“Oh, forget it.” Jennifer ran one hand through her hair, causing it to stand up like a rooster’s tail. “I’ve got a thousand problems. The bridesmaids’ gifts haven’t arrived, and Tiffany’s swears they were shipped two weeks ago. Plus, Sharper Image screwed up with the usher’s presents. It’s just a mess.”
“Anything I can do?” I reached for my mug.
“You can write a check and pay for your half of the wedding,” Jennifer said.
I spit out a mouthful of tea, and the Poms started to bark.
“Just kidding.” Jennifer raised one thin eyebrow, looking eerily like Dorothy. “Although if you were still married to Louie, I’d expect you to pay half—not because Daddy needs the cash, but on general principle. But I know you don’t make any money with your decorating business, so you’re off the hook.”
I started to say something, but Dorothy caught my eye and shook her head.
“God, Mother. Your hair is awful.” Jennifer reached out and hesitantly fingered one of my curls. “You’ve got gray all over. You really need some highlights. And while you’re at it, get it cut. It’s way too long. Either wear it up—and not too poofy—or get it cut and styled.”
I picked up a lock of hair and studied it. “There’s not so much gray.”
“Then you must be blind. It’s there, trust me, and it adds ten years.” Jennifer touched her own shorn locks. “And your eyebrows…you really should get them waxed. Make an appointment at the Utopian. It’s the nicest salon in Crystal Falls. They’re doing the entire wedding party.”
“Even the men?” Dorothy held up her hand, hiding her broad, unpainted forehead from Jennifer.
“Well, yes. Some of them have unibrows.” Jennifer sighed. “I don’t want the wedding pictures ruined, so Pierre talked them into it. They’re having pedicures, too.”
“Don’t let the gossips hear. They’ll think you’re having a toe-suckers convention instead of a wedding,” Dorothy said.
“Very funny.” Jennifer flounced out the back door.
“If she trips,” Dorothy said, “we’ll be going to a funeral, not a wedding.”
Later, when I stepped into the living room and found Dorothy whispering into the phone, I told her to stop making clandestine phone calls. “I know you’re talking to Jennifer,” I added.
Dorothy hung up so fast the phone jangled. “I wasn’t talking to her,” she said, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Who was it then?”
“None of your beeswax. I have a life. With people that you don’t know about,” Dorothy bristled. “Can’t I have any privacy?”
“I thought you wanted me here more often,” I said.
“To visit,” Dorothy said. “Not spy. But you know what? Sean Connery is my idea of the perfect man. Who’s yours?”
Ian, I thought. Since I couldn’t speak frankly to my mother about men, not without receiving an extensive cross-examination, I just shrugged. “Stop trying to change the subject,” I finally said. “Tell me who you were talking to.”
“It’s a surprise,” said Dorothy. “That reminds me. I’ve made the cutest little present for Jennifer. I want you to look at it and tell me what you think.”
Dorothy opened the pantry, pulled out a plastic bag, and reached inside. She held up a pink-and-purple needlepoint pillow that said Headquarters of the Fashion Police.
“You made this?” I reached for the pillow.
“Mmmhum,” said Dorothy, pulling out another pillow that said Gone to the Dogs.
“I know clients who would adore these,” I said, bending closer to examine my mother’s work. “Do you have any samples that I could take back with me?”
“Back?” Dorothy’s forehead puckered.
“To London,” I said.
“That’s what I thought you meant.” Dorothy sighed. “Even when you were a little baby, you couldn’t stay put. But I’m all for global travel if these pillows sell. Why, I might have a second career. I wonder if it’ll be more profitable than raising Pomeranians?”
At daybreak, the phone rang. Thinking it might be Ian, I scrambled out of bed and dashed into the hallway to answer it. “Mornin’, Mother,” said Jennifer in a cheery voice. “I’m just leaving for my morning run, but I wanted to remind you about the rehearsal at Hammersmith Farm. It’s tomorrow night at six o’clock sharp.”
“Got it,” I said.
“And please make sure that Dorothy dresses appropriately.” Her unspoken admonishment hung in the air: And you, too.
