shirtless.

  Anyway, he held the metal door open for me. I stepped inside and hoped he didn’t hear me gasp. A dog of dubious provenance who would never compete at Westminster and peculiar-looking cats were draped over the well-worn furniture. It was clear that BJ was no interior designer and neither one of them were into high-status pets.

  I didn’t know if I should sit or stand or look around or what. The gun cabinet filled with real guns stood on one wall, there was a framed photograph of a Harley-Davidson over the couch, and an oak and glass backlit vitrine filled with trophies. The recliner was upholstered in camo. These things set a certain tone. I was just here for a quick shot of vodka. I wasn’t comfortable sitting down, making myself at home. I started getting nervous.

  “Just push Moses off the sofa. He thinks it belongs to him.”

  “All right now, Moses,” I said. “Time to move.”

  Moses picked up his huge head and looked at me with mournful eyes. He gave me a deep guttural bark, and when I jumped he put his head back down and resumed his nap. He was not impressed with my authority.

  “Shoo, kitty!” I said to the feral-looking cats in the club chair. They sensed I didn’t like them and slowly got up and hopped to the floor. I brushed away at the cushion as discreetly as I could and perched myself on the edge of the seat.

  “Okay, now, we got two kinds of vodka here. Double Cross, which is my favorite. And then we got a bottle of this stuff a friend of mine makes.”

  “He makes it? Like moonshine?” I’ll admit that was intriguing.

  “Yeah, a lotta good old boys make liquor. You know, as a hobby.”

  “Like craft beer,” I said, feeling pretty good at that moment about my knowledge of common trends and what went on among regular people.

  “Yeah. Let’s try a shot of each and you tell me which one you like better.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  Floyd looked at me as if my approval of his plan was a slight annoyance. He poured out a measure of each vodka into two plastic cups, then turned them around in an effort to confuse me. I laughed.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Knock ’em back!” He was smiling then.

  “No ice?” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “Ice dilutes the product and masks the finer aspects. When you tell me which one you prefer, I’ll give you all the ice in the world.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” I said. “It’s all in the nuances.”

  I brought the first plastic cup to my lips, smelled it, and took a healthy sip. I recognized the Double Cross right away, feeling that familiar tiny burn in the back of my throat. Yummy! We drank Tito’s at home all the time, but only Double Cross in public. Alejandro felt that consuming the finest alcohol was another detail that continuously reaffirmed his reputation as a connoisseur.

  I took a whiff of the second glass. It smelled sweet. Then I sipped it. It was delicious! “Floyd! This tastes like honey!”

  “It sure does. I don’t know how he does it, but somehow, it’s infused with honey. Isn’t that something?”

  “I believe I could be very happy with a tad more of your colleague’s honey-laced vodka,” I said, as boldly as a veteran barfly, which I suppose I might have been, but only in the most civilized manner.

  He filled my cup halfway and brought me a few ice cubes in another cup.

  “Thank you,” I said and meant it. I could feel all the stresses of the day evaporate. “So, Floyd, tell me about yourself. How did you come to—”

  “Live in this beat-up trailer? Actually, I’ve got a spit of land on the marsh that runs through the back of our property that feeds into Shem Creek at high tide. Shem Creek feeds into the Cooper River. And if you ask me, the Cooper River is the gateway to the rest of the world.”

  “And?”

  I held out my glass for a refill. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing and poured.

  “Well, my plan has been to dredge a bit and build a house over there, but so far I’ve just never been able to find the time to do it.”

  “The marshland here is very beautiful. I would imagine if you could build a home to face east and west, the beginning and e
nd of the day would be something rather spectacular to see.”

  “Yes. Yes, it would.”

  He looked at me, and it seemed for a moment he was surprised that I would find anything in the natural world to be aesthetically appealing. Or had we just discovered our first square foot of common ground?

  I think I laughed a nervous laugh then, because I was suddenly slightly uncomfortable to be what I think they call “doing shots” with my prospective son-in-law’s uncle in a trailer, away from the party given in my family’s honor. It was an ill-mannered choice. I would never have done this in Chicago.

  “I think that there is an awful lot to learn about the South and the way of life here. I mean, isn’t it odd in this day and age to be roasting a beast?”

