Karen suddenly materialized.
“What’s going on, pumpkin?” she asked brightly. Ashley used her mother’s presence to full advantage.
Letting her basket drop forlornly by her side to the ground, she pushed out her lower lip. “Mother,” she whined, “I was just swinging my basket—honest! But now everyone’s mad at me.” She glanced accusingly up at me from underneath her lashes. For once, Karen did not automatically jump to her daughter’s aid. She studied Ashley’s face for traces of deception. Sensing that her mother was not going to rise up in her usual lioness defense, Ashley upped the ante. Flopping her slight body onto the ground, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. “It’s because I’m little,” she moaned. “Everyone thinks I’m a pain! Nobody likes me!”
Karen’s earlier hesitation vanished in a flash. “Oh, my poor baby,” she crooned, bending down to sooth Ashley’s huddled form.
Chloe followed suit. “Don’t cry, honey,” she purred, as she crouched over the girl. “No one is mad at you! Why, how could they be? You are probably the sweetest little flower girl I’ve ever seen—and I go to tons of weddings! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as pretty as you!”
Ashley shifted her arms slightly and peeked out doubtfully at Chloe. “You really think I’m the prettiest?”
I rolled my eyes, but Chloe carried on. “Of course! No question! Now don’t you worry about anyone being mad at you!”
“But Elizabeth was,” she said, glancing in my direction.
Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, Chloe jumped in, “No, she’s not, honey. It’s just this awful heat.” She lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. “It makes some people grumpy.”
While I tried to digest that without obvious rancor, Ashley smiled coyly at Chloe. “You don’t seem grumpy. You seem real nice.”
Chloe winked at her. “Well, thank you, Ashley. I think you’re really nice, too. Now why don’t we see if we can’t get you something to drink?”
“I’ll get you something, pumpkin,” Karen said, pulling Ashley to an upright position again. “Thanks very much,” Karen added with a grateful smile to Chloe before moving away. I received only a cool nod.
Chloe stood up in one graceful move and smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. Catching sight of my annoyed expression, she smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’m just a sucker for kids,” she said.
“So I gather.”
Chloe glanced carefully around before continuing. Was she making sure her next words were not overheard —or just the opposite? “I can see how you might think she’s a bit spoiled, and I grant you that you may have a point. But who could resist that face? She’s so cute! I know I’d always be indulging my kids—should I ever be lucky enough to have any, of course. Besides,” she added with a glance in Ashley’s direction, “I’ve always had a soft spot for the kids who have a bit of the devil in them. I much prefer them to the polite, well-mannered ones.”
“Really?” I couldn’t resist, so added, “I confess, every time I see Ashley, I never think of polite, well- mannered children with any abhorrence.”
Before Chloe could respond, Mr. Keys, the photographer, anxiously clapped his hands to get our attention. “I need the bride’s family now!” he called.
I focused on him rather than on Chloe’s obvious ploy to demonstrate to everyone within earshot that she was quite ready to be a mother to Peter’s children. Everything about Mr. Keys was round. He had round, wire-rimmed glasses, a round, soft-looking body, a round, pink mouth, and a round balding head. In his right hand, he clutched one of those large white linen handkerchiefs that were popular in the early 1900s. Peering thoughtfully at our group, he alternately coughed into the handkerchief and mopped his head with it. Peer, cough, mop. Peer, cough, mop. We stood patiently while he did this. Mr. Keys might be eccentric, but he was also talented. Finally, a gleam of inspiration replaced the peering. The coughing and mopping stopped and he methodically arranged us according to some unknown master plan. In the midst of the shuffling, Avery called out, “Wait! Where’s Megan?” We looked around, and realizing that she wasn’t nearby, began to call her name. Within seconds she appeared from the terrace, flushed and apologetic.
“Sorry, I was just listening to the band,” she said. “They’re really good.”
As Mr. Keys crankily reshuffled the rest of us to create a spot for Megan, Roni eyed her daughter critically. “Megan,” said Roni, “is that the dress you wore to the church?”
