By Invitation Only

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “So you should’ve gone to the wedding.”

  “Please,” I said as though I didn’t care.

  “You always want what you can’t have, Diane. You’ve always been that way. You’d better do something, because Betsy Beyer’s got her claws sunk in deep.”

  I did care. I cared a lot. In fact, as the night passed, I could not believe how seeing him with that woman was eating me alive with fury. Was this love? The next morning, as I made so many biscuits and scrambled so many eggs I couldn’t count them, I was still furious. As I hugged and kissed each child of ours good-bye, I fumed deep inside. Later on, I was down at the farm stand, as usual, and Floyd came in with crates of potatoes and beets, opened them up, and started filling the bins. Dad’s recliner was there in the corner, a reminder that he was gone.

  “Morning!” I said. “Do you think we could get Dad’s La-Z-Boy out of here? Every time I look at it I want to cry.”

  “I could, but our mother would probably kill us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it smells like him and she can sit there and be with him, sort of. I don’t know, but my gut tells me it’s gotta stay here for a while.”

  “Whatever you say,” I said. “Who am I to disagree with your gut?”

  “Well, I’ve got two other things to tell you,” he said.

  “Let’s hear,” I said.

  “Number one. BJ said Betsy Beyer told her she graduated from Yale.”

  “Oh, la-di-damn-da.”

  “Well, maybe she misheard her. But I doubt it. Number two, I found Dad’s will. It was in his toolbox.”

  “I knew something would be overlooked. I think we looked everywhere else.”

  “Yep.”

  Floyd was standing across from me leaning on the counter.

  “How’d we do? Did we follow his wishes?

  “We did not do so great. Get this. He did not want to be cremated.”

  What? I felt my temperature rise in horror.

  “Oh, no! Now what?”

  “Too late to fix that one. We can keep that tidbit between us. The truth would kill Mom.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Oh, my God, I thought. Oh, my God.

  “Floyd, I can understand losing your reading glasses or forgetting to watch a show you wanted to watch. But a detail like this? I’m sorry.”

  “I agree. This is bad.”

  “This is very bad,” I said. “We’ve got to keep an eye on her.”

  “She’s losing it.”

  Chapter 14

  Susan’s Chicago Christmas

  “Alejandro? Am I shallow?” Susan said.

  “Amorcita? I am afraid so,” Alejandro said.

  I just adored Christmas. Really, all of the holidays, but Christmas was so, so special. I loved unwrapping each ornament and remembering where it came from and why we bought these particular transparent hand-blown red glass orbs or those silver mercury glass balls. The beaded glass garlands from Murano and the Jay Strongwater crèche set were so spectacular they gave me chills. My Waterford crystal snowflakes were treasures, each one kept in its own suede bag inside its original box. Every year I tied fresh satin ribbons through their loops, all of them cut at different lengths, and suspended them from the arms of my dining room chandelier. Then my florist intertwined gorgeous roping of specially treated pine and juniper over the tops of my mirrors and anywhere else that seemed like a good idea. And yes, I used a florist to decorate for the holidays. What else was I to do? Roam the streets of Chicago with an ax?

  But I digress. By the time the terrace was decorated, wreaths were hung, and the trees were up, even cranky Alejandro couldn’t be in a bad mood, and golly, he was cranky lately. All I had to do was put on some Bing Crosby holiday music and light the Rigaud Christmas candles and my darling husband would get sentimental and maudlin. He’d make martinis and tell me about his pitifully lonely school days at Le Rosey and how Christmases spent in St. Moritz at Suvretta House, with his parents and other siblings flown in from Argentina, were the only happiness he ever knew. I’d think, Oh, brother, saved by a chalet and skiing the Swiss Alps, but I kept it to myself. It was his version of “The Little Match Girl.” I’d never told him my stories about my horrific childhood, and on that odd day when he might ask me something about it, I’d keep it vague. Vague suited him. Like many powerful men, he loved to talk about himself. In fact, my past was of no interest to him. He cared more about the here and now. My job was to make sure our social life was interesting and to make our home beautiful. That was not a problem for me. But sometimes I felt like an actress.

