For one awful moment I thought she would hug me. Instead she blew her nose. Which was now the color of my Christmas socks.
But the mascara remained flawless. I wondered about the brand.
I was still wondering when Summer’s head tipped to one side.
“Oh, sweetie. You are booty-pooty-ful.”
I followed her sight line.
Birdie had entered the room. He sat watching us, ears forward, tail curling around one haunch.
Summer wiggled her fingers and spoke in the same saccharine voice. “Oh, you just come here, you little precious thing.”
Right. In addition to thunderstorms, my cat dislikes strangers and the smell of strong perfume.
To my astonishment, Birdie padded over and jumped onto the couch. When Summer stroked his back, he dropped onto his fore-paws and raised his tail high.
Summer pursed up her lips and uttered another string of baby-talk gibberish.
The little traitor actually purred.
“I apologize, Summer. It’s been a long day, and there are things I need—”
“You must think my mama taught me no manners at all.” Pecking Birdie on the head, Summer gathered her purse and rose.
At the door, she swiveled and beamed me a smile. “One day we’ll all laugh about this.”
“Mm.”
“Tempe, I take back every mean thought I ever had about you.” With that, Summer teetered off into the night.
Falling asleep, I wondered: Can one take back thoughts? Take them back from whom? To what end?
Monday morning, Birdie woke me by chewing my hair.
Fair enough. I’d FURminated off half of his undercoat.
After steeling myself with a quadruple espresso, toaster waffle, and wedge of cantaloupe, I phoned Pete.
“Summer came by my place last night.”
“Did she.”
“She was upset.”
“I expect she was.”
“Look, Pete. I did as you asked. She talked, I listened.”
“Seems you did more than just listen.”
“I offered no advice, rendered no opinion.”
“That wasn’t her take.”
I struggled to be tactful. “Summer has her own way of viewing the world.”
“You turned her into a crazoid.”
She had a huge head start. I didn’t say it.
“What did you do to make her so touchy?” Pete asked.
“She’s concerned about your lack of interest in the upcoming nuptials.”
“Who cares about napkin color? Or the flavor of frosting? Or the shape of a cake?”
“Your fiancee.”
“It’s like some monster has taken possession of her mind.”
Not much to take. Again I kept it to myself.
“You shouldn’t have told her I hate weddings,” Pete said.
“I didn’t. I simply said you weren’t big on ceremony.”
Pete had skipped his high school, college, and law school graduations. Our own marriage extravaganza was organized by my mother, Daisy Lee. Right down to the pearls on the napkin holders, which rested on the china, which complemented the linen tablecloths trimmed with alabaster lace. Pete had simply shown up at the church.
“What do you recommend?” Pete asked wearily.
Stun gun?
“Fake it,” I said. “Pick ivory or white. Raspberry or cherry.”
“She always disagrees with my choice.”
“At least you’ve made the effort.”
“I don’t need this shit at my age.”
