Say Yes to the Death

by Susan McBride

  “Hey, y’all better get moving. We still have pictures to do before we’re allowed to chow,” bridesmaid number eight drawled, shaking her nosegay of orchids in my face.

  I limped after her up the aisle as the groomsmen and bridesmaids paired up and pursued the blissful newlyweds through the sea of guests and toward the expansive patio where dinner would be served. I could see the cater-­waiters wandering about with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and my stomach grumbled.

  Forget the pictures! I was ready to chow now.

  My radar homed in on a bow-­tied young woman describing the lobster corn dogs with tarragon mustard sauce on her sterling silver tray. I was nearly there and practically drooling when Cissy snagged my elbow.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” she said as guests detoured around us, snatching up the lobster pops and the ever-­circulating champagne. “You left me to use the powder room. So how’d you end up in a bridesmaid’s dress and high heels?”

  I wanted to tell her that it was all her fault. If she hadn’t roped me into accompanying her to this wedding—­and forced me into the too-­tight Carolina Herrera dress—­I wouldn’t have ended up in such a pickle.

  Instead, I said, “I had a fashion emergency, and Olivia offered me a way out.”

  “A fashion emergency? You?” Mother sputtered and attempted to furrow her brow, but it remained smooth as glass. “Olivia told me you’d volunteered to fill in for a bridesmaid with pink eye. Why on earth would you do that when you didn’t even want to come? You hardly know Penny besides, although you did babysit her once when Shelby’s nanny quit abruptly. I think you were fourteen—­”

  “Mother,” I cut her off and opened my mouth to explain.

  Did I really want to confess that while helping extricate the bride from the toilet, my Spanx had snapped and rolled off and then I’d split my dress up the back?

  It was far easier to reply, “Olivia was right. She was in a bind, and I offered to stand in so the wedding wouldn’t be asymmetrical.”

  Cissy blinked. Then she put a finger to her chin and nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Now that makes perfect sense.”

  It did?

  Well, it probably made as much sense as the truth.

  My mother’s perfectly powdered face broke into a grin. “Oh, Andrea, how sweet of you to be so helpful to Olivia when I was getting the impression you didn’t like her. We really should snag her as your wedding planner before she’s all booked up,” she said and steered me toward the table with the placeholders.

  Had she inhaled chlorine fumes while sitting over the pool?

  “Oh, gosh, Mother, that’s so generous of you,” I replied, biting my cheek. “But Malone and I want to figure out the wedding stuff ourselves.”

  “Um-­hmm,” she breathed, and I could tell she’d already tuned me out. My mother squinted at the alphabetically arranged place cards written in swirly calligraphy. “Yes, here we are!” she said, triumphant, and plucked up two folded bits of fancy paper—­with her name and Stephen’s, I noted—­that had our seating assignments.

  I was hoping we were at a table near the fringes, somewhere that would make it easy to escape after I’d stuffed my face with free grub.

  “Looks like we’re at the table next to Vern and Shelby,” Cissy remarked, glancing in the direction of Table #3. “Oh, my word! We’re with the former president and first lady. Shelby said she had a surprise for me, and I guess this is it!” Though she tried to speak in a hushed tone, her voice quivered ever so slightly. Then she frowned and hissed, “Shoot! We’re with that smarmy old Lester Dickens, too. I swear, if he tries to grab my bottom again, I’ll stab the man with my steak knife.”

  The big-­time oilman had grabbed Cissy’s ass? No wonder he couldn’t keep a wife to save his life. Was this a recent offense or one that had happened when Les was married to the bridge-­playing Adelaide? I wanted to ask that very question but what came out of my mouth instead was, “We’re sitting with the former president?”

  Would he know I hadn’t voted for him?

  “Well, if you’d rather sit with the wedding party, I’m sure you can take Penny’s cousin’s seat instead,” my mother said dryly.

