by Anne George
"Meg Bryan!" a voice hissed loudly. Meg and I both jumped and turned to see a very blond, very elegant-looking middle-aged woman in a yellow suit advancing on us. She was gripping a stick of celery, and from the look on her face, had it been a knife, Meg Bryan would have been in trouble.
"Hello, Camille," Meg said.
"You bitch." The woman thrust the celery at Meg, who automatically reached out and took it. "Stick it!" With that, she turned and stalked toward the door.
"What in the world?" I was so startled, it took me a moment to speak.
"A dissatisfied client. It happens." Meg's face was pink, but she calmly opened her purse and dropped the celery into it. "I always forget that Birmingham is beautiful," she said, looking down at the city and deliberately changing the subject.
"I do, too," I admitted, looking around to see if any more dissatisfied clients were approaching us wielding vegetables.
"It's just so different from South Alabama. The vegetation. Everything."
"You're from Fairhope?" I watched the woman Meg had addressed as Camille disappear through the door.
Meg nodded. "Right on Mobile Bay. Lived there all my life."
"That's beautiful, too."
"Yes, it is. Sometimes I think it's too beautiful. Makes me not want to leave. And I do have to leave to do research. I'm a genealogist."
"That's interesting. You know all about your family tree, then."
"Sometimes I think I know about everybody's family tree." Meg Bryan smiled. "Which is what caused the little scene a moment ago. I'm a professional genealogist, and Camille Atchison had me doing some research for her. Obviously, she didn't like my findings."
"Obviously." I thought of the anger on the woman's face.
Meg continued, "While I'm here, I'm going to Samford University and the Birmingham Public Library to do some work. Both of them are excellent research centers. Are you familiar with the Southern History Department at the library?"
"My first job was there," I said. "You're going to be rambling through some of the stuff I filed forty years ago."
"Oh, most of it is on computer now. You can just pull it right up."
"Un huh," I said, suddenly feeling a hundred years old.
"And my last computer is so small it's no problem to carry. Fits in my briefcase. The genealogy program I use is pretty good, too. DOS based, which is fine. I'm writing a new Windows one that's better, though."
"Un huh." I looked at Meg Bryan, who seemed to have sloughed about twenty years. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were still flushed from the Camille incident.
"I tell you, Mrs. Hollowell, the world of genealogy is a dog-eat-dog world. You know?"
"I never thought about it before," I admitted. "But I think you may be right."
"Well, it is. Dog-eat-dog."
"But you enjoy it?"
"I'm a big dog."
And I believed her. This frail old lady had suddenly become Jessica Tandy with an overlay of pit bull, eyes narrowed and lips curled. I had been about to ask her what, specifically, had made Camille Atchison so angry, but decided it was none of my business and that she would tell me so, politely, but in no uncertain terms.
"For instance," she continued as we worked our way to the buffet table, "suppose you find Henry Hudson's maternal great grandfather. Absolutely perfect documentation. You better guard it like a setting hen or somebody'11 steal the nest egg. You know what I mean?"
I had no idea what she meant. Why would anybody be looking for Henry Hudson's maternal great grandfather? I nodded politely, though.
"Not just amateurs, either. Professionals. Are you a DAR, Mrs. Hollowell?"
"I don't think so."
' 'The Daughters of the American Revolution. Are you a member?"
"No."
"Oh, you should be. Your maiden name was Tate, wasn't it?"
I nodded.
"Incredible!"
"It's a fairly common name around here."
"I meant the cake." Meg Bryan stopped. "Would you look at that!"
In sixty years of attending weddings, I had never seen such a cake. It rose in many tiers of white icing decorated with marzipan flowers the same pink as the bridesmaids' dresses. On the top were rubric lilies that matched the bouquets the bridesmaids had carried.
"Good Lord," I said, wondering if "baroque" could describe a wedding cake. "How are they ever going to cut it?"
"Very carefully." The groom had come up behind us. We both hugged him and wished him every happiness.
"A beautiful wife and two daughters. How could I miss?"
