by Tracy Kiely
Elsie fixed her daughter-in-law with a glacial smile. “I wasn’t aware that you were working, dear.”
Roni fixed Elsie with a frosty smile of her own. “I just want what’s best for Avery.”
David for once was at a loss for words. Finally, he found his voice. “Selling to Landscape Gardens?” he exclaimed, his usually florid cheeks pale. “But you can’t do that!”
Avery cleared his throat and spoke up. “This is all premature, I promise you. We haven’t made any decisions yet.” He shot Roni a quelling look. “And whatever we do decide, we’ll do so as a family.”
David was not mollified. He smashed his fist angrily on the table, causing both me and the silverware to jump. “You simply can’t sell the Garden. It’s preposterous!” he boomed. David’s devotion to the Matthewses’ business might have been more touching were it not for the fact that he was virtually unemployable anywhere else. David held his cushy job as vice president of marketing only because he was married to Claire. He might have been an idiot, but he wasn’t so big an idiot that he didn’t realize this simple fact. Claire said something to him under her breath, no doubt trying to calm his temper. For once, he seemed to listen to her. Taking a deep breath, he ran his large hand through his goopy hair. “Besides,” he said in a more sedate tone, “you know what they say about getting back to work—sometimes it’s the best thing for a recovery!”
Roni brushed aside these words with a lofty wave of her bright pink manicured fingers. The small movement sent a wave of Roni’s trademark perfume across the table—a cloyingly floral scent Bridget referred to as Nauseating Narcissus. If Roni was aware of the mounting tension around her, she did a fine job hiding it. “Oh, they ,” she said, snorting dismissively. “I’m so sick of hearing people quote what they say. They say all sorts of things that we really have no way of proving. For instance, they say that dogs can only see in black and white. But really, how do they know?”
Roni’s daughter, Megan, blinked and, turtlelike, raised her head from her salmon. “Dogs can’t see in color, Mother,” she said.
Megan was Roni’s daughter from a previous marriage. At seventeen, she was everything her mother was not, which, to paraphrase Jane Austen, was enough to alone recommend her. She had blotchy skin and limp nut-brown hair and was what is politely termed a “full-figured girl.” Megan also differed from Roni in that she was both smart and nice. But those traits are rarely consolation to an awkward teenager, especially to one with a mother like Roni.
Roni looked disdainfully at her daughter. “And how do you know that? Did you ever ask one?” Roni glanced coquettishly at the rest of us while she giggled appreciatively at her own cleverness.
“No,” Megan said, unfazed by—or simply used to—her mother’s condescension. “Their eyes don’t have rods or cones. Rods and cones enable sight in color.” She looked back at her salmon and took a bite.
Roni stared at her daughter for a moment, an ugly red blush staining her perfect olive skin. After a beat, she shrugged a tanned shoulder. Taking a sip of her wine, she said, “Well, whatever. Avery is not a dog.” Pausing here as if just having made a meaningful point, she continued, “And I think he needs some rest. He’s given his heart and soul to that business and it’s about time he gave something to himself.” Turning to me, she unexpectedly stretched out her hand in an inclusive gesture. “Elizabeth, I’m sure you agree with me.”
I did not voice my dissent, so I gave no offense. Privately, of course, I did not think for one moment that Roni was concerned in the least about Avery giving something back to himself. Roni was concerned only about Avery giving something to Roni. The Garden had a thriving and loyal customer base. When Avery took it over it was a small local business. But under Avery’s savvy business direction, it had been transformed into a huge and booming one. It had to be worth millions. Avery stood to become a very wealthy man if he sold. It was clear that selling the business was what Roni wanted. And Roni had an annoying way of usually getting what she wanted. I wondered what would happen if I actually voiced this opinion. For starters, Roni would probably stop seeking me out during family events. I didn’t kid myself that she liked me; it was just that other than Avery, I was the only one who wasn’t openly hostile to her.