  “Instead of what? Grilling a steak? Does this seem uncivilized to you?”

  “Oh, no! No! Definitely not!” Yes, it was uncivilized to have your food stare back at you!

  “It’s an ancient tribal thing. People still cook whole animals to celebrate all kinds of things. Weddings, funerals, holidays, war, peace.”

  “So, centuries ago, countries changed hands and they roasted a goat?”

  “Exactly, if you like goat meat, which I can’t say I do. Around here, pork is king. Or queen. But I guess you already figured that one out.”

  It was then that I noticed the trophies had brass pigs atop them.

  “And you won all those trophies for . . .”

  “Just making good barbecue, ma’am.”

  “I see. Well, we had probably better be getting back to the party before Alejandro and BJ miss us. But I just have to say, this honey-flavored vodka is really a treasure. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  He topped off my cup.

  “Oh, that’s plenty! Thanks!”

  “It was a pleasure. And if the kids don’t mess things up, we’ve got years of things to celebrate. Here’s to Fred and Shelby.”

  “Yes, that’s true. To the happy couple!”

  I went to get up, but the cushions were so soft and I was sitting so deep in the chair that Floyd offered me a hand, which I took. And just like in some trashy soap opera, when he pulled me up I landed in his arms. Only this time we weren’t dancing.

  “Floyd,” I said.

  “Uh-huh?” he said.

  I could feel his heart beat.

  “Oh, dear,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I think we had better go now.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, and for the briefest second in recorded time, he nuzzled his face at the bottom of my neck.

  I probably wouldn’t sleep for a year. I opened my eyes to see Judy CQ through the window staring at us.

  “Oh, God!” I said.

  “Busted?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it.

  “Well, hello there,” Floyd said. “We were just going back to the party. I’m Floyd, Fred’s uncle.”

  “Lovely to meet you! I am Judy Cunio-Quigley, the unexpected guest!”

  “Judy! Darling!” I said, knowing that moment I inadvertently shared with Floyd would be all over Chicago by tomorrow. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Hmmm? Shelby and Frederick told me I’d find you here.”

  Oh, she had the goods on me—or so she thought.

  “Not one little bit! I thought you were fly-fishing on the great frontier or something! How did you get out of it?”

  “Lauren’s husband broke up with that silly twit of a girl, flew out to Montana with the most divine Piaget watch for her, and begged her forgiveness, and all is well with them. Then his plane flew me here so I could be with you and Alejandro and our precious Shelby and Frederick!”

  “How wonderful! Well, we were just grabbing some vodka and ready to go back to the party.” I said. “Isn’t this fun?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m so glad I made it here!”

  “Let’s go, ladies. They’re gonna send a posse to find us,” Floyd said, having the presence of mind to get us moving.

  We left the trailer with the bottle of his friend’s lovely vodka and made our way back toward the party.

  “I’m going to run ahead,” she said, “if you don’t mind. Ladies’ room!”

  “We’re right behind you,” Floyd said.

  I hoped she hadn’t seen us in that very awkward embrace that lasted one second. Oh, forget it, I told myself and drained my cup.

  “What are you gonna do,” I said, feeling the vodka assassinate my judgment.

  “What do you mean?” Floyd said.

  “She’s got the biggest mouth in Chicago.”

  “Let her talk. Call her a liar.” Floyd said.

  “Good idea.”

  At first I was horrified by my attraction to Floyd. But then I found it curious that my hormones were equal-opportunity employers. Alejandro had one kind of appeal – international playboy meets financial wizard meets the man you could never fully know. Floyd was his antithesis. Just as I was BJ’s. It was true about opposites. But I would never touch Floyd. It felt incestuous at worst and undignified at best.

  “Floyd?” I said as we made our way down the dirt road. Even in the dark I could see that I was covered in cat hair. Probably dog hair too.

  “It’s not happening, Susan.”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t even say anything!”

  “Look, Susan Kennedy Cambria from the bright lights of Chicago.” He stopped and faced me. “I could take you back to my trailer and give you a night of magic and you’d be mine forever. But it ain’t right. We’re practically related.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?” It was the weakest demonstration of indignant horror I’d ever given.

  And he started to laugh. His laughter was like some Greek god shaking the heavens. He was right. I was the liar. And Judy had the goods.