He had also just added on Sister as a mother-in-law. But I smiled and agreed that he would be sublimely happy from this moment on.
Henry kissed each of us on the cheek. "Aunt Pat. Cousin Meg. Y'all get you some lunch now."
We assured him that we would, and watched him greeting other guests as he walked away.
"Yes, indeed," Meg Bryan said. "Henry's going to be fine."
It wasn't crowded at the buffet table yet because most of the guests were still concentrating on champagne. It's at parties like this that I most regret being allergic to alcohol. It would have been nice to let the bubbly add to the celebration. On the other hand, I enjoy the food more.
I was piling my plate with fruit, sliced turkey, little quiches, and various salads when Sister came up.
"I know you're anorexic, but would you please make an effort. This stuff cost me a fortune."
I just grinned. "Thanks, I will." I took another
quiche. "Did you get your problem solved?"
"Bonnie Blue had another pair in her purse. They're a little dark, but God knows you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. I told Bonnie Blue, I said, 'Bonnie Blue, I can't believe you're this organized.' Can you, Patricia Anne? Believe Bonnie Blue's that organized?"
"She's organized."
Mary Alice turned to Meg Bryan. "Are you getting some of everything? How about the tortellini salad?"
"I'm fine. Thanks."
"Fruit? How about a peach? God only knows where they came from in March, but I'm supporting some third-world country this month."
"No, thank-you," Meg smiled.
"Go mingle," I told Sister, "and count not the cost."
"Count not the cost? Are you crazy? I may have to get married again."
"There's no one here old enough."
Mary Alice frowned. "I cannot believe you said that, Patricia Anne." She started to walk away and turned. "Oh, by the way, Fred's out on the terrace tete-a-teting with some blonde."
"There's no such verb, Sister."
"Well, whatever you call it, he's doing it." This time she kept going.
Meg Bryan laughed. "You two sound like me and my sisters."
"How many do you have?"
"Four. I'm the oldest. Our family name was March, so there's Jo, Amy, Beth—" She noticed the look on my face and smiled. "Beth lives in Hawaii with her husband and three children. The rest of us are still in Fairhope."
I grinned. "You scared me for a minute."
"How do you think Beth's always felt? The third daughter is Trinity, though. Papa named her. I think he thought that would be the end of it, but Mama got right back to her plan."
"They're fine names."
"Yes, they are. Trinity and I are both widowed now and live in the old family home."
Both our plates were full. "Tell you what," I said, "why don't we just take our food and mosey out to the terrace? It's so nice out there." Also no one out there was wearing a yellow suit.
"Fine," Meg agreed.
Mary Alice had been telling the truth; Fred was in deep conversation with a cute young blonde. Since my hands were full, I nudged him gently in the leg with the toe of my shoe. There was no reason for him to say, "Ow," and jump like he had been shot. I suggested later that maybe the champagne had lowered his pain threshold, but he said that wasn't it, that I had kicked him hard as a son-of-a-bitch.
Be that as it may, and it's my word a
gainst his, Meg Bryan and I were introduced to Kelly Stuart, a manufacturer's rep who called on Fred and who—big smile with Nancy Kerrigan teeth—just loved doing business with him.
"Oh, my, what wonderful-looking food, Mrs. Hol-lowell," Kelly said. "I think I'll have to go get some before I faint dead away. I'm famished. You want me to bring you a plate, Fred?"
"No thanks," Fred smirked, remembering to move his leg just in time. "I'll get something after a while."
"I'll see you later, then." She gave us a little wave.
"What does she sell?" I asked. Fred owns a small metal fabricating plant, not the kind of place where
Two
you would picture a pretty and flirty Kelly.
"Nuts and bolts. You know." At least he had the decency to look sheepish.
"You want some food?" I asked, taking pity.
He reached over and took a quiche from my plate. "That's good."
"Why don't we go sit on the wall? We can share."
"Do you mind if we sit at one of the tables?" Meg asked. "Heights bother me."
"Sure." Several of the wrought iron tables were empty, since most of the guests were still milling about. We settled at one of them and relaxed in the sun.
