by Tracy Kiely
Harry sighed and took my plate, deftly spearing three large scallops from the hors d’oeuvre table next to us. After he handed it back to me, he said, “It’s because of this Peter fellow, isn’t it? Is it true you two are getting married?”
I paused in surprise, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Who told you that?”
“Elsie. She said it was a done deal.”
“She actually said that Peter and I are getting married?”
Harry shrugged. “Well, not in so many words, but she inferred it.”
“Implied it.”
“Whatever. Is it true?”
“Not as far as I know. Elsie appears to know more about it than I do,” I said with what I hoped was casual indifference.
“Well, are you going to marry him?” Harry pressed.
I made a noncommittal gesture. What was it about being in a wedding that made people feel they had the right to query you on your own matrimonial plans? Since Bridget had gotten engaged, everyone around me felt quite free to ask if Peter and I had any plans of our own. From my mother (who stated outright that I wasn’t getting any younger) to my sister (who kept hinting that I’d better not “blow this relationship, too”) to my boss (who flat out told me that she didn’t want me to run off and get married and pregnant and leave her “high and dry”), the subject of Peter and me was a popular one. The only person who hadn’t asked me about it was Peter.
“Well, if he’s so wonderful,” Harry persisted, “then why isn’t he here?”
“I’ve told you, he should be here any minute. His flight only got in at six.”
As if on cue, a tall man walked into the room, pausing uncertainly in the doorway. With his presence, the room suddenly seemed a brighter place. His dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends. His nose was patrician, his eyes were an unusual shade of amber, and he had a large mole on his right forearm. Not that this was visible underneath his tailored pin-striped suit; I just knew it was there. My heart gave a happy leap. Smoothing the folds of my navy blue sheath dress, I shoved my plate into Harry’s hand, turned, and rushed over to him.
“Hey, stranger,” I said as I approached. Peter smiled and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you,” he said into my ear. “Are people watching or can I ravish you right here?”
“People are indeed watching, but don’t let that stop you.”
Peter gave an appreciative growl but gave me only a chaste kiss. He talks big, but at heart he’s an old-fashioned guy.
Before I could respond with a kiss of my own, I heard a shriek of excitement behind me and was abruptly pushed aside by Bridget. “Peter!” she cried, enveloping him in a bear hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. Thanks again for coming: I know you must be tired.”
“A little,” admitted Peter. “But I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
“Did you get my fax?” Bridget asked.
A small smile played on Peter’s lips. “I did. Thank you.”
“What fax?” I asked. “Why did you send him a fax?”
“For the reading he’s doing tomorrow,” Bridget explained. “I sent him a copy and underlined the words that he needs to emphasize.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked. Ever since Bridget and Colin had asked Peter to give one of the readings at the mass, Bridget had constantly been on Peter’s case to add more “dramatic flourish.” She felt his usual style of delivery was too tame.
“They’re only suggestions,” Bridget said defensively.
“Bridget! Peter reads just fine!” I said. “It’s a church reading, not a recital of Cowper!” Bridget rolled her eyes at the reference but did not look convinced.
Colin appeared next to Bridget, putting an end to the debate. With his curly brown hair and soft brown eyes, Colin resembles an enormous teddy bear. He is six two, but he looks taller. This is probably due to Bridget more than anything else. Even in the spiked heels that she considers a mandatory element of every outfit, Bridget is only about five three. “Thanks for coming, Peter,” Colin said, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you. How was L.A.?”
“Great. The opening went really well, but I’m a bit jet-lagged. I hope I’m not too late.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Are you hungry? They have scallops, if you’re interested.” Peter nodded, and with Colin and Bridget in tow, I led him back to the hors d’oeuvre table where Harry stood, still holding my plate.
“You must be Peter,” Harry said, handing me back my plate so he could shake hands. “I’m Harry. I’ve just been trying to get Elizabeth to run away with me, but to no avail. I’m told you’re the reason.”