  Chapter 7

  Shelby Has a Word or Two

  “I just wanted our cake to be special!” Shelby said.

  “You’re special! Who cares about the cake?” Fred said.

  Frederick and I were finished eating and it was time to cut our cake, which by the way, was pathetic, it was so blah. Three small tiers, white icing. Period. Done. No imagination whatsoever went into planning this cake. I really tried to hide my disappointment when I saw it. I mean, all they had to do was look on Etsy for three seconds and they could’ve bought a cute thing to put on top, like a bride and groom? Or a little guy on his knees proposing to a cute girl?

  We were making our way over to the table where it was. A while ago, when Mrs. Stiftel asked me what kind of cake I liked, I laughed. I mean, was there a cake I didn’t like? No. So basically, I had no idea what kind of cake was under the white icing. But I hoped it was chocolate. Who didn’t like chocolate? So my head was sort of floating over – other than the cake – what a great night this had been and I was thinking about my cake-love addiction when I noticed from the corner of my eye that my mother was completely wasted. Yes, ma’am. Toasted.

  And that’s not all. She was practically drooling over Frederick’s uncle Floyd! Gross! Did she think no one noticed? I needed to take her aside and tell her to bring it down a notch, maybe get her some coffee or something, but there were too many people between us, and Frederick was tugging on my arm, moving me along. At least my dad was off his phone. I always say that when he goes to that big investment bank in the sky he should pack his charger.

  So just as we were about to cut the cake, a cow appeared out of nowhere and stuck its big damn head in the tent, scaring me to death. I screamed and Uncle Floyd yelled, “Isabella! Stop right there!”

  “Love it,” Mom’s friend Judy said and took a picture with her phone.

  Apparently, the cow was named for a former queen of Spain and every hipster female baby born in the last ten years.

  It seemed to me that Isabella was going for the cake. I was t
errified. All of Frederick’s friends whipped out their iPhones and started laughing and taking pictures. Uncle Floyd rushed over and put his arm around the cow’s neck.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, attempting to lead her away.

  “Wow!” my mom said, marveling at Uncle Floyd’s prowess. I wanted to strangle her.

  We finally cut the cake and fed each other a bite. It was peach flavored. Of course it was! There were bits of peaches in the cake itself and slices in the jam filling. Oh. Great. Frederick’s whole family probably expected my bridesmaids to have peach-colored gowns and for me to carry peach blossoms. They’d probably try and put peach jam in goodie bags for all our out-of-town guests! I was going to have to put a stop to it or the next thing I knew Frederick would bring home a puppy and name her Peaches!

  “It’s delicious!” Frederick said.

  “Peach pound cake. Baked it myself,” said his grandmother Virnell, who was standing by. “I’ve always dreamed of baking your wedding cake someday, but since you’re getting married in Chicago . . .” She paused to deliver a dramatic sigh of disappointment. “I had to let that dream go. This was the next best thing. Yes, since you were just a little boy I had that dream.” Another sigh followed.

  Oh, fine, I thought.

  “It’s absolutely delicious!” I said because it actually was and silently said a thank-you prayer that she couldn’t ruin our wedding day with another ugly cake.

  “I love you,” Frederick whispered to me.

  “I love you too,” I whispered back.

  “Well, I’ll let you young lovebirds have your night. Time for the old people to go to bed.”

  Frederick leaned down and hugged her. He whispered, “Thanks, Gram. For the cake and for everything. I love you a lot.” He kissed her cheek.

  She smiled and said she loved him too. I looked at her and thought, Wow, if she had her hair done and someone did her makeup she wouldn’t look so decrepit. Frederick’s mother, Diane, looked very nice tonight, and it was easy to see that she had gone to a bit of trouble to get herself put together for the evening. Her dress was probably new. But his gram really looked the part of a dowdy farmer. To be fair, this was the one and only time I’d ever seen her without an apron. And his pop too. I mean, Pop was wearing clean khakis with a good-looking plaid shirt and nice loafers. Maybe it was something about his weathered skin and deep wrinkles, but there was no way you could mistake him for a doctor or a lawyer. He listed a bit from side to side like an old person when he walked. Well, duh, he was an old person!