  I glanced toward the cluster of bridesmaids and groomsmen, who giggled and flirted as Olivia and her sidekick Terra corralled them for pictures. I found my mind flashing back to the kids’ table at Christmas dinners when my grandparents were alive. Back then there had been dozens of relatives who’d come out of the woodwork to kiss up to Grandma and Paw Paw; relatives I’d never seen again once my grandparents had passed. Was it horrible of me to confess that I hadn’t missed them a bit?

  I sighed loudly without meaning to. The table with the wedding party did look like a kids’ table complete with hair-­tugging and jostling.

  “Well?” my mother prodded.

  “I’ll sit with you,” I said and swallowed. Maybe the fact that I would rather break bread with Cissy meant I was actually maturing. Or else I didn’t want to risk being caught in the middle of a food fight again. (It had taken two days to get the cranberry mold out of my hair after the unfortunate Christmas dinner incident of ’95.)

  Unfortunately, Olivia saw me looking over and made a jerking gesture with her arm. Since we weren’t in the middle of Manhattan and she wasn’t hailing a taxi, I figured she wanted me to mosey over in my ugly dress pronto.

  Phooey, I thought with a frown, so much for sitting down, kicking off my heels, and eating hors d’oeuvres, which was all I wanted to do.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I remarked to my mother, whose expression turned sour.

  “You said that before and it wasn’t true.”

  “Well, this time I mean it,” I said and patted her hand. “How long can it take to snap a few pictures?”

  Ah, famous last words.

  Olivia, the evil taskmaster, had us trailing up and down the spiral staircase in the foyer and encircling the fountain in front (a quick grab from the best man kept the maid-­of-­honor from falling in). We bookended the bride and groom beneath the orchid and twig canopy out back and all but hung by our heels from Lester Dickens’s dining room chandeliers (there were three, and they were BIG). All the while, Penny’s bridesmaids kept glancing at me and whispering, “Who is she? She looks too old to be a friend of Pen’s!” I wanted to tell them that in ten years they’d all be in my (borrowed) shoes so they should stop with the tanning booths and start moisturizing posthaste. But luckily I held my tongue.

  And finally we were done.

  “I need some shots of just the bride and groom with their parents,” Olivia said, her eyes on Senator Ryan, who stood patiently nearby while his wife fussed with the boutonniere on his lapel.

  I was off the hook, I realized, and sighed loudly with relief.

  But before she let me get away, Olivia instructed, “Drop the dress and shoes at my office tomorrow morning, would you? I’ll be in at eight so why don’t we make it eight-­fifteen?”

  “Why the hurry?” I asked.

  She paused for so long that I wondered if there was something she wanted to get off her chest. “I don’t like leaving loose ends,” she finally said, instead of confessing some deep, dark secret.

  “So you don’t take Sundays off? Event planners don’t get a day of rest?” I said, because it sounded nicer than the devil doesn’t get a day of rest?

  Olivia made a noise of disgust. “People get married on Sundays, you know. They have birthday parties and anniversaries and fund-­raisers on Sundays, too. It’s just another day in my book.”

  Okey-­dokey.

  “Besides, Terra Haute doesn’t do Sunday mornings,” she went on. “So if I get in early enough, I have a few hours to myself.”

  “Her name is Terra Haute?” I repeated, “As in Terra Haute, Indiana?”

  “No, it’s Terra Smith.” Olivia waved a hand. “B
ut she is a Hoosier,” she drawled and rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure I can keep her much longer. She’s been with me for, like, three months, and it’s already wearing thin.” She gnawed her lip. “Although letting her go could get very messy.”

  “But wouldn’t that be good for ratings?” I said, a remark that Olivia ignored.

  Poor Terra, I thought, feeling sorry for the girl. She seemed hardworking and earnest. I pondered talking to her and suggesting she start looking for another gig.

  “So you’ll bring the dress in the morning or do you want me to show up on your doorstep bright and early to retrieve it?” Olivia pressed, like it was life or death.

  “I’ll come to your office,” I agreed, because I didn’t want to drag things out with her, not with regard to the bridesmaid’s dress or the conversation. I turned on a heel, ready to head back to Mother, when Olivia grabbed my arm.