Luckily, I was spared a response by the announcement that it was time for the speeches and toasts. Peter gave my hand an encouraging squeeze as I nervously got to my feet. With a shaky voice, I began the speech that I had been practicing obsessively over the last week. “Good evening, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Elizabeth Parker and I am Bridget’s maid of honor.” So far, so good, I thought, pleased that I had neither fainted, stuttered, nor burst into tears—all, unfortunately, actual events from past forays into the arena of public speaking. I took a deep breath and continued with my short speech. I explained that Bridget and I had been best friends since the fourth grade and that even though many things had changed since then—we no longer loved pink-bubble-gum ice cream or Corey Haim—our friendship had stayed the same. I touted her loyalty, her humor, and her sincerity. I also touted her horrific driving skills, specifically her cheerful disregard for speed limits. After all, it was only after she slammed her car into Colin’s that they had met and begun to date. I closed by predicting that they would have a long and happy life together, especially if Colin handled the driving.
Finished, I collapsed heavily in my seat, my heart thudding in my chest. The table was strangely silent and I wondered if I had inadvertently said something stupid. I leaned over to Peter and whispered, “What’s wrong with everyone? Did I say something wrong? Are they mad about the driving thing?”
He shot me a reassuring smile. “No! You did great!” Glancing at the rest of the table, he added in a low voice, “I think they’re still upset about Avery talking about selling the business.”
A bespectacled waiter in a starched white coat hovered next to me. “Dessert, miss?” he inquired, offering me a plate bearing something decadently chocolate.
“Yes, please.” He deftly placed the plate in front of me. “It looks delicious,” I said. “What is it?”
“Death by Chocolate,” he responded before moving away. Death again, I thought, sinking my fork into the gooey concoction. By my count this made the third time in fewer than twelve hours that death had been referenced. I glanced at Elsie, wondering if she had heard. The fierce expression on her face as she glared at Roni made me bite my tongue. Elsie had an impressive temper. I didn’t want to give her any ideas.
Chapter 5
She’s the sort of woman... one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing: and do it neatly, too!
—CHARLES DICKENS
Two hours later, I was seated on Elsie’s back terrace with Bridget, Colin, Peter, and Harry, watching the fireflies dart and weave across the wide lawn and breathing in the lingering fragrance of nearby rosebushes. As flashes of silvery water from the James River peeked through the trees, lazy images of the Old South (or at least David O. Selznick’s sanitized version of it) featuring chivalrous young men and demure ladies floated before me.
“Christ,” said Bridget. “I need a drink. Anyone else?”
Harry rolled his eyes at Bridget before turning to Colin. “She’s like a delicate flower, my cousin is.”
“Oh, shut up,” Bridget said, kicking him. “I expect you want one, too.”
“Ow!” said Harry, shifting his long legs out of Bridget’s reach. “Take those ridiculous shoes off before you hurt someone. And yes, now that you mention it, I do need a drink. You’ve no idea the intense craving for alcohol my lovely stepmother can inspire.”
Colin stood up. “I’ll play bartender if you can refrain from swearing for ten minutes,” he said to Bridget. “Remember, my mother is a retired schoolteacher from Illinois.”
“Your mother is not here,” Bridget retorted.
“Think of it as practice for tomorrow,” said Colin.
“Your mother loves me!”
Colin paused behind her chair. “That she does,” he said, placing a kiss on top of her head, then ambling toward the drink cart.
Bridget smiled up at him before turning back to Harry. “What did Roni do this time?”
Harry closed his eyes and rested his head against the cushioned patio chair. “She’s trying her damnedest to convince Dad to sell the Garden. Apparently, he’s received an offer.”
Bridget’s eyes opened wide. “Sell the Garden? Can he do that?”
“In a word, yes,” Harry said, taking a beer from Colin. He took a long swig. “And it looks like he just might, too.”
“Jesus!” whispered Bridget.
“Bridget!” admonished Colin, as he handed her a glass of white wine. “You’re not even trying!”
Bridget took the glass from Colin without looking at him. Her eyes still trained on Harry, she took a quick sip. “Sorry, but this is huge! Does Elsie know?”
“Oh, yes. For a moment, I thought she was going to lunge across the table at Roni. Of course, if she had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have stopped her.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing. Dad shut down the conversation and we were reduced to shooting evil looks at Roni’s beautiful empty head.”