"This is some fancy reception," Fred said.
"Sister says she may have to get married again to pay for it."
Fred and I laughed comfortably, but I realized that Meg Bryan didn't know why.
"She's had three husbands," I explained. "All of them were at least twenty-eight years older than she was and rich as Croesus. She has to worry about money like she does a hole in her head."
"And Debbie's father?"
"He was the middle one, Philip Nachman. She had a child by each one. Marilyn, the oldest, is Will Alec Sullivan's child. And Ray belongs to Roger Crane. Ray's not here today. He's in Bora Bora or Pago Pago, one of those double-named places. He just bought a dive ship. That's why Philip Nachman gave Debbie away. Not the daddy Philip, but the nephew. Cousin. Am I confusing you?"
"No."
"You're confusing me," Fred said.
"Meg keeps up with names professionally," I said. "She's a genealogist."
"Is that right? I'd like to look up my family tree someday," Fred said, surprising me. I'd never heard him mention it before. He reached over and helped himself to a cantaloupe cube from my plate.
"Birmingham is a good place to do it." Meg looked animated. "There's a special collection at both Samford and the public library."
"I might do that," Fred declared.
"Mary Alice has been kind enough to invite me to stay over for a few days while I do some research. I'd be happy to show you how to get started."
"I know the names as far back as my great great grandfather on my father's side," Fred said.
"Then you're well on your way. Some people who come to me don't even know who their grandparents were."
The plate that was on the table between Fred and me was almost empty. I got up and announced I was going for a refill and asked if I could bring them anything.
"My great grandmother was born in Madison, Georgia. I know that much," Fred said.
I don't even think they knew when I left.
Inside the ballroom, the crowd was standing in a circle around the dance floor. The combo was playing "Wind Beneath My Wings," and Debbie and Henry were dancing. I scooted back out and got Fred and Meg. "You don't want to miss this," I said.
The looks on the newlyweds' faces said it all. Henry held Debbie lightly as they moved around the dance floor, and neither took their eyes off the other. It was possible, I thought, that this was the real moment of marriage. And then Richardena Tucker, the twins' nanny, stepped onto the floor holding a toddler with each hand. Debbie took one little girl and Henry
the other. And they danced, first separately, each holding a child, and then together with Fay and May held between them. It was, as Sister said later, a Kleenex moment.
And then the whole wedding party moved onto the dance floor. Haley was dancing with Dr. Nachman and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. I tried to remember what Sister had told me about him. Widowed. Mid-fifties.
"What kind of doctor is Philip Nachman?" I asked Fred.
"Philip Nachman?"
"The nephew. Dancing with Haley."
"Don't know anything about him, honey."
"Look at them. I think we're going to find out."
"Then let him be a sinus doctor. Please, God, let my daughter bring home a sinus doctor."
I laughed, but only at his tone of voice. Knock on any door in Birmingham, Alabama, and a sinus sufferer will answer. Maybe it's the warmth, the humidity, the lush foliage. Who knows? But a good ENT (Ears, Nose, and Throat) is worth his weight in gold here. Literally after a few years' practice. People in other parts of the country say we talk through our noses. Well, yes.
The dance ended, everyone clapped, and there was a general rush to the food.
"This would be a good time to speak to Debbie and Henry," I said. I looked around and saw Meg Bryan talking to Mary Alice. I caught her eye and motioned that we were going over to see the bride and groom. She nodded fine.
Debbie and Henry still stood holding the two-year-old twins, Fay and May. Neither Sister nor I can tell the girls apart, though Sister swears she can. She also
is sure Henry is their father, because he was a donor at the sperm bank when he was in college. Today I wasn't sure she was wrong. Henry's face was bent toward the twin he was holding and she was looking up at him, and the resemblance was eerie.
"Aunt Pat! Uncle Fred!" Debbie greeted us. "I wondered where you were."
We hugged her, admired her dress, and wished for her, with all our hearts, supreme joy.
"We'll have you over for dinner soon as we get back," Henry promised, shaking Fred's hand.