  “Wait, Andy, I just wanted to say that I”—­she glanced toward the waiting senator and his wife again—­“that I can’t always do what’s right and I can’t always please everyone, can I? I have to look out for myself and sometimes that makes me a little too—­” She stopped abruptly and pushed her lips together as if reconsidering.

  Too what?

  Bitchy? Annoying? Rude? Selfish?

  Pick one, I mused, wondering if La Belle from Hell was about to say she was sorry.

  I looked around to see if she was being dramatic for the camera, but I didn’t spot the tattooed camera guy—­Pete, she’d called him—­who’d been hanging over her shoulder when she’d yelled at Millie earlier.

  Finally, I prodded, “You’ve been a little too what, Olivia?”

  She glanced around her and muttered, “Forget it. Go back to Cissy and put on your feed bag. Just don’t get anything on the dress, or I’ll bill you for the dry-­cleaning.”

  The annoying smirk returned to her lips, and she let go of me, walking toward Senator and Mrs. Ryan.

  For a long moment I stared after her, wondering if perhaps Olivia La Belle’s heart wasn’t two sizes too small after all. Had the guilt at her bad behavior finally gotten to her—­or almost gotten to her? Did she want to turn a new leaf and start making amends?

  But then I shook away the thought.

  I had no doubts she could play nice when it suited her. I would bet even Attila the Hun had his moments. But Olivia was a Mean Girl to the bone and, as any Hockaday grad worth her trust fund knew, that kind of mean was forever.

  Chapter 6

  By the time I made it back to Cissy, who’d taken her seat at Table #3, my stomach noisily groaned. I slid into the empty chair between my mother and an elderly man whose much younger blond and bejeweled wife kept nudging him awake. The cater-­waiters had begun serving the salad—­oh, yum, spinach with crumbled feta, cranberries, red onions, and raspberry vinaigrette!—­and I dug into my plate as fast as I could pick up a fork. I’d barely digested the fact that Cissy was sitting next to the former president until their conversation invaded my brain.

  “I heard that you’ve taken up painting,” my mother was saying between nibbles of salad and sips of champagne. “Do you use those paint-­by-­number kits or just do it free-­hand?”

  Lord have mercy.

  I tried hard to tune out their conversation and was ever-­so-­grateful for the narcoleptic fellow on my left. No need to waste chitchat on him while he was snoring. Instead, I listened to the string quartet that had relocated to the patio. As they wrapped up a Beethoven sonata, they segued into a classy bit of fanfare, and I sat up straighter, seeing Olivia take center stage to introduce the bride and groom.

  “It is my immense pleasure,” she said into a wireless microphone, her voice booming from hidden speakers, “to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Jeff W. Tripplehorn, Junior!”

  I shook my head, thinking of poor little Iggy Tripplehorn. His only hope for avoiding getting teased big-­time was if Senator Ryan won the presidency and Iggy got Secret Service detail.

  “Thank you so much for coming today,” I heard the bride and groom saying right and left as they meandered through the twenty-­odd tables, pausing now and then for hugs or air kisses.

  Dusk had fallen, and the fairy lights winked around me like lightning bugs. Candelabra centerpieces had been lit upon the tables, and there was a soft golden glow all around. I found myself wishing Malone were with me instead of my mother. The atmosphere was rather romantic, and I got a flutter in my chest, imagining what my big day would be like. I wasn’t a girl who’d spent her life cutting pictures of frothy white gowns or floral arrangements out of magazines. I didn’t know what I wanted in terms of guests, food, or flowers. I wasn’t my mother. I didn’t have a detailed plan for everything. As I’d told Cissy earlier, Brian and I hadn’t made any decisions. Whatever we ended up doing, we’d figure out together.

  “Hey, Andy, thanks for everything,” Penny Ryan—­er, Tripplehorn—­said, bending low beside my chair. She squeezed my shoulder lightly. “You saved my ass today. Literally.”

  I smiled and told her, “Consider it a wedding gift.”

  As they walked away, my mother leaned over, pushing aside the giant butterfly on my shoulder to whisper, “I hope she’s as over the moon about my gift. I got her the newest Dyson. Shelby said it’s what she wanted most on her bridal registry, though God knows why. She could hire someone to sweep her rugs for her. I just don’t understand kids these days.”