“I’ll do my best.” I stifled another yawn.
“Is Mack coming?”
“To the dinner, yes,” I said. “But not to the rehearsal.”
“Have you seen what he’ll be wearing?”
“No.”
“Can you find out and call me back?”
I lifted the curtain and looked down into my brother’s driveway. The white truck was parked in the azalea beds, crushing several bushes. “No,” I lied. “He’s gone. I guess he’s at work.”
“He’s probably with a hooker. But never mind,” said Jennifer. “Is anyone else coming to the dinner? Clancy Jane? Violet? I didn’t invite them because I figured you would.”
“They’re only coming to the wedding.”
“That’s a relief. Because I really hate to keep giving Pierre’s mother these shifting numbers. Reservations were made months ago, and it’s really embarrassing.”
I was on the verge of saying something unflattering about Pierre’s mother and her shifting numbers, but I managed to hold back.
“One more thing, Mother,” Jennifer said in an edgy voice. “And it involves Daddy’s girlfriend. I want Samantha to be seated in the grand-mother’s row. With Dorothy. Do you mind?”
My heart began to pound. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I brushed them away. “Perhaps you should ask Dorothy,” I said, “since this involves her.”
“You sound upset.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
“Pinch yourself and wake up. This is important. If Samantha and Daddy were married, she’d be sitting in the front row with you,” Jennifer said. “She’s really been there for me, you know? And I just owe her this honor.”
I’m sure you do, I thought. Jennifer wasn’t being cruel, just plain stupid. Dorothy had mentioned that Claude’s third ex-wife, Regina, would be attending the ceremony with their daughter. And the second wife, my former bridesmaid, had been invited, too. The addition of a girlfriend—especially if she was seated in a place of honor—might touch off an uprising. Which would be lovely, actually. Jennifer and her mothers.
“Hey, you still there?” Jennifer asked.
“I was just thinking…” I said, feeling the devil take hold. “Why don’t you just put Samantha in the front row with me?”
“You…don’t mind?” Jennifer asked in a suspicious tone.
“Not at all.”
“Well, okay.” Jennifer paused. “I will. And thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me, dear,” I told her.
Dorothy was getting her hair done at the Utopian, but I drove to Fabulous Fred’s on the Square. I skipped the pedicure and eyebrow waxing, and asked the stylist, who resembled Cher—long black hair parted down the middle and Cleopatra eyes—to take off several inches. “You’re gonna look so good,” she said picking up her scissors. I shut my eyes and wished I’d had my hair cut in London—world-class salons were within walking distance of my flat.
After a while, the stylist said, “Okay, sugar. You can look.”
I cracked open one eye and looked into the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. My hair was layered, just hitting my shoulders. I hated to admit it, but Jennifer had been right. “I love it,” I said.
“I’ve got time to put on a rinse,” the stylist said. “You’re too pretty to have so many gray hairs.”
“No, thanks,” I said, rising from the chair. “I’ve earned them.”
On my way home, I stopped by the jewelry store and bought a Fitz & Floyd
tureen. It was large enough to hold all the letters I’d brought from England. Also, I threw in a gift certificate. When I got home, I began having second thoughts about the letters, and I went to my mother for advice, and to show her the tureen.
“She ought to treasure them,” said Dorothy. “Hopefully they’ll knock some sense into her head. But the tureen is so pretty she may never remove the lid and find the letters. I wish we could see all her wedding gifts, but they’re at Miss Betty’s. Jennifer said they’re spread out on card tables in the billiard room. She’d promised to take some Polaroids so I could see, but I guess she got too busy. Speaking of which, you and I have work to do.”
We spent the afternoon pulling together our costumes. I hung the glittery purple Oscar de la Renta gown on the back of the kitchen door to drape out the wrinkles and held up the strappy silver heels. “What do you think, Dorothy?”
“You’ll look like a princess.” Dorothy sighed. “If only I had something dressier. I guess my suits will have to do.”
“They’re perfect for a woman of your vintage,” I said. “You’ll be lovely.”
