does on all my clients. Kind of handy having a shrink for a sister. Texas’s Central Adoption Registry requires a similar screening before they hook up long-lost relatives. Since Texas is a closed adoption state, all records are sealed by the court, but the registry offers a legal means for adoptees and their biological relatives to meet if both sides independently send in paperwork expressing their wish for a reunion. Once the registry finds a match, they interview both sides and arrange the meeting, thus avoiding a lengthy court petition to unseal records.
Kate’s psychological profile of Megan confirmed what I had already decided—that she was stable enough to handle bad news if it came to that. I’d gotten a firsthand taste of her maturity already. She’d dreamed of a private meeting with her biological mother after the reception, maybe at a hotel in Houston before she and Travis took off on their honeymoon to Hawaii. But when I told her last week I still couldn’t get anywhere in my document searches, she didn’t go off the deep end. She just calmly told me to keep trying.
As Kate and I trudged up the hill toward the house, she said, “How did Megan explain your presence at the rehearsal dinner last night? Has she changed her mind about telling her parents who you really are?”
“No. She introduced me as a new friend she’d met at the health club.”
Kate laughed. “It’s a good thing they don’t know you like I do.”
“Hey. Since Jeff and I have been together, we run a couple miles two or three times a week, so I’m more fit than you think.” Jeff Kline, whose cologne still clung to my pillow this morning, works Houston Homicide. He’d investigated the death of my yardman, the one who’d been unlucky enough to get in my ex-husband’s way, and we’d been spending plenty of time together since last summer.
“You’re more of
“Believe me, I won’t.” My nose started to run and I sniffed. The wind off the bay was cold enough to make a lawyer put his hands in his own pockets.
Kate offered me a tissue. “So am I allowed to be your sister once we get inside this place? I’m sure you and Megan will want to have a consistent story. We wouldn’t want to alert the relatives that she hired you.”
“By your sarcasm I’m guessing you’re still convinced Megan should have told her parents.”
“Keeping secrets from your family is never a good idea.” Her coffee-colored shoulder-length hair was practically horizontal as she bowed her head against the wind.
“Maybe not, but Megan shouldn’t have to learn the same way we did about our past. No one should.”
“It’s not like her parents lied to her, Abby.”
“Okay, so they didn’t lie like Daddy did, but they waited way too long to tell her the truth and then made her feel like she’d be betraying them if she tried to learn about her past.”
“Are you substituting your judgment for theirs?”
“Guess that’s not fair,” I mumbled. “I just don’t feel comfortable at weddings and it’s reduced me to whining. What say we go for some food, a little small talk, then get the hell out?”
“Now, there’s a plan I won’t argue with,” she said.
We approached the wide stone stairs leading up to the house, and the sounds of stringed instruments drifted out through the open front door. Just as we reached the steps, the limo carrying the bride and groom arrived. Travis helped Megan out of the backseat, and Roxanne appeared in all her greenness from out of nowhere. She eagerly lifted Megan’s gown to keep it from dragging on the pavement. They all went inside to a round of applause.
Not only was the wedding photographer busy doing his job, the hat lady was standing right behind him snapping her own pictures. Seeing her reminded me of my mission: to seek out all guests and get their signatures and well wishes in the embossed book clutched at my side. Not exactly a job for Superman, but I felt obligated. “Come on, Kate. I have to catch up with that woman in the brown hat.”
But before we reached her, she disappeared into the throng following Megan and Travis inside. When we reached the front door, Megan’s mother stepped out to greet us.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” said Sylvia Beadford. “I see you have the book.” She nodded at the album under my arm.
An apple-shaped, overly made-up woman, she wore a turquoise silk suit that complemented her dusky pink complexion. But Sylvia’s ruby lipstick was smeared and her rose corsage was already wilting. The frosted hair hadn’t wilted though. She had enough hairspray on those beauty-shop curls to put a new hole in the ozone layer. From her tense demeanor, I guessed she was having far less of a good time than those inside whose laughter nearly overpowered the music. Note to self: Never have girl babies who put you through wedding torture.
I held up the album. “I missed a few people and Megan said she wanted—”
“I’ll handle that.” She took the book, saying, “Meanwhile, I could use your help.”
“Sure—and by the way, this is my sister, Kate.”
“She can help, too.” Sylvia grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside; then despite her dyed-to-match spike heels, she bulldozed through the guests lingering in the foyer.
I caught a glimpse of twin staircases with white wrought-iron banisters flanking the foyer on both sides. Beyond was a great room filled with guests. A balcony above that huge center room was also packed with people holding wineglasses and plates of food.
Megan’s mother led us down a hallway, past a spacious dining room. We ended up in a kitchen worthy of a television chef and found ourselves surrounded by caterers in black and white uniforms. Seems the lady who delivered the baby too early had only half-finished one of her jobs. Kate and I set to work putting handfuls of birdseed in small squares of netting and tying each packet up with ivory ribbon.
“Birdseed is a good choice,” Kate said, already getting busy. “More environmentally friendly than rice.”
“That’s what Megan said,” Sylvia agreed, before hurrying off. But two glasses of champagne arrived beside us a minute later. Tying ribbons and drinking champagne? I could handle that.
The breakfast area where we sat and worked on our task overlooked a screened porch complete with umbrella table and chairs for balmier days. A family room could be seen through the double doors straight ahead and huge picture windows dominated the far wall. The Gulf of Mexico was an angry green, the sky a grouchy gray, while the strings played on, their music calming and gentle above the din of crowd noise.
Silver trays of canapes kept leaving the room on the raised arms of the waitstaff. I managed to snatch some finger sandwiches and a few pastry puffs stuffed with shrimp salad. Kate munched on two of her favorites, broccoli and carrots, sniffing them first as if her practiced nose could actually discern whether they were organic.
We were nearly done with our job when the best man, Holt McNabb, came into the room gripping a longneck beer, his other arm around bridesmaid Courtney’s waist. The tattoo on her back right shoulder, a cobra ready to strike, clashed with the strapless taffeta gown. Before Holt spotted us in the breakfast alcove, he planted one on Courtney, a kiss that left no doubt saliva was being exchanged. She in turn grabbed his well-toned butt during this semipornographic moment. It ended when he opened his eyes and spotted me.
He lifted her chin and smiled at her. “Hey, Courtney—could you get me a plate of those baby-back ribs? Meanwhile, I’ll give these ladies a proper thank-you for all their help.”
Courtney hesitated. “You’ll be waiting here, then?”
He smiled. “Maybe. And that’s final.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He gripped her shoulders and turned her in the direction of the dining room. “Yes, I’m kidding. Now, get going.”
She left.
Kate hadn’t had the honor of meeting the rest of the rehearsal dinner crew, if you want to call it an honor. I’d met Daddy James, Momma Sylvia, the gruesome twosome cousins/bridesmaids, best man Holt, and Uncle Graham—the one who had tried all last evening to outdrink his daughter Courtney. I think Graham won.
“Good to see you again, Abby.” Holt set his beer bottle down on the table. But though he was addressing me, he focused on Kate. His pale blue eyes seemed to like what they saw, but then who wouldn’t be mesmerized by Kate’s classic Audrey Hepburn look?
“Hello, Holt,” I said. “Nice wedding.”
“Care to introduce me to your friend?” he asked.
“My sister, Kate Rose,” I said.
He placed both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “Thank the lord the stepsister brought Cinderella to the ball. Where did I put that glass slipper?”
“Make that twins, not stepsisters,” I said.