Megan glanced warily down at her outfit before answering. The full-skirted silk dress of midnight blue was sophisticated and flattering. She looked lovely. Still, Megan tensed. “Yes,” she finally said suspiciously. “Why?”
With a perplexed expression, Roni shook her head. “Where did you get it?”
Megan threw her head back and stared defiantly at Roni. “I bought it.”
Roni’s winged eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Really?” Her eyes flickered disparagingly at the dress. As she turned to face Mr. Keys, I heard her add under her breath, “From whom? Omar the tentmaker?” I wasn’t the only one who heard the vicious remark. Megan bit her lip and looked away. Behind me I heard a sharp intake of breath, while another low voice muttered, “That bitch.” The camera flashed just then, forever capturing the moment: Roni smiling obliviously, Megan’s head ducked in embarrassment, Harry’s mouth a hard, thin line of anger, Elsie’s eyes narrowed and focused on Roni, and Avery with his eyes closed. Around them, everyone else wore bright, painfully artificial smiles. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one was worth twice that.
By eight o’clock the reception was in full swing. The band, abandoning its earlier serene melodies, was now blasting out “Mack the Knife.” Guests packed the dance floor and gyrated in inverse proportion to their skill level. The air was filled with the smell of muted sweat underneath expensive perfume. Peter and I briefly joined the fray, but the onslaught of flailing arms and sharp elbows proved too much for us. After a particularly painful jab to my upper arm, I gave up. Deftly avoiding a twirling woman in a fuchsia dress, Peter led me off the dance floor and toward one of the refreshment tents. After getting me a glass of wine and a beer for himself, Peter shifted uneasily on his feet. “Elizabeth?” he said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
My stomach flipped sickeningly and my body temperature instantly rose ten degrees. This is it, I thought. He’s going to tell me about Chloe. I had refused to bring up the matter myself with the knowledge that to do so would only make me appear petty and jealous. I had been down this road too many times before and had finally learned my lesson. I would stay calm and cool. I would be—to coin a phrase—mistress of myself.
Taking a deep breath, I put my wineglass down before my shaking hands spilled it down my dress and looked at him. However, his next words were interrupted by the arrival of Harry. As he saw us, Harry’s face split into a lopsided grin.
“How come you two aren’t dancing?” he asked.
“I forgot to bring my body armor,” I said, rubbing my still-tender arm.
“Well, it’s a take-no-prisoners kind of crowd. We Southerners take our dancing very seriously,” he replied.
“I notice
Harry took a sip of his beer before answering. “We Southerners also take our drinking very seriously.”
“No point in spreading yourself too thin,” said Peter with mock seriousness.
“Exactly.” Harry nodded, clinking his beer bottle against Peter’s.
I rolled my eyes. A woman in a powder-blue linen suit moved past Harry and then stopped and looked up at him. “Hello, Harry,” she said quietly.
At the sound of her voice, Harry whirled around and stared down at her. She was a plump woman in her late fifties with chestnut brown hair, light green eyes, and an open, kind face. When he saw her, Harry’s demeanor changed. The sardonic façade vanished, his mouth lost its ironic twist, and the mocking glint faded from his eyes. Without a word he wrapped his long arms around the woman and enveloped her in a giant bear hug.
“Julia!” he said, once he had released her. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, kiddo. I saw you in town today, but I guess you didn’t see me.”
“Really?” said Harry flushing, “I don’t think I—”
“Don’t worry about it. You were in a rush, no doubt getting ready for the wedding. How are you? Have you lost weight? You look tired,” she said, giving him a motherly pat on the cheek.
“Really? Shoot. I thought I looked debonair. Oh, well. Story of my life.” Turning back to Peter and me, he said, “Elizabeth? You remember Julia, don’t you?”
I smiled and extended my hand. “Hi, Julia. I’m Elizabeth Parker, Bridget’s friend... ”
Julia smiled and took my hand. “Of course, I remember you, Elizabeth. It’s lovely to see you again. I was so
