gotten within earshot when Dad bustled up.
'I have a wonderful idea!' he said. 'You don't mind, do you, Barry?' he said, taking Mrs. Grover by the elbow and leading her off. No, Barry didn't mind a bit, though Mrs. Grover looked rather like a cat when you take away a wounded bird that the cat's not quite finished playing with.
'Fetch some punch, Barry,' I said, rather brusquely, thrusting my cup into his hand and giving him a shove in the direction of the food and drink. I watched to make sure he was really leaving, then dashed off after Dad and Mrs. Grover, partly to avoid being around when Barry returned with the punch and partly to hear what Dad's wonderful idea was. I was appalled to see that he appeared to be making a date with her. To go bird- watching.
Since Dad's bird-watching trips start an hour before dawn and include trekking through some of the local streams and marshes to view the waterfowl, Mrs. Grover was proving less than enthusiastic, even after Dad offered to lend her his spare pair of hip boots. But from the way Dad persisted, I realized he must have some ulterior motive. Very few people can hold out when Dad persists. Mrs. Grover finally agreed, with a visible reluctance that seemed to escape Dad, to meet him in Mother's backyard an hour before dawn for a few hours of nature appreciation.
'Now, tell me why you're so eager to go hiking through the woods with Mrs. Grover,' I said, when she finally escaped Dad's clutches.
'I think a little taste of healthy, outdoor exercise would be beneficial,' Dad said. 'Perhaps a fishing trip in the rowboat would be a good idea, too.'
'You could borrow an outboard motor from someone.'
'No, that wouldn't do at all,' Dad said. 'The rowboat's the thing. I could teach her how to row.'
'Dad, I doubt if Mrs. Grover has any interest in learning how to row. If you're trying to chase her out of town, why don't you take her over to Mother's cousin's farm and show her the hogs.'
'That's a splendid idea,' Dad said. 'Perhaps he could arrange to slaughter a few while we're there. Any other little ideas you have to keep her out of your mother's hair and make her homesick for Fort Lauderdale, you just speak up anytime.' And he trotted off happily in search of the hog-owning cousin. I sighed.
'What now?' Michael asked, once more appearing at my elbow. He was getting very good at that.
'Dad has found a new purpose in life,' I said, pointing to where Dad was enthusiastically talking to Mrs. Grover.
'Mrs. Grover?' he said, incredulously.
'In a way. He's decided Mother needs protecting from Mrs. Grover.'
'Your mother?' he said, even more incredulously.
'Precisely. He's planning to kill her with kindness. Strenuous dawn nature hikes, visits to cousins who live under rigorously rustic conditions--all sorts of supposedly fun things that aren't. Keeping her out of Mother's hair and if possible, encouraging her to flee.'
'She could always refuse to go along.'
'You don't know him yet,' I said, shaking my head. 'Dad's the only human being on the face of the earth who can talk Mother into doing something she doesn't want to do. Mrs. Grover's a pushover compared to Mother.'
'Well, I must say, I won't be sorry if he succeeds in running her out of town,' Michael said. 'She keeps coming up to me and insisting she knows me from somewhere. I'm sure if she does she remembers me from my acting days. Before I went back to school for my doctorate, I was one of those rare actors who actually earned a living at it. Mostly in soap operas. I assume that's how Mrs. Grover knows me.'
'Have you told her that?'
'Yes, but she keeps saying 'No, that's not it. But it will come to me sooner or later.' As if she expects me to break down and confess, 'Yes, yes, you've seen through me! It was I on the grassy knoll, and what's more, I can tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is buried!''
'Really? I always heard it was somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike,' said a cousin who was the family's leading conspiracy enthusiast. His uncanny ability to turn up at moments when his pet subjects are mentioned is one of the most persuasive arguments for mental telepathy I've ever known. I confess, I abandoned Michael to him and hunted down Dad.
'Dad, about your trip to the farm with Mrs. Grover,' I said. 'Do they still have that old outhouse around for local color?'
'Yes,' Dad said, a blissful smile spreading over his face as he dashed off to talk to the cousin.
Maybe it wasn't going to be such a bad summer after all.
I kept one eye on Mrs. Grover's progress through the crowd--it was easy to track her by the comparatively bare spot in the crowd that tended to form around her whenever she paused anywhere for more than a minute. I was surprised she hadn't yet burst forth to accuse Mother of robbing her dead sister, but perhaps she was saving that for the grand finale. I wandered over to where Mother and Samantha were talking to the current and former rectors of Grace Episcopal Church. The retired rector, the aptly named Reverend Pugh, was an old family friend. Mother had recently granted tentative approval to his successor after a mere eighteen-year probationary period. She now referred to him as 'that nice young man' rather than simply 'that young man.' At this rate, he had a very real chance of achieving 'dear rector' status by the time he retired.
'And here's Meg,' the rector said, as I strolled up. 'Your mother and Samantha have been telling me about all the things you're doing to get ready for their weddings.' Telling him in mind-numbing detail, I suspected, from the desperate note in his voice. I'd long ago stopped wondering why all three brides showed such a distressing inability to understand how anyone they came in contact with could fail to be fascinated with the minutiae of their weddings.
'I'm sorry I'll have to miss them all,' he continued, somewhat disingenuously, I suspect. 'The day after tomorrow I'm taking the wife and kids on that trip to the Holy Land. Finally going after all these years!'
'Do you mean you're not going to be here in July?' Samantha demanded. 'Then who's going to do my wedding? I've booked the church.' The rector and I exchanged worried glances.
'Yes, well, if you'd talked to me I'd have told you I was going to be gone this summer,' he stammered. 'When you didn't, I assumed you were making your own arrangements with my substitute.'
'And who is that?' Samantha asked.
'Why, me, of course,' Reverend Pugh answered, beaming. Fortunately his eyesight was very bad--not unusual at ninety-seven--and he failed to notice the expression of outrage that crossed Samantha's face. I could see she was horrified at the mere thought of his decrepit and highly unaesthetic self officiating at her wedding.
'Don't worry, Samantha dear,' he said, reaching to pat her hand and getting Jake's by mistake. 'I've got it down in my calendar already. I wouldn't miss it for the world!'
I'd often heard of people having conniption fits, but I'd never actually seen a genuine, unmistakable example before. I was briefly tempted simply to let things run their course, but reason prevailed, and I knew I had to defuse the situation. Nothing brilliant came to mind, so in desperation I made a conspiratorial gesture to Samantha and whispered the first thing that came to mind: 'Just humor him! I'll fill you in later.'
And spent most of the rest of the party avoiding Samantha while racking my brain for some explanation that would satisfy her. By the time she finally cornered me, much later in the evening, we'd both had rather a lot of champagne, and I managed to spin a convincing yarn about Reverend Pugh's mysterious illness, and how Dad had said a positive mental attitude was important and of course it would keep his spirits up to look forward to the wedding, but that we'd round up a substitute and have Dad order bed rest at the last minute. It sounded highly convincing to me, though it could have been the champagne. Either she bought it or she allowed me to believe she had, after issuing the stern warning that I had better find the substitute ASAP.
I had changed my mind; it was going to be an interminable summer.
Tuesday, May 31
Although I hadn't exactly made a wild night of it, I had stayed up rather late at the picnic, plotting pranks against Mrs. Grover, averting disasters, and drinking a few glasses of wine and champagne. All right, more than a few. I was not at all happy when one of the bridesmaids showed up at the house shortly after dawn. The caterer