  Our co-op, high in the skies of the Windy City, was filled with the smells and sounds of the season and thousands of twinkling tiny white lights. Best of all, Shelby and Frederick were coming for dinner. They said they had something to discuss with us. And I had swatches to show them for the bespoke linens that were to be made for the wedding reception. The rental companies had some nice things, but they couldn’t guarantee their condition. I had one daughter and this was her wedding. It was going to be the wedding of the century if it killed me.

  The door opened at seven on the nose. Shelby and Frederick had arrived.

  “Mom? Dad? We’re here!”

  I rushed from the kitchen to greet them. Chef Joho, who once suggested I convert my kitchen into a pantry with a small fridge, warming ovens, and a sink, had prepared a blanquette de veau for us. I’d picked it up earlier in the afternoon. All I had to do was reheat it, and voilà! A gourmet dinner would be served. I’d made a salad and sliced a baguette. And I picked up an Uncle Hansi Cake and some coconut cookies from La Fournette. We never indulged in dessert unless we had dinner guests. Although my daughter and her fiancé were family, I knew Frederick had a sweet tooth. Let’s be honest, Frederick’s happiness was of paramount importance.

  “Hello! Hello! Oh, your cheeks are so cold! Come in and get warm,” I said. “Hello, Frederick, sweetheart. Give me your coat.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Cambria,” he said as he unbuttoned his heavy long coat. “It’s freezing all right.”

  “Ghastly weather,” I said. “At least there’s no snow.”

  “It’s so cold today. I don’t think the thermometer ever got up to twenty!” Shelby took off her hat, gloves, and coat and unwound her scarf. “Brrr! I hate winter.”

  I took Shelby’s hands in mine and rubbed them briskly to get her circulation going.

  “Well, we’re going to have a lovely dinner and get you both all warmed up!” I said.

  Shelby wandered into the living room and looked around. Frederick followed her.

  “Wow! Mom! You’ve outdone yourself! Everything is so pretty!” Shelby said. “How many trees do you have this year?”

  “Only four,” I said.

  “It makes our tree look like Charlie Brown’s,” Frederick said. “Your home ought to be in a magazine.”

  “Well, thank you! You know, I do love the holidays. Can I fix you a drink? A glass of red wine? Although I should be making hot toddies.”

  “I’ve never had one. But I’m happy with anything,” Frederick said. Frederick was always game for something new.

  “Where’s Dad?” Shelby said.

  “In his office on a conference call,” I said.

  “What else is new?” Shelby said, picking up a bottle of Bordeaux from the wet bar. “Can we open this one?”

  “Why not? Frederick?”

  “I’ll do the honors,” he said. “Nothing like French agricultural products.”

  “I’ll get goblets,” I said.

  I took four red wine balloon glasses to Frederick and remembered that the first time he had wine in his whole life was with us, the night Shelby brought him to dinner at the club. He had surely come a long way from the peach farm. He could pull a cork like a master sommelier.

  “Let’s pour a glass for Alejandro. I’ll take it to him. Maybe it’ll entice him to hit the End button if he thinks we’re enjoying this without him.”

&n
bsp; I did just that.

  “Is this the ’85 Pomerol I left on the wet bar?” Alejandro asked.

  “Yes, it sure is.”

  “I’ll be off in two minutes,” Alejandro whispered when I handed him the glass.

  Works like a charm, I thought, and smiled at him.

  “Dinner’s ready when you are,” I said.

  We went to the dining room table with our plates of food and sat in our usual places.

  “This looks so yummy,” Shelby said.

  “I’m starving,” Frederick said.

  “Bon appétit!” I said and lifted my fork.

  I took my first bite and the stew was absolutely delicious. The veal was so tender and moist it almost melted in my mouth.

  “This is very good, Susan,” Alejandro said.

  “Amazing,” Shelby said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “What is the spice I’m tasting?” Frederick asked.