“Well, that and good common sense,” I added.
“Oh, yes.” Harry nodded affably. “That goes without saying.”
Peter looked blankly at me and then at Harry before shaking his head. “I think I need a drink before I can do this conversation justice,” he said.
Harry laughed. “A man after my own heart. Let me get you something from the bar. I’m in need of a refill myself. What would you like?”
“Heineken, if they have it, thanks.”
Harry went off to the bar, while the three of us tried to talk to Peter at once.
“How was your flight?”
“How are your parents?”
“Colin hates my shoes, Peter. I say he’s blind. What’s your opinion?” This last question was posed by Bridget. She twisted her leg out for Peter’s appraisal. We silently considered the item in question, a bright purple-and-blue-plaid pump, the heel of which was not only zigzagged (and green) but a good three inches high. I may have mentioned that Bridget has eclectic taste.
“I saw something very similar when I was out in L.A.,” Peter said wonderingly.
Bridget turned to Colin with a triumphant smile. “See?
He saw these in L.A. and everyone knows that L.A. is fashion central.”
“He probably saw them on a hooker,” Colin deadpanned.
“Colin!” Bridget yelped. “What an awful thing to say!” Colin looked as if he were about to apologize, when Bridget amended with a rueful glance at the pumps, “Okay, maybe they are a teensy bit over the top. But I had to do something outrageous. Tomorrow I’m going to look... well, I’m not going to look like me .”
Her shoulders slumped underneath her neon apple green dress (a fashion statement in and of itself) and she stared dejectedly at her feet. It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing. Colin smiled at her and grabbed her hand. “Honey, I don’t care if you wear a bathing suit tomorrow.”
Bridget’s green eyes glinted and I thought she was about to take him up on the offer when Harry returned. Thrusting a bottle into Peter’s hand, he said hurriedly, “I’d drink this quickly if I were you. Elsie’s spotted you. I don’t know if Elizabeth warned you about her, but she considers it her duty to, well... to test those who date the ones she loves. And from the look in her eyes, you are about to be tested.”
We all turned to see Elsie bearing down on us. Her silver hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun and her royal blue floor-length dress billowed out behind her as she skillfully maneuvered her way across the floor with the aid of a silver-tipped mahogany cane. There is nothing wrong with Elsie’s balance. The cane is just for dramatic effect, a bit like Bridget’s shoes. Nevertheless, she looked haughty and intimidating, like one of Jane Austen’s characters who make life hell for everyone else.
“Elizabeth!” she said crisply. “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your young man.”
I have known Elsie since I was nine years old and I still found myself stifling an urge to curtsy. I could only imagine what Peter must be thinking.
“Of course,” I said quickly. “Elsie, may I present Peter McGowan. Peter, this is Bridget’s grandmother, Elsie Matthews.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Peter said, extending his hand. Elsie took it and held it in her own heavily bejeweled hand.
“Elsie,” said Bridget, a warning note in her voi
ce.
“Hush, Bridget,” Elsie replied, not taking her eyes off Peter. Firmly holding his hand, she said, “You remind me of a man.”
I groaned. Elsie not only loved old movies, she considered them a mandatory element of any proper education, like history or algebra. Bridget shot me a sympathetic look and shrugged.
“What man?” Peter replied pleasantly.
Elsie’s blue eyes snapped. “Man with the power,” she continued conversationally. People started to gather around; they, too, were used to Elsie’s tests.
Peter did not miss a beat. “What power?” he said. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Elsie’s lips turned up appreciatively. “Power of hoodoo.”
“Who do?”
“You do.”
“Do what?”
“Remind me of a man,” finished Elsie, letting go of Peter’s hand with a snort of laughter. “I’m impressed, young man. Not many people know that one. For instance, I bet David here doesn’t,” she said, turning to her son-in-law. As usual, David had plastered his thick hair with products and was preparing to do the same to his liver from the looks of the very full glass of amber liquor in his right hand.