"We'll hold you to that."
A final hug and we moved to make room for some other well-wishers. As we started off, Fred said, "Wait a minute," and ran back and whispered something in Debbie's ear. As he came back toward me, he was beaming. "ENT!"
The next hour passed quickly. The cake was cut, the top tier saved for the wedding couple's first anniversary. At one point we saw Mary Alice in animated conversation with a man who looked like Father Time with a brunette rug. Ninety, at least, he wasn't doing much of the animated conversing, but he did look interested in what Sister was saying.
"By George," Fred said, "I think she's done it."
"Could be," I agreed. "I think Bill better hurry back from Florida." Bill Adams has been Sister's "boyfriend" for several months. A nice, handsome man of seventy-two, strong enough to dip Sister when they dance, he was spending the winter months, as he always did, in St. Petersburg. Absence was not making Sister's heart grow fonder. Even the Valentine roses and the card, "Come on down. With love, Your Snowbird," had not appeased her. "Whoever heard of a snowbird from Alabama!" she snorted. His ab-
sence from Debbie's wedding was probably the death knell for that romance.
Our son, Alan, and his wife, Lisa, stopped to chat for a moment. They were staying with us, so we would have a good visit later. Right now, Lisa was bubbling about the cake and Debbie's dress and had we noticed how well Haley and Philip Nachman seemed to be getting along.
"He's an ENT," Fred said. "Pray, children. Pray."
"He's at least twenty years older than she is," Alan said.
"At the pinnacle of his profession. Pray, children."
They left, laughing, and Bonnie Blue took their place with the announcement that her feet no longer had feeling in them and she would be on the terrace with her shoes off when we got ready to go.
A loud noise outside made the combo's ineffective drumroll even more ineffective.
"What on God's earth?" Fred asked.
I knew the surprise Sister had planned. I grabbed Fred's hand and started toward the terrace. "Come on, Bonnie Blue."
We rushed outside to see a helicopter hovering over The Club. As we watched, it
settled on the helipad on the roof.
"Is that the LifeSaver from Carraway Hospital?" Bonnie Blue asked.
"Of course not," I said. But her question was also answered by the bride and groom, who came from the ballroom followed by the members of the wedding as well as most of the guests. Debbie had changed into a short, pale-blue suit, but Henry was still in his formal wear.
"Good-bye!" everybody shouted as the newly weds
climbed the spiral stairs to the helicopter. "Good luck! Happy honeymoon!"
Debbie turned, looked, and threw her bouquet directly to Haley. Then they disappeared over the rooftop, and in a moment the helicopter rose into the air. We watched as it headed toward the airport across the valley.
"Wow," was all Bonnie Blue could say.
"Haley caught the bouquet," Fred said happily.
But I didn't say anything. I was too busy wiping the tears from my eyes so I could see the helicopter becoming smaller and smaller in the distance. Be happy, children. Be happy.
We dropped Bonnie Blue off at the church and headed home. I was tired, but pleasantly so. I reached over and patted Fred's leg. "You're a handsome man."
"Thank-you, ma'am. What brings this on?"
"Just thinking. And you're supposed to say, 'You're pretty good-looking yourself.' "
Fred covered my hand with his. "You are. You know I think so."
"I don't want any bottled blonde named Kelly bringing you food." I moved my hand farther up his leg and squeezed harder.
"Absolutely not. Scout's honor."
"Or selling you nuts and bolts." Farther and harder.
"Nuts and bolts are scratched."
"Or even smiling at you."
"No smiles! No smiles!" Fred was laughing and pushing against my hand, which had hit pay dirt. ' 'For God's sake, Patricia Anne, you're going to make me have a wreck."
"Just remember," I said, giving him a good squeeze.
"I promise!"
"Cross your heart."
"Move your hand, woman. The guy in that pickup can see right in here."
"We're so old, he'll just think his eyes are deceiving him." I gave him another tweak. "Don't be so self-conscious, Fred."
"Self-conscious? My God, Patricia Anne, you're groping me on the Red Mountain Expressway!"