“I still don’t understand what he sees in her,” Bridget continued, playing with the delicate stem of the wineglass.
“Well, he’d been alone for so long,” said Harry slowly. “I think he saw what he wanted to see.” Harry was silent. Harry’s mother, Ann, had died when he was just a boy. That would have been painful for anyone, but for Harry it was made all the worse because of his own illness. At age six, Harry had been diagnosed with leukemia. His mother, a devout Catholic, had prayed and prayed that he would get better. And he did. Two years later, when Ann was diagnosed with breast cancer, Harry had prayed just as his mother had. But in spite of his fervent prayers, she died. Harry was left feeling that he hadn’t prayed hard enough to save her.
Harry took another long pull from his beer and stood up. “Right. Well, I’m off to bed.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, sweetie. Peter,” he said, extending his hand, “I guess I’ll see you later, since we’re bunking together. It was nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” Peter replied.
“Good night, Colin. Good luck tomorrow,” Harry said, shaking his hand as well. Turning to Bridget, he pulled her into a tight hug. “All the best tomorrow, Bridgie. And you swear all you want,” he said, releasing her and turning for the house. “After all, I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on it.”
Bridget flopped back into her chair and looked at me. “He doesn’t look good,” she said. “He seems tired.”
“Well, dinner was a tense affair,” I said. “After Roni’s little announcement, conversation came to a standstill.”
“God, she is so vile,” grumbled Bridget. “I really don’t get what Uncle Avery sees in her. I mean, other than the fact that she has... ” Bridget cupped her hands in front of her chest to indicate Roni’s most notable characteristic.
Peter’s dark brows pulled together in confusion. “Roni has arthritis?”
Colin burst out laughing as Bridget threw a cushion at Peter.
“You didn’t think that I was going to walk into that one, did you?” He laughed as the green cushion sailed over his head. “Besides, I have eyes only for Elizabeth,” he continued with mock adoration.
I picked up another cushion and threatened him with it. “You’re full of malarkey is what you are,” I said. “Hell, I’m a dedicated heterosexual and even I have a hard time not staring at them.”
“Please don’t ever tell me that again,” Peter said, wincing.
Bridget interrupted. “Well, big boobs or no, she’s a b... witch,” she quickly amended, directing a syrupy smile at Colin. He raised his beer bottle in tacit acknowledgment. She continued. “If she succeeds in convincing Uncle Avery to sell the Garden, it will tear this family apart. My great-grandfather started that business!”
“I know, honey,” said Colin. “But what can we do? It’s really not our decision.”
“Maybe we could poison her food,” Bridget mused.
“Who are you planning on poisoning?” inquired a deep voice behind us.
Turning, we saw Graham, his black brows pulled together quizzically. Blythe stood beside him. She peered at Bridget over her half-moon glasses, her expression bland. Some mothers might be alarmed to hear their daughters casually contemplating a murder. Those mothers did not have Bridget for a daughter. Blythe had learned years ago not to let Bridget’s flair for the dramatics affect her blood pressure.
“I was talking about Roni,” said Bridget. “Is it really true that she’s pressuring Uncle Avery to sell the Garden?”
Graham sighed and nodded his head. “It’s true,” he said quietly, with a backward look at the house. “Although everyone in there is trying their best not to talk about it, it’s clearly on everyone’s mind.”
“She is such a bitch sometimes!” exclaimed Bridget.
“I give up,” moaned Colin, throwing up his hands in mock frustration.
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, “you know I’m right.”
“Bridget.” Blythe sighed with a shake of her head. “Do you have to be so contrary? It’s very unattractive.”
A sudden gleam lit Bridget’s eyes. “Excuse me,” she said formally, with a quick look in my direction, “but I did not know I contradicted anyone by calling Roni a bitch.”
“Hey! Nice one!” I said appreciatively.
“Right?” She grinned at me in response. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it!” Brushing her bangs off her forehead, she added, “But in all seriousness, can’t we do anything about her?”
“Not tonight, dear,” Blythe said firmly, pushing her glasses up a notch. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, such as tomorrow. And speaking of tomorrow, please be patient with Ashley. I know she’s trying, but she is family.”