At Elsie’s challenge, I tensed. So did most everyone else, for that matter. When he was younger, David had been nothing more than a good-looking blowhard. His dreams of one day being a football hero buoyed him through any hard times and kept him upbeat. But once he realized that those dreams were never going to happen, he changed. His drinking increased and his moods became mercurial. In the early part of the day he was still the jocular backslapping friend to all—annoying but not threatening. However, somewhere between his fifth and sixth scotch, he turned nasty. Rather than a slap on the back you were more likely to get a punch in the face. Not an enjoyable prospect from a man who was six three and weighed somewhere north of two hundred pounds.
Luckily, David was still shy of his fifth drink. He threw back his shoulders and laughed. It was a sound not unlike a donkey’s bray. “Of course I do, Elsie,” he said. “It’s from that movie with... um, Gregory Peck.”
Elsie brandished her cane at him, causing David to take an involuntary step back. “Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “No! It’s from The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer with Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, and Shirley Temple.”
“Yes, I know, Elsie,” David said. “I was only teasing you.” Turning to Peter, he continued smoothly. “So you must be Peter. I’m David Cook. We’ve heard a lot about you. Elizabeth said you were out of town on business. What is it that you do?”
“My family runs a hotel chain,” responded Peter.
“Hotels? You don’t mean McGowan and Company?”
“That’s me,” replied Peter.
David pulled his drink away from his mouth long enough to let a low whistle escape from his thick lips. “Jesus,” he said. “You must be loaded, huh?”
“Uh... not really,” Peter said. “It’s my parents’ company.” He shot me a quizzical look and I shrugged in response. Among David’s many odious traits was an obsession with money, mainly other people’s money, as he never seemed to have any of his own.
“Say, Pete,” David continued, “why don’t we talk later about you guys using us for your landscaping needs? Given Elizabeth is practically family, I’ll give you a good deal. But then, maybe I’d better talk to Elizabeth first,” he said with a broad wink, “and find out how serious you two are before I start handing out discounts.”
My cheeks flushed. “I would never dream of asking for special favors for anyone, David,” I said as diplomatically as I could.
David threw back his head again and made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Oh! Watch out, Pete! Did you hear that?” he jeered. “You don’t even rate the discount yet!”
Beside him, Claire saw my flush and quickly interjected, “David’s only kidding.”
David’s eyes briefly glanced in Claire’s direction, as if surprised to find her next to him. “Huh?” he asked.
Claire did not answer. Instead, Elsie spoke. “As grandmother of the bride, I insist that there be no business talk tonight. Let’s just enjoy the festivities.”
David took a large gulp from his glass and shrugged his large shoulders. “Whatever you say, boss .”
Elsie’s eyes narrowed and her nose pinched as if suddenly assaulted by a foul odor. David missed the look, but Claire did not. Two red spots flamed brightly on her pallid cheeks. Glancing uneasily at Elsie, she gently tugged on David’s sleeve and pulled him away under the pretext of making an introduction. Elsie’s eyes followed Claire as she dragged her husband across the room.
Seeing her glower, Harry leaned over and said, “Let it go, Elsie. She’s a grown woman. She can make her own choices.”
“The man’s a jackass,” Elsie muttered.
“True, but as someone once said, ‘There is probably nothing like living together for blinding people to each other.’ ”
Elsie turned to him with a reluctant grunt of amusement. “Since when did you get to be so smart?”
“I’ve been taking a correspondence course,” he said, extending his arm. “Now, why don’t you buy me a drink?”
As we watched them go, Bridget turned to Peter. “Nicely done, by the way. Not many people know that movie.”
Peter laughed. “I don’t think anyone could hang out with you two and not know that movie.”
Bridget nodded. “Elizabeth has Jane Austen; I have Cary Grant.”
“Not tonight, you don’t,” said Colin good-naturedly. “Now if you two will excuse us for a second, I need to introduce Bridget to my cousin.”
