“Twins? Are you kidding? She’s got three inches on you and the nicest smile south of Dallas. Say, you doing anything later, Miss Kate Rose?”
Kate leveled him with a look that could have melted the cupid ice sculpture on the buffet table in the dining room. “You want me to join you and Courtney?”
Holt raised his hands and stepped back. “No crime to appreciate females. Happens to be a weakness of mine. And if you’re not interested, I respect that.”
The awkward silence that followed was broken by Travis’s appearance in the doorway.
He said, “Holt, we’re cutting the cake and you’re supposed to say something first.”
Holt nodded and flashed a
I laughed when he was gone. “Does he like himself or what?”
“The nice thing about someone like him is that he doesn’t have much time to talk about anyone else. He’s too busy being consumed with himself.”
Since I’d seen plenty of cake cutting in my time, and Kate didn’t eat anything with white sugar, we stayed put. But I was as hungry as a goat on concrete, so I had a friendly waiter fill me a plate with boiled shrimp before he took the platter into the dining room.
Kate continued making the little net pockets and seemed to be doing a damn fine job, so I took my time peeling the shrimp and enjoyed every single one of those critters. About thirty minutes later Kate announced she was finished and went to the sink to wash her hands. Licking the remnants of cocktail sauce off my fingers, I followed suit, dodging several waiters on the way.
Kate told me she would arrange the little birdseed treasures in the crepe-lined basket Sylvia Beadford had provided if I wanted to find Megan and say hello. “And good-bye,” she added with emphasis.
“Good idea. Much as I hate to agree with Holt, I do kind of feel like a Cinderella relegated to the back of the house for menial tasks.”
I wandered out into the family room, my drink in hand. The string quartet had been set up in here, but most folks were in the adjoining great room to my left. The musicians had taken a break, and the noise of multiple conversations in both rooms filled the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a champagne fountain with golden liquid bubbling out of pitchers held by cherubs sat on a table perpendicular to the windows. Plates filled with slices of the now-mutilated tiered white cake surrounded the fountain.
I noticed Roxanne speaking with the violinist in a corner to my right. I knew he was the violinist because he had his instrument clutched to him like a life jacket. Roxanne’s stringy brown hair made me wonder if she’d sprayed her head with Pam rather than Final Net, and the violinist’s body language brought the image of a treed possum to mind. Nothing pretty about that scene.
But James and Travis had them beat. The new father-in-law and son-in-law were outside on the deck that overlooked a covered oval swimming pool. Either the wind had stung their faces an angry crimson, or both their blood pressures were sky-high. James kept poking his finger into Travis’s silver-vested chest.
Then Travis glanced back toward the house, took hold of his father-in-law’s elbow, and led him toward the other end of the deck.
I immediately scanned the room for Megan, feeling protective all of a sudden. No bride should have her wedding day ruined by some silly family dispute that probably could have waited until the appropriate time. That’s what Thanksgiving and Christmas are for, right? I soon spotted her talking to her uncle Graham in the next room.
I made my way around clusters of guests engaged in animated conversations or playing with their digital cameras. I reached Megan and her uncle in time to hear Graham Beadford loudly proclaim he was related to Thomas Jefferson by way of a different mother than Sally Hemmings, a “damn prettier” slave girl, according to him. For Megan’s sake, I hoped no one was videotaping this embarrassing moment. Uncle Graham was so drunk he’d probably grab a snake and try to kill a stick.
Megan blushed and said, “Hi, Abby. I was hoping to convince my uncle to try the coffee. We rented this huge silver urn and it’s filled to the brim, but no one seems interested.”
“Maybe he and I could sample the coffee together,” I offered, setting my champagne glass down on a small side table near the wall.
Graham attempted to focus on me, his head wobbling with the effort. “Don’t I know you?”
“We met last night at dinner. Abby Rose.”
“That’s right. Megan’s little rich friend. So you want to force-feed me some caffeine? I’ll bet you could ante up for a whole Starbucks. Gold mine, those Starbucks. Who’d have thought us Texans would willingly pay five dollars for steaming coffee in our ninety-degree summers? Shoulda got in on that action when they first came to town.”
“Uncle Graham, forgive me, but there are guests I haven’t even spoken with yet,” said Megan.
He gulped the last of whatever he’d been drinking and slid the rocks glass on the table, nearly tipping over my champagne flute. “Well, forgive me for monopolizing you.”
But Uncle Graham didn’t move and Megan seemed reluctant to leave him, though if I were in her place I would have done so in a heartbeat.
I took Graham’s arm. “Let’s you and I chat.”
Megan mouthed a thank-you once he seemed willing to depart with me.
I wasn’t simply being a Good Samaritan. He’d called me the “rich friend,” and I wanted to know how he’d learned about my financial circumstances, considering I hadn’t mentioned my background to anyone last night. I hadn’t even told Megan. Despite being well-off, I charge for my services, using everything I make to support a home for unwed mothers in Galveston—a home I have a special interest in. Kate and I were born there.
“So, Mr. Beadford,” I said, my hand on his upper arm. I guided him in the direction of the dining room. “What’s your line of business?”
“Not computers like you, that’s for sure. Computers are getting to be like goddamn cars. Too much maintenance to love ’em, but you can’t live without ’em.”
Had I still been working for CompuCan, my late daddy’s company, I might have said he obviously needed one of our computers. But I’d spent the last several months shedding myself of anything but minimal involvement, deciding I was never cut out to be a CEO. But obviously Graham Beadford thought I still worked there.
“So what do you do, Mr. Beadford?” I repeated.
He stopped in the middle of the room, his square chin raised. “Plenty. I do plenty. I’ve owned my own business and I’ve worked with my brother, James, on the oil equipment supply side. But if you need a computer man, I can do that, too.”
“Sorry, but I’ve changed jobs. Can’t help you there. I’m in... social services now.”
“Really? The Internet is behind on their information, then.” It was his turn to pull me toward the dining room. “But even so, you inherited some big bucks, Ms. Rose.” Graham made a sudden weave to the right and slammed his shoulder into a woman wildly overdressed in black sequins and a mink stole.
Graham was a small, burly man, similar in stature to Megan’s father—and he hit the lady square on the collarbone. When he failed to offer an apology, she shot him a “go directly to hell” look, readjusted the dead animals around her shoulders, and resumed her conversation.
“Excuse him,” I whispered as we passed, wondering what else this guy had turned up on me. There were plenty of news stories to be found considering the home I’d recently vacated in ritzy River Oaks had become a crime scene after the gardener was killed. But why was this man plugging my name into some search engine in the first place?
I must have looked concerned because Graham patted my back. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about your little brush with death at the hands of your ex-husband or mention your mountains of money.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
He stopped in the dining room entry and lifted my chin with his index knuckle. “Uncle Graham knows people. I’ll bet you’re scared I’ll blab to all these upper-middle-class schmucks about how filthy, stinking rich you are. And you’re afraid if I do, people will be hanging on you like snapping turtles. Asking for favors... donations... handouts. I had money once. I know what it’s like. Royal pain in the ass.”
He didn’t slur one word, and I realized then that Graham Beadford might not be as drunk as I’d thought— though from the smell of him, he was well on the way.
The coffee urn that looked like it could have provided enough java for a cruise ship breakfast sat on one end