The Pomeranians were scattered around the kitchen, some resting on the linoleum with their hairy legs stretched out behind them; others rooting for crumbs. It was a balmy night in the high seventies, and the back door stood open. The smell of wisteria drifted into the room.
I had just picked up a bottle of fingernail polish, to hold against the purple gown, when the phone rang. I barely glanced up. Dorothy said hello, then cleared her throat and held out the receiver. “It’s somebody named Ian? He sure does sound spiffy.”
I set down the bottle with a clunk and took the receiver. “Ian?”
“Darling,” he said. “How are you?”
“It’s nice to hear you.” I hugged the phone and began to turn in a circle, winding the cord around my body. Only the British could turn a two-syllable endearment into an erotic paragraph out of a D. H. Lawrence novel.
“I’ve missed you so,” he said. “That’s why I rang. I’ve booked a flight tomorrow morning. My aeroplane should land in Atlanta around three
P.M., or thereabouts. I’ve never been through customs there, so I don’t know how long it will take.”
“You’re coming to Atlanta?” I chewed my thumb, wondering if I could somehow arrange to meet him.
“Only for a layover.” He paused. “I’m coming to see you, darling.”
“Here?” I sank back against the counter.
“Tell me straight away if I’m being intrusive.”
“No, no. I’m over the moon.”
My mother was over by the door, fluffing out the purple gown. She didn’t appear to be listening, but I knew better.
“I shall arrive in Nashville tomorrow evening. How close is Crystal Falls to Nashville?”
“Two hours. I can pick you up.”
“And miss your dinner? It’s just not on. I’ve hired a car.”
“A limousine?”
“No, I believe it’s called Hertz.” Ian paused. “I’ll ring when I arrive. I’ve taken the last available room at the Holiday Inn.”
“I’ll have my cell phone,” I said. “Call if you get lost. I’ll come and find you.”
“In that case, I might manufacture a crisis. I’ve packed my ancient tuxedo.”
“It’s not ancient,” I said. “It’s lovely. And I can’t wait to see it on your gorgeous body.”
“Bitsy?”
“Yes?”
“I’m crazy about you. Simply mad on.”
Again, I glanced at Dorothy, who had stopped fooling with the gown and was looking more horrified by the moment.
“I know you are afraid,” he continued, “but my darling, not all love ends tragically, does it?”
The question was typically British: he didn’t expect an answer, and that was lucky for him because I wasn’t prepared to give one.
When I hung up, Dorothy started. “All right. Who is Ian?”
“He’s a book editor,” I said. “I’m trying not to love him, but it’s damn hard.”
“Oh, my stars.” Dorothy sat down hard in a chair, her legs sticking straight out, and the dogs began to growl.
“What’s wrong?” I hurried over. “Are you dizzy again?”
“No, no.” Dorothy impatiently flipped her hand. “It’s just…Well, I didn’t know about this Ian fellow. I’m afraid I’ve done something behind your back.”
“What?” I froze.
“You’re going to be furious.” Dorothy ran a hand through her hair. “Do you remember the secret phone call?”
I nodded.
“Well, don’t pitch a fit, but…I’ve invited Louie to the wedding.”
“Well, you’ll just have to call and uninvite him.”
“I thought you said uninvite wasn’t a word.” Dorothy fixed me with an innocent look. “Anyway it’s too late. He’s in town. He arrived this morning, while you were out shopping. He’s—”
“He’s here? In town? What a cock up.”
“That better not be a foreign curse word,” Dorothy said. “I am your mother, and the Bible says you can’t talk mean to me. Anyway, Jennifer said it was perfectly all right for Louie to come. After all, he was her step-daddy.”
“A blip on the radar,” I said dryly. “Thanks for asking me.”
“You’re welcome.” Dorothy gave me a cunning look. “It might do you good to see him again.”
“So we can catch up on old times?”
“Don’t be cute. You can put him next to that English fellow and do a side-by-side comparison. I like to do that with cantaloupes.”
“These are men,” I said. “Not melons. Besides, I don’t want to see Louie.”
“Well, you’re going to. Not at the rehearsal, just the wedding. You know how he appreciates fine wine and food. He’ll get a kick out of Jennifer’s very formal, five-course meal.”
