Bridget flopped back into her chair and looked at me. “He doesn’t look good,” she said. “He seems tired.”
“Well, dinner was a tense affair,” I said. “After Roni’s little announcement, conversation came to a standstill.”
“God, she is so vile,” grumbled Bridget. “I really don’t get what Uncle Avery sees in her. I mean, other than the fact that she has... ” Bridget cupped her hands in front of her chest to indicate Roni’s most notable characteristic.
Peter’s dark brows pulled together in confusion. “Roni has arthritis?”
Colin burst out laughing as Bridget threw a cushion at Peter.
“You didn’t think that I was going to walk into that one, did you?” He laughed as the green cushion sailed over his head. “Besides, I have eyes only for Elizabeth,” he continued with mock adoration.
I picked up another cushion and threatened him with it. “You’re full of malarkey is what you are,” I said. “Hell, I’m a dedicated heterosexual and even I have a hard time not staring at them.”
“Please don’t ever tell me that again,” Peter said, wincing.
Bridget interrupted. “Well, big boobs or no, she’s a b... witch,” she quickly amended, directing a syrupy smile at Colin. He raised his beer bottle in tacit acknowledgment. She continued. “If she succeeds in convincing Uncle Avery to sell the Garden, it will tear this family apart. My great-grandfather started that business!”
“I know, honey,” said Colin. “But what can we do? It’s really not our decision.”
“Maybe we could poison her food,” Bridget mused.
“Who are you planning on poisoning?” inquired a deep voice behind us.
Turning, we saw Graham, his black brows pulled together quizzically. Blythe stood beside him. She peered at Bridget over her half-moon glasses, her expression bland. Some mothers might be alarmed to hear their daughters casually contemplating a murder. Those mothers did not have Bridget for a daughter. Blythe had learned years ago not to let Bridget’s flair for the dramatics affect her blood pressure.
“I was talking about Roni,” said Bridget. “Is it really true that she’s pressuring Uncle Avery to sell the Garden?”
Graham sighed and nodded his head. “It’s true,” he said quietly, with a backward look at the house. “Although everyone in there is trying their best not to talk about it, it’s clearly on everyone’s mind.”
“She is such a bitch sometimes!” exclaimed Bridget.
“I give up,” moaned Colin, throwing up his hands in mock frustration.
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, “you know I’m right.”
“Bridget.” Blythe sighed with a shake of her head. “Do you have to be so contrary? It’s very unattractive.”
A sudden gleam lit Bridget’s eyes. “Excuse me,” she said formally, with a quick look in my direction, “but I did not know I contradicted anyone by calling Roni a bitch.”
“Hey! Nice one!” I said appreciatively.
“Right?” She grinned at me in response. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it!” Brushing her bangs off her forehead, she added, “But in all seriousness, can’t we do anything about her?”
“Not tonight, dear,” Blythe said firmly, pushing her glasses up a notch. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, such as tomorrow. And speaking of tomorrow, please be patient with Ashley. I know she’s trying, but she
Ashley is Bridget’s five-year-old cousin. Born to Blythe’s sister, Karen, and her husband, Lewis, later in their lives, she was hailed by them as a miracle. It was a sentiment that was becoming less and less shared, however, as Karen and Lewis pandered to Ashley’s every whim, with the result that she was well on her way to becoming an obnoxiously spoiled little girl. In the name of family harmony, Blythe had pleaded, cajoled, and finally bullied Bridget into asking the little girl to serve as flower girl.
Bridget rolled her eyes now at the mention of the girl’s name. “Mother! Please. Ashley is beyond trying. She demanded—demanded!—that her basket only contain pink roses because ‘all other flowers make her sneeze.’ ”
“On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse,” I said to no one in particular.
Bridget’s head swiveled in my direction. “Movie?”
“Book.”
“Good to know.” Turning back to Blythe, Bridget folded her arms across her chest. “Simply put, Mother, Ashley is nothing short of a monster.”
“She’s not a monster. For heaven’s sake, she’s only five.”
“Leona Helmsley was five once, too.”
“Bridget! This is exactly what I’m talking about. Please, just try and be patient with her. After all, it’s not exactly her fault. If anything, she’s Karen and Lewis’s creation.”
“Well, obviously, but they’re a little off themselves. I know she’s your sister, Mom, but really, did you see what she sent for a wedding gift? A gold-plated
Blythe shook her head in understanding while halfheartedly muttering something about it being an antique. Bridget continued, “In any case, I don’t particularly care if Ashley’s problem is nature or nurture. I just don’t want her pitching a fit in the middle of everything tomorrow. What that child needs is a firm spanking. And if she tries any of her usual stunts tomorrow, I may just take the job upon myself.”
“That would make for a nice addition to the wedding album,” said Colin with a grin. “The glowing bride smacking around the little flower girl.”
“You don’t believe in spanking?” asked Bridget.
“Not until after the wedding,” Colin replied primly.
“Kinky,” Peter opined.
“Okay, enough, you two!” said Blythe. “Bridget, just be nice tomorrow. And as it is almost tomorrow, I think the two of you should say good night. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding on their wedding day.”
Colin stood up with a smile. “Point taken, Mrs. Matthews.”
Forgetting the extreme height of her heels, Bridget hopped quickly to her feet. The sudden movement wreaked havoc with her balance and she teetered dangerously to one side before Colin grabbed her arm.
Once steady, Bridget grinned sheepishly at Colin. “Come on. I’ll walk you out,” she said.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Graham offered.
The laughter following this remark died in our throats upon entering the house. Normally, I love the living room at Barton Landing. With its bright yellow walls, blue-and-white-floral-patterned chairs, and charming watercolors by French artists whose names I can never pronounce, the room is cheerful and inviting. But tonight the palpable tension in the room, combined with utter silence, rendered its appeal more on par with a dentist’s surgery chair.
Roni was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Her bare feet tucked up underneath her, she serenely sipped a glass of red wine. If she was aware of her in-laws’ animosity, she was doing an excellent job of hiding her emotions. The same could not be said for the rest of the room’s inhabitants. From her high-backed cane chair, Elsie glowered at her daughter-in-law without the slightest attempt at pretense. Anna lay flopped at her feet, her intelligent eyes watchful. Claire absently picked at her stunted fingernails, an overbright smile pasted on her face. She sat nestled in close to David, but I doubt he even registered her presence. He was, to put it bluntly, drunk. His bleary eyes shifted unseeingly around the room and his large frame was slumped so far back into the blue brocade cushions of the couch that he seemed to have been partially swallowed by them. Megan sat away from the group in a small leather armchair next to a large potted fern. She appeared to be reading a book, but she turned no pages. Between the sprawling branches of the fern and the generous folds of her green corduroy dress, she faded from view like the Cheshire Cat, except there was no smile on Megan’s round face. I wondered if she came by her ability to disappear naturally or if it was a practiced trait. Next to Roni, Avery sat in his wheelchair, seemingly preoccupied with a mark on the chair’s wheel. At our entrance, he looked up with an expression more normally associated with drowning men seeing life preservers.
“Ah,” he said, forcing his long face into a smile. “There you all are! Come and join us for a drink.”