Ashley is Bridget’s five-year-old cousin. Born to Blythe’s sister, Karen, and her husband, Lewis, later in their lives, she was hailed by them as a miracle. It was a sentiment that was becoming less and less shared, however, as Karen and Lewis pandered to Ashley’s every whim, with the result that she was well on her way to becoming an obnoxiously spoiled little girl. In the name of family harmony, Blythe had pleaded, cajoled, and finally bullied Bridget into asking the little girl to serve as flower girl.
Bridget rolled her eyes now at the mention of the girl’s name. “Mother! Please. Ashley is beyond trying. She demanded—demanded!—that her basket only contain pink roses because ‘all other flowers make her sneeze.’ ”
“On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse,” I said to no one in particular.
Bridget’s head swiveled in my direction. “Movie?”
“Book.”
“Good to know.” Turning back to Blythe, Bridget folded her arms across her chest. “Simply put, Mother, Ashley is nothing short of a monster.”
“She’s not a monster. For heaven’s sake, she’s only five.”
“Leona Helmsley was five once, too.”
“Bridget! This is exactly what I’m talking about. Please, just try and be patient with her. After all, it’s not exactly her fault. If anything, she’s Karen and Lewis’s creation.”
“Well, obviously, but they’re a little off themselves. I know she’s your sister, Mom, but really, did you see what she sent for a wedding gift? A gold-plated toothpick case ! What is that all about?”
Blythe shook her head in understanding while halfheartedly muttering something about it being an antique. Bridget continued, “In any case, I don’t particularly care if Ashley’s problem is nature or nurture. I just don’t want her pitching a fit in the middle of everything tomorrow. What that child needs is a firm spanking. And if she tries any of her usual stunts tomorrow, I may just take the job upon myself.”
“That
would make for a nice addition to the wedding album,” said Colin with a grin. “The glowing bride smacking around the little flower girl.”
“You don’t believe in spanking?” asked Bridget.
“Not until after the wedding,” Colin replied primly.
“Kinky,” Peter opined.
“Okay, enough, you two!” said Blythe. “Bridget, just be nice tomorrow. And as it is almost tomorrow, I think the two of you should say good night. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding on their wedding day.”
Colin stood up with a smile. “Point taken, Mrs. Matthews.”
Forgetting the extreme height of her heels, Bridget hopped quickly to her feet. The sudden movement wreaked havoc with her balance and she teetered dangerously to one side before Colin grabbed her arm.
Once steady, Bridget grinned sheepishly at Colin. “Come on. I’ll walk you out,” she said.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Graham offered.
The laughter following this remark died in our throats upon entering the house. Normally, I love the living room at Barton Landing. With its bright yellow walls, blue-and-white-floral-patterned chairs, and charming watercolors by French artists whose names I can never pronounce, the room is cheerful and inviting. But tonight the palpable tension in the room, combined with utter silence, rendered its appeal more on par with a dentist’s surgery chair.
Roni was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Her bare feet tucked up underneath her, she serenely sipped a glass of red wine. If she was aware of her in-laws’ animosity, she was doing an excellent job of hiding her emotions. The same could not be said for the rest of the room’s inhabitants. From her high-backed cane chair, Elsie glowered at her daughter-in-law without the slightest attempt at pretense. Anna lay flopped at her feet, her intelligent eyes watchful. Claire absently picked at her stunted fingernails, an overbright smile pasted on her face. She sat nestled in close to David, but I doubt he even registered her presence. He was, to put it bluntly, drunk. His bleary eyes shifted unseeingly around the room and his large frame was slumped so far back into the blue brocade cushions of the couch that he seemed to have been partially swallowed by them. Megan sat away from the group in a small leather armchair next to a large potted fern. She appeared to be reading a book, but she turned no pages. Between the sprawling branches of the fern and the generous folds of her green corduroy dress, she faded from view like the Cheshire Cat, except there was no smile on Megan’s round face. I wondered if she came by her ability to disappear naturally or if it was a practiced trait. Next to Roni, Avery sat in his wheelchair, seemingly preoccupied with a mark on the chair’s wheel. At our entrance, he looked up with an expression more normally associated with drowning men seeing life preservers.