“He just better not be at my table,” I said.
Dorothy blinked.
“Dorothy?” I cried. “Is he?”
“It’s possible,” Dorothy said. “To tell the truth, it’s a great possibility. In fact, he’s seated between you and me. But if we get there early, I can do a quick switch-a-roo with the place cards.”
“Just pile on the agony.”
“Well, I’m sorry. But I didn’t know about this Ian person. You didn’t even know he was coming. And besides, you need to face up to the fact that Louie was your big love.”
“You make it sound like a one-time event.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I hope not,” I said.
“You’re such a optimist,” Dorothy said. “But don’t worry. Just act ladylike and everything will turn out fine. That’s what I’d do.”
The Wentworths and the McDougals
When I turned up the road to Hammersmith Farm, we were still arguing about Louie. It was early evening but the sun hadn’t set, squeezing its last bit of light into the deep bowl of the valley. I parked the Jeep far away from my daughter’s BMW; then I gathered up the skirt of the long purple gown and arranged it over my arm. Across the pasture, at the base of a dirt path that led up the mountain, a U-Haul truck was parked at an angle, and men were unpacking folding chairs and carrying them toward the hilltop where a white tent had been erected for tomorrow’s ceremony. From a distance, the workers resembled picnic ants.
I stuffed my cell phone into my evening bag. Sunlight glanced off the Swarovski crystals, sending reflected sparks across the lap of Dorothy’s St. John. “You look lovely. “ I smiled.
“Thank you.” Dorothy brushed at the skirt. “I bought it at the thrift shop. The clerk said Miss Betty had just brought it in. We both wear a size twelve. Wonder if she’ll recognize it?”
“I doubt it. You always look original.”
“That’s because I am,” Dorothy said.
A dark green Jaguar turned into the pasture and pulled up in front of my rental Jeep. Chick, wearing sunglasses and a lightweight blue wind-breaker, clim
bed out of the Jaguar. He looked like Freddy Kruger, I thought. All that was missing was a ten-inch fingernail. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Miss Betty extended one pale hand. As she rose, her chin-length hair didn’t move; it looked as if it had been shellacked. She was wearing sunglasses, too, even though dusk was gathering in the trees. Her frock was simple, a black sheath, with a cashmere sweater tied casually over her broad, fleshy arms. I looked down at my dress, then glanced over at Dorothy. Another car pulled up and three young women hopped out, each one wearing a cotton sundress.
“Wasn’t this supposed to be ultra-formal?” I asked. “Or did I misunderstand the assignment?”
“You didn’t misunderstand anything.” Dorothy’s mouth tightened. “But maybe Jennifer meant we were supposed to dress down for the rehearsal, and then go back home and dress up for the dinner.”
“There’s not enough time.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. “The dinner starts in thirty minutes. That’s barely enough time for the rehearsal.”
Chick and Miss Betty were walking across the pasture. Miss Betty was wearing sensible black flats but she still seemed to be having trouble navigating. I wondered how I’d manage in evening sandals. A pasture required Wellies, not Giuseppe Zanotti slides—silver ones, at that. What had I been thinking? I knew the terrain in Tennessee, both geologically and emotionally, and I should have come better prepared.
A white Saab parked in front of the Jeep. As the people emerged, I saw a sockless man in brown loafers and two young women in splashy cotton skirts and denim jackets. A silver Mercedes angled up and Claude got out wearing a pale yellow shirt and navy twill trousers. He’d gotten beefy. His neck was burned red, and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes—the curse of all committed golfers. His blond hair, or what remained of it, was sprinkled with gray. When he turned to the side, I thought his nose looked rather beaked. The passenger door opened and a chunky blonde climbed out, wearing a black sleeveless dress. On her feet were low-heeled pumps. Whatever happened to Candy? I thought. Perhaps he’d eaten her.
“That’s Samantha Cole-Jennings, Claude’s girlfriend,” Dorothy said. “She’s been in the paper a lot here lately, what with all of Jennifer’s parties. The two of them are the best of friends. It just makes me sick to my stomach.”
Mad Girls In Love Page 54