  “There’s a trace of nutmeg in it,” I said. “Isn’t it surprising? I think about nutmeg in eggnog. Or French toast. It’s so unusual in a savory dish.”

  “Unless you go to Africa,” Shelby said. “They use all sorts of spices we don’t, like turmeric and ginger and a lot of paprika. Oh, and cardamom, star anise, and saffron. By the way, we would like to go on a safari for our honeymoon.”

  “You would?” I said. This was news to me.

  “Why in the world would you want to go on a safari?” Alejandro said.

  Shelby said, “Because it’s exotic and we want to go someplace neither one of us has been before. We’ve done a ton of research. Everyone goes to Paris or the Amalfi coast.”

  Alejandro cleared his throat. “I don’t want to burst your little millennial bubble, Shelby, but everyone does not go to Europe on their honeymoon. A lot of people go to places like the Bahamas or other islands or maybe Cancún.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” she said. “If I’m a brat, it’s your fault.”

  “Daddy’s right, sweetie. We went to Bermuda on ours. Three nights at the Southampton Princess. Do you remember the disco, Alejandro? It was freezing in there and I was so sunburned . . .”

  “But you looked so good in that hot pink maillot,” Alejandro said.

  “Mom! Dad! Stop it! Gross!” Shelby said.

  A burst of laughter caused Frederick to spew a bit of veal, but he managed to catch it in his hand. I pretended not to see it happen. But now he had the dilemma of how to deal with it. Hide the meat in his napkin? Re-eat it? Try to be invisible and put it on the side of his plate? He chose the third option. I saw this in my peripheral vision and silently applauded his choice.

  “Anyway, there is something else we need to discuss with you,” Shelby said.

  “What’s that, sweetheart?” I said.

  “Well, Frederick and I have decided to move our wedding date up to January.”

  I gasped and Alejandro put down his fork.

  “You can’t do that!” I said. “This is my wedding too!”

  “Mom, no, it’s not! Hear me out. I’ve contacted the club and cleared a date. We can have up to two hundred people and they’ll take care of everything.”

  “Absolutely not!” I said. “Absolutely not!”

  “Shelby?” Alejandro said. “Are you . . . could you be, um, in the family way?”

  “Do you mean am I pregnant?” Shelby said with a laugh. “No! I am not pregnant.”

  “Then why do you want to ruin all my lovely plans for you?” I said. I felt like crying. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt faint.

  “Because it’s craziness! Mom, you are so over the top, I can’t stand it! I don’t want a million-dollar wedding. It just isn’t working for me. And you cannot really expect Frederick’s family to give a rehearsal dinner for so many people. Frederick’s mother is having a breakdown.”

  “I wasn’t spending a million dollars,” I said. I was spending a lot more than that. “And tell his mother I’ll take care of the rehearsal dinner.”

  “I don’t care if it’s half a million. It’s still too much. It’s a waste of money, Mom. Sorry, but it is. We’d rather travel with that money.”

  “That’s not an option,” I said. “I didn’t give you a budget and say keep what you don’t spend.”

  Alejandro said, “Darling, weddings are ridiculous. This is a bit like buying a Rolls-Royce with every custom upgrade under the sun, driving it around for one night, and then pushing it off a cliff. I agree with Shelby. This whole thing is out of control.”

  “You would turn on me this way? Alejandro! I cannot believe my ears!”

  “Mrs. Cambria? May I say something?”

  “No, you may not, Frederick. I am a little bit upset right now and I think I need to lie down. I’ve been going to weddings and sending extravagant gifts for the last thirty years and now I’m going to have mine. This wedding is not just about you, Shelby. You are not going to take this away from me. Excuse me.”

  I stood and left them all at the dining room table. I looked in my bathroom medicine cabinet, which was nicely stocked with antianxiety meds. What was the right drug to take so I wouldn’t kill myself or anyone else? Xanax? Valium? Ativan? I decided Xanax would take me to a better place. I could always commit murder tomorrow.

  Chapter 15

  Lowcountry Christmas

  “I am dying to call him,” Diane said.

  “Do it!” BJ said.