  “You got her a vacuum cleaner?” I said and grinned. “That sucks.”

  My mother frowned.

  “It’s a joke,” I explained, though clearly one lost on Mother.

  “Ha ha,” Cissy replied stiffly and gave me a look that I interpreted as, How on earth did I spawn you?

  Well, my father would have laughed, I thought, and I grabbed the glass of bubbly near my plate. He’d shared my sense of humor.

  “Down the hatch,” I murmured and took a long chug that ended up draining my flute. It was sweet and dry, and it hit the spot.

  I glanced across the table at Lester Dickens, who smiled and winked.

  Yuck. His grin caused the champagne to curdle in my stomach.

  The newlyweds finished making the rounds, and I watched the groom escort his bride back to their private table, pulling out her chair. I saw his hand graze her belly as she settled down, and he planted a kiss on her head. What a sweet and gentle gesture. I felt a lump grow in my throat. As I cleared it away, I woke up the sleeping octogenarian to my left.

  “Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear,” he murmured before his eyes quickly closed again.

  I glanced at the heavily made-­up blonde on his other side, sure that her attraction to him had not been his sparkling personality. Did trophy wives marry for anything but money?

  Senator Ryan detoured to our table, making a beeline toward the ex-­president and former first lady. He was a nice-­looking man with sandy-­colored hair going gray at the temples, kept short to remind voters of his long-­ago stint in the military. He had craggy features, wide-­set blue eyes, and an “aw, shucks” grin. I knew my mother and the rest of the Highland Park matrons were totally smitten. Even the normally sensible Sandy Beck had remarked on more than one occasion before the last elections, “I don’t care what the man’s selling, I’m buying!”

  I wasn’t so convinced. Seemed to me that most elected officials these days said one thing and did another. Kind of like the social climbers I’d known at prep school. Come to think of it, more than a few of those girls had ended up as arm candy for politicians, and one had made a run for mayor of Highland Park.

  “Shelby and I so appreciate ya’ll coming to celebrate Penny’s marriage with us,” Vernon Ryan said to the rest of the table after making small-­talk with the former president. But the senator’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked flushed and dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a pressed handkerchief.

  “Vernon,
you must be relieved now that the knot is tied and you’ve got a legitimate grandbaby on the way,” my mother said in her typical unabashed way.

  Senator Ryan nodded as he shoved the hankie into his breast pocket. “Yes, we’re thrilled,” he murmured. “Good to see you again, Cissy.”

  But he didn’t appear thrilled, more like wrung out, I mused, and I wondered if he was worried about the press getting wind of Penny’s condition. I wasn’t sure if his fans—­er, his constituents—­would care now that the knot was tied, as my mother had put it. People seemed to have greater tolerance for “mistakes” made by the children of public figures as opposed to the sins of their fathers.

  Before Vernon Ryan retreated to join his wife—­who was giving him a “hurry up” look—­Lester Dickens reached out to catch his arm.

  “Congratulations, Vern, old boy,” Dickens said in his folksy twang. “Now you can put all this cockamamie wedding crap behind ya—­and I mean all of it—­and get your head back into the game. We’ll talk soon, right? ’Cause we’ve got a lot of work to do before November.”

  “Sure thing, Les,” the senator said, giving Dickens a tight smile before he moseyed off to the missus and settled down beside her.

  “Damned fool,” I heard Lester Dickens mutter as he stared at the senator’s retreating back. When he turned his head and caught me watching him, he reached for the bread basket, snatched up a roll, and viciously buttered it. “A man can’t reach his full potential when he’s distracted by women and babies,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Les, it was so kind of you to offer up your home for the wedding,” the former first lady remarked to the oilman, clearly attempting to engage him. “The grounds are remarkable. Is it still on the market?”

  Dickens set down the roll on his bread plate and dusted off his hands. “Yes, ma’am, it is, and I’d sure like to get her off my hands. You happen to know anyone interested in a prime piece of real estate?”