Crimson crept up Megan’s neck and across her cheeks. Without a word, she pushed her plate away, stood up, and left the room. I caught a glimpse of her pinched, angry face as she hurried out the door. Harry, who had been sitting next to Megan, glared across the table at his stepmother. “You’re unbelievable,” he said disgustedly.
Roni raised a delicate eyebrow in surprise. “What are you talking about? I’m trying to help her.”
“Help her? How is embarrassing her helping her? She ran out of here completely miserable, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me? You have no idea what you’re talking about. Her
“By being cruel and making her cry?”
“Of all the nerve! How dare you speak to me like that! Avery, say something!” Roni demanded.
Avery, who had been listening to the exchange with an expression of growing dread, now grimaced. He looked as if he might agree with Harry, but he nevertheless said, “Harry, I’m sure Roni has Megan’s best interests at heart. Let her handle it.”
Roni was not mollified. Scraping her chair back, she rose to her feet in one majestic movement. “That’s not the point, Avery, and you know it. I’m talking about the insulting way he speaks to me while you just
“Roni, please,” said Avery in a low voice. He glanced uneasily in Elsie’s direction.
“I’m going outside to have a cigarette,” Roni bit out before turning on her not insubstantial heel and striding away.
Avery turned to Harry. “Why do you always have to start something with her?”
Harry’s mouth twisted in irritation. “I didn’t start anything, Dad. She treats Megan like crap and you know it. Since nobody
An awkward silence followed his departure. We all stared at our plates, studiously pretending not to have heard the exchange. All except Elsie. With her eyes still on the newspaper spread out in front of her, she said matter-of-factly, “The boy’s got a point, Avery.”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion, Mother,” Avery snapped, backing his chair out from the table and wheeling it toward the door.
Elsie sighed heavily, her eyes trained on Avery’s retreating form. Graham watched his mother warily. He must have seen something alarming in her expression for he suddenly tensed and said sharply, “Let it go, Mother.”
“Let what go?” she responded, her eyes wide with a practiced look of innocence. No one was fooled.
“Whatever it is that you’re planning,” said Graham. “Let them sort out their own troubles.”
Elsie sniffed and got to her feet. “I can’t imagine what would give you the absurd notion that I could ever involve myself in other people’s affairs,” she said loftily. “And now, to announce my departure, I will also throw down my napkin in a fit of pique.”
After matching her words to action, Elsie marched out. Anna, who had been happily receiving scraps from almost everyone in the room, reluctantly followed. At Elsie’s exit, Bridget laid her head down on the table and put her hands on top of her head. “Great. This is just great,” she moaned. “I’m getting married in eight hours and most of the members of my family aren’t speaking to each other.”
Blythe walked over to her daughter and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Never mind, dear. I’m sure they’ll all have sorted everything out by then. In the meantime, I need to go over a few last-minute details with you.” Noticing Bridget’s hands, Blythe leaned in and suspiciously peered at her fingernails. “Bridget! You’ve painted your nails purple! No! Absolutely not! What happened to the pink shade I bought you?”
Bridget popped her head back up. “You were serious about that? It looked like overdone cotton candy. I thought you were kidding.”
Blythe took a deep breath, while Bridget gazed appraisingly at her nails. “I think they look nice,” she said stubbornly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” said Blythe firmly. As she propelled Bridget out of the room, she launched into a rapid recitation of the two dozen or more things that needed immediate attention.
Graham watched his wife and daughter leave, his black eyes sparkling with laughter. “In about five minutes, I expect Bridget will wish her mother was one of the nonspeaking family members,” he predicted. “But speaking of last-minute details. Peter, could I borrow you for a few seconds? Since you are in the hotel business, I want to ask your opinion on the setup for the reception tonight.”
Peter stood up. “Sure. I’ll be glad to help.”
“Thanks. This way,” said Graham, as he exited through the French doors at the back of the room.
Peter squeezed my shoulder lightly. “See you later,” he said, following Graham.
I waved good-bye, took another sip of coffee, and finished my bagel. Claire sat with me for a few more minutes before excusing herself as well. The dining room was now empty save for me, and I settled into my chair and enjoyed the quiet. Resting my head against the top rung of the high-backed chair, I idly studied the long room. Icy lime green walls were topped with intricately carved crown molding. To me, it had always looked like thick icing on a wedding cake. A long mahogany sideboard ran along the left wall. Along the right stood two enormous hutches, each displaying several patterns of china and crystal. At the far end of the room was a set of tall French doors. There were three sets of these double French doors in all: one in the dining room, one in the living room, and one in the study. Each led to the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house.
After finishing my coffee, I stepped out onto the terrace. It was still early but the sun was already blazing. The weathermen had predicted that we were going to have an Indian summer today and apparently they hadn’t been kidding. It was going to be a scorcher, I thought, cupping my hand over my eyes to block out the sun’s glare. Below me the lawn swarmed with the staff from the catering agency. Clad in bright blue T-shirts emblazoned with the logo ELEGANT EVENTS, they appeared to be everywhere at once. One group was transforming the normally lush green lawn into a sea of circular tables to seat tonight’s three hundred guests. To my right and left, another group was raising crisp white tents that would serve as the food and drink stations. At the base of the terrace, still more were hammering down an enormous parquet dance floor. A canopy of tiny white lights hovered above. In the midst of the organized chaos, Chloe patrolled the grounds. A dark tailored business suit clung to her lithe form and her white-blond ponytail snaked down her back in a long shiny coil. As she surveyed the crew’s progress, she methodically checked off items on her clipboard and barked orders into a walkie-talkie.
I spotted Graham and Peter huddled over by one of the tents. Graham gestured animatedly while Peter nodded thoughtfully. Spotting Chloe, Graham called her over. She briskly strode in their direction and then, strangely, faltered. Over the last few months, I’d never seen Chloe do anything that wasn’t deliberate and organized. She seemed more machine than human. After the misstep, Chloe righted herself and made her way to Graham and Peter. She quickly spoke to Graham, and then she laid her hand on Peter’s arm. She kept it there a good eight seconds longer than necessary (by my count, anyway). My stomach tilted. Chloe was an inhuman tyrant, but she was also exceedingly pretty. Sophisticated, chic, and worst of all, thin, Chloe had an air about her that made me feel as if my ancestors had only recently started walking upright. Graham said something and Chloe was forced to remove her talons from Peter’s arm so she could take notes. Graham’s gestures intensified and Chloe scribbled on her clipboard and spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. Peter’s shoulders shifted uneasily and he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced around. I recognized that stance; he wanted out of the conversation. I wanted him out of it, too, for that matter. Women like Chloe had been ruining my love life as far back as I could remember. Jutting out my chin in an imitation of my boss when she asks me to pick up her dry cleaning, I walked along the terrace, intent on rescuing Peter. As I passed the French doors leading to the study, a low voice inside caught my attention. The syrupy floral scent told me it was Roni. I peeked around the door frame. Her back was to me and she was talking to someone on her cell phone.
“I know, sweetie. I miss you, too,” she purred, “but I have to stay here this weekend.” I froze. My brain shouted at me to keep walking, but somehow my feet didn’t have the same moral integrity. “Yes,” she continued, “I think he’s going to sell. What? No. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe. Just trust me, okay?” She paused. Her voice rose petulantly. “I’m not going to double-cross you, honey! Look, I’ll see you Monday, okay? Just calm down—it’ll be fine. Wait, I think I hear somebody coming. I have to go.” With a soft click, she snapped the phone shut. Just as she turned to move toward the terrace, I ducked through the doors leading into the living room. Hidden behind the