  My mother wasn’t much in the mood for Christmas, and I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t so happy either. After all, Pop had been gone for only a few weeks. Nonetheless, we put on a brave face, determined to get through the holiday with what joy we could muster. And I’d heard not a word from Alden. My mother continued to needle me.

  “Call him,” she said. “It’s 2016. Women call men these days. I see it on television all the time.”

  “I’m not calling him,” I said. I was still upset about his new flame, as though he was cheating on me. Craziness. “Hell will freeze first, then I’ll call him.”

  “Floyd said he saw him at Lowe’s,” she said.

  “And?”

  “He seemed chipper.”

  “Chipper? Alden is not given to being chipper.”

  It was Christmas week and we were baking pies in the commercial kitchen at the farm stand to fill the special orders we started taking right after Thanksgiving. Pumpkin, pecan, sweet potato, and apple pies. They were all deep dish, with my mother’s flaky crust that she twisted to the left for pumpkin and to the right for sweet potato, just to break the monotony of a pressed fork around the crimp. Of course, the top crust of the apple pies was latticework and the pecan pies had an extra braid of crust around the edge. It was those decorative touches and the extra crust that made our pies so popular. And that buttery crust (which was really half Crisco) was our justification for charging what we did. No one ever complained when the price went up each year. Our customers said over and over that they couldn’t make crust like Miss Virnell’s at home and how much they appreciated the generous filling.

  Currently we were up to our elbows in sweet potatoes, our old KitchenAid stand mixers whirring away. And our two refurbished Garland Sentry ovens could bake a dozen pies at a time while ten pots of anything else cooked on top. But we never had ten pots going at once.

  “Good thing we have our own chickens and mild weather, with all the eggs we use this time of year,” I said.

  “Did you add vanilla to that?” my mother said.

  “You know I did,” I said. “And cinnamon and brown sugar and grated orange rind.”

  We’d been baking together for decades and she still didn’t trust me to remember how to make a sweet potato pie?

  “I’m only asking because I might have added it in too.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “I know. I’m getting senile. I hate it.”

  My cell phone rang and it startled me. I pulled it out of my apron pocket. The caller ID said it was Susan Kennedy Cambria calling. I tapped the Accept button.

 
“Well, hello, Susan! How are you this morning?”

  “How am I? I’ll tell you how I am! Not happy! I am not happy!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  My mother stopped what she was doing and turned off the mixers and came over to stand next to me so she could hear.

  “Your son is turning my daughter into a socialist, that’s what!”

  My mother gasped.

  “A socialist? What do you mean a socialist?”

  “I’ve been planning Shelby’s wedding since the day she was born. And all through the years I’ve been attending one gorgeous affair after another. Now it’s my turn! I’ve been planning this wedding for months and now they want to move it up to January!”

  “January?”

  “And, on top of that, they’ve canceled the date I had reserved at the Waldorf and booked another date without even consulting us! You have no idea how hard it is to get the Waldorf ballroom for a wedding on a Saturday night. A lot of very important people have cleared their calendars to be with us in June. All my plans are ruined!”

  “Why does it mean that my son is turning Shelby into a socialist?” I really did not like her tone.

  I understood why she was upset, but the socialist thing didn’t make sense to me.

  “Because they want a more humble affair.”

  What was the matter with that?

  “That sounds sensible enough. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s all because you can’t afford the right kind of rehearsal dinner, Diane.”

  Whoa! Wait just a damn minute.

  “Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding, Susan.” How rude!

  “Really? How’s that? Seems pretty clear to me.”

  “Susan, it’s obvious to the entire world that you have a lot more money than we do. But there are also customary norms that have to be considered.”

  “Really? Such as?”

  “Such as, you don’t invite your entire guest list to the rehearsal dinner. It’s for the wedding party only. And unless you have two hundred people in the wedding party, there shouldn’t be two hundred people at the rehearsal dinner.”

  “I told Frederick and Shelby I would pay for the whole thing, but they are determined to make this a more egalitarian weekend because of your lack of resources.”