Peter turned to me. “Okay, just so I’m clear. I’ve been here only ten minutes and so far someone has informed me that he wants to run away with you, a drunk I just met wants me to hire him, then I had to pass a test on old movies. Is there anything else I need to be worried about for this weekend?”
“Nothing at all,” I said laughing, hugging his arm and feeling warm just standing next to him. “The worst is over.”
What a whopper that turned out to be.
Chapter 4
She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
At the prompting of the waitstaff, we took our assigned seats. Bridget and Colin settled in at a table with their parents, while Peter and I were seated with the rest of Bridget’s family. I quickly introduced Peter. The first to speak was Bridget’s uncle Avery—Elsie’s oldest son and Harry’s father.
“Elizabeth,” he said as we sat down, “it’s nice to see you again. How have you been?”
“I’m fine, Avery,” I answered. “How have you been?”
Avery has a long sad, horselike face, salt-and-pepper hair, and slate gray eyes. Until recently, he ran the Secret Garden, the Matthews family’s business, with workaholic zeal. However, a stroke a few months back had confined him to a wheelchair and left his role as company president in doubt. Seeing him now, I was taken aback by his frail appearance. The stroke had severely damaged his once-lean, athletic body. His left side had been primarily affected, but his right side seemed just as weak. His whole body seemed to have simply given up. He was only fifty-eight years old, but he looked at least a decade older.
He produced a determined smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Getting stronger every day. I’m quite sure I’ll be out of this contraption soon.” He lightly slapped the arm of his wheelchair. “I owe most of my recovery to Roni, really. She’s been my angel.”
Roni, Avery’s much younger second wife, had been married to Avery for only a few years, but for most who knew Roni, that was deemed long enough. With delicately winged eyebrows framing sapphire blue eyes, a flawless complexion, sleek black hair, and a figure that simply has to be man-made, Roni is easy to hate. Happily, her monstrous personality removes any guilt one might feel about such superficial snap judgments. At Avery’s praise, her coral lips curved into
a coy smile and she patted his hand. “Oh, Avery, please,” she purred with false modesty. “I haven’t done anything special.”
She was right, of course. Bridget had told me that Avery had been forced to hire a full-time nurse because of Roni’s inability to be of any real use. In fact, she was so worthless that she was even staying in a different room from Avery. Avery claimed the reason for this was his recent difficulty sleeping, but no one believed him. While Roni’s unintentionally honest assessment of her nursing abilities was lost on Avery, it wasn’t on the rest of us. Claire quickly looked down at her lap, Elsie rolled her eyes, and Harry coughed uncontrollably into his napkin. Roni peered suspiciously at her stepson before continuing. “I just know that you’ll be up on your feet by Christmas, honey,” she said.
Only her brother-in-law David was impressed with her performance. He beamed at Roni with all the goofy admiration of a love-struck schoolboy. “That’s right, Avery,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be back at your desk in no time.”
“Well,” said Roni softly, fiddling with the tiny strap of her lavender sheath. The small movement brought everyone’s attention to one (or rather two) of Roni’s most stunning features. For a moment, I thought that David would fall into his lobster bisque, but Roni’s next words righted his posture in a jiffy. “That may never happen, if Avery decides to accept Landscape Garden’s most generous offer.”
Her words threw the table into stunned silence. The Secret Garden had been in the Matthews family for generations. The mere idea that it be sold—and to an impersonal corporate chain such as Landscape Gardens—was dumbfounding.
Elsie broke the silence. Slamming her spoon down, she bit out through clenched teeth, “I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly? Are you considering selling the Garden?”
Avery opened his mouth, but it was Roni who answered. “Well, yes, Elsie, we are.” She leaned in close to Avery and slid her arm under his. Avery shifted uncomfortably. “After Avery’s dreadful stroke, I thought it best that he concentrate on enjoying life rather than working so much. With this wonderful offer we could retire, travel, take it easy.”
