George, Anne (2 page)

And it's a nice tourist attraction. There's a pleasant park at the base of the statue for picnics, and the people who climb the steps to the top of the statue are rewarded with a spectacular view of downtown Birmingham and distant mountains. There is also a neat little gift shop with T-shirts and beer buggers emblazoned with the back view of Vulcan and the words, "Buns of Iron." That's because the picnickers are being mooned by the largest iron butt in the world. So are all the residents on the south side of Red Mountain. Vulcan, the god of the forge, wears an apron that comes only halfway around.

Every few years, a halfhearted attempt will be made to cover Vulcan's derriere. But nothing comes of it. The truth is that most of us are rather fond of old Vulcan, bare-assed though he is.

From The Club, the view of Vulcan is from the side, so he looks fairly majestic. Many of the guests had already moved onto the terrace and, like Vulcan, were looking over the city. The wedding party was in the ballroom, though. Debbie and Henry had decided not to have a receiving line, but we could see the white dress surrounded by well-wishers. Mary Alice was nowhere in sight.

"I wonder where Sister is," I said.

"Here," she hissed in my ear, making me jump. "Come help me do something with these pantyhose. They keep working their way down to my knees."

"Are those the pantyhose I sold you? I told you to get the extra-long queen. What did you do? Just get queen?" Bonnie Blue, who works at the Big, Bold, and Beautiful Shoppe, was taking Sister's plight personally.

"I think FH go get some champagne or something," Fred said.

Bonnie Blue frowned. "Cause if you just got queen you're gonna be walking like a duck all day and not a thing we can do about it."

"I bought what you put on the counter."

"Then you got the extra long. Let's go see what's wrong, cause that's bound to be what I sold you. I don't believe that's what you put on, though. Extra long you got no trouble. Look at this." She held up her leg for our appraisal.

I watched the two of them walk away. Mary Alice was, indeed, walking like a penguin.

"Hey, Mama." My daughter Haley came by, holding the arm of Dr. Philip Nachman, who had stood in as the father of the bride for his late uncle. Uncle Philip is buried with Sister's other two husbands at Elmwood. Together.

"Have you heard them complain?" Sister asks.

"Where's Papa?" Haley asked.

"Gone to get some champagne."

"Go look at the cakes. They're incredible." Haley gave a little wave, and they headed toward the terrace. Philip leaned down and said something to Haley, and she smiled at him.

"Hmm," I said to myself, watching them.

I looked around for Fred, but he had disappeared. I decided to take Haley's advice and go see the cakes.

"Mrs. Hollowell?"

I turned to see Henry's cousin, who had filled in as the mother of the groom. A lot of substitutes at this wedding.

"Mrs. Bryan, how are you? Wasn't it a beautiful wedding?" I had met her the night before at the after-rehearsal party. Sister had introduced me to "Meg Ryan."

"Bryan," she had corrected gently.

"I'm sorry," Sister said. "I can't imagine why I keep saying that."

I couldn't either. Meg Bryan was nobody's gorgeous young movie star. More the Jessica Tandy type. Frail-looking with wispy gray hair, she had an intelligent face with strong echoes of youthful beauty. Our grandmother would have labeled her immediately "Southern Lady."

"I don't think I've ever seen a lovelier wedding," she said. "Henry's mother and aunt, God rest their souls, would have been so proud of him today up at that altar. They would have been pleased that he swallowed his gum, too."

Meg Bryan and I smiled at each other. "Would you like some champagne?" I asked.

"That would be lovely. And to tell you the truth, I'd love to have a go at the buffet. Have you seen it yet?"

I shook my head. "We just got here."

"It's unbelievable."

"Henry planned it," I said.

"That's what he told me. I think he's found his niche, don't you?"

I agreed. "You know he's going to be a chef at the Brookwood Country Club, don't you? He'll start as soon as he gets back from his honeymoon."

"And your sister is talking about buying a restaurant and making Henry a partner. Wouldn't that be nice?"

I thought about sweet, imaginative Henry in business with his formidable mother-in-law. "Yes, indeed," I lied through my teeth. "Come on, let's see if we can get to the buffet. I want to see the wedding cakes, too."

Most of the guests were still clustered in the center of the ballroom, so Meg Bryan and I had an unobstructed view out of the window as we walked by. I spotted Fred on the terrace talking to Lukey (the Minute Man) and Virginia. All of them held out empty champagne glasses for refills as a waiter walked by. I tried to remember if I had put any aspirin in my purse. He'd be looking for some soon.

"Meg Bryan!" a voice hissed loudly. Meg and I both jumped and turned to see a very blond, very elegant-looking middle-aged woman in a yellow suit advancing on us. She was gripping a stick of celery, and from the look on her face, had it been a knife, Meg Bryan would have been in trouble.

"Hello, Camille," Meg said.

"You bitch." The woman thrust the celery at Meg, who automatically reached out and took it. "Stick it!" With that, she turned and stalked toward the door.

"What in the world?" I was so startled, it took me a moment to speak.

"A dissatisfied client. It happens." Meg's face was pink, but she calmly opened her purse and dropped the celery into it. "I always forget that Birmingham is beautiful," she said, looking down at the city and deliberately changing the subject.

"I do, too," I admitted, looking around to see if any more dissatisfied clients were approaching us wielding vegetables.

"It's just so different from South Alabama. The vegetation. Everything."

"You're from Fairhope?" I watched the woman Meg had addressed as Camille disappear through the door.

Meg nodded. "Right on Mobile Bay. Lived there all my life."

"That's beautiful, too."

"Yes, it is. Sometimes I think it's too beautiful. Makes me not want to leave. And I do have to leave to do research. I'm a genealogist."

"That's interesting. You know all about your family tree, then."

"Sometimes I think I know about everybody's family tree." Meg Bryan smiled. "Which is what caused the little scene a moment ago. I'm a professional genealogist, and Camille Atchison had me doing some research for her. Obviously, she didn't like my findings."

"Obviously." I thought of the anger on the woman's face.

Meg continued, "While I'm here, I'm going to Samford University and the Birmingham Public Library to do some work. Both of them are excellent research centers. Are you familiar with the Southern History Department at the library?"

"My first job was there," I said. "You're going to be rambling through some of the stuff I filed forty years ago."

"Oh, most of it is on computer now. You can just pull it right up."

"Un huh," I said, suddenly feeling a hundred years old.

"And my last computer is so small it's no problem to carry. Fits in my briefcase. The genealogy program I use is pretty good, too. DOS based, which is fine. I'm writing a new Windows one that's better, though."

"Un huh." I looked at Meg Bryan, who seemed to have sloughed about twenty years. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were still flushed from the Camille incident.

"I tell you, Mrs. Hollowell, the world of genealogy is a dog-eat-dog world. You know?"

"I never thought about it before," I admitted. "But I think you may be right."

"Well, it is. Dog-eat-dog."

"But you enjoy it?"

"I'm a big dog."

And I believed her. This frail old lady had suddenly become Jessica Tandy with an overlay of pit bull, eyes narrowed and lips curled. I had been about to ask her what, specifically, had made Camille Atchison so angry, but decided it was none of my business and that she would tell me so, politely, but in no uncertain terms.

"For instance," she continued as we worked our way to the buffet table, "suppose you find Henry Hudson's maternal great grandfather. Absolutely perfect documentation. You better guard it like a setting hen or somebody'11 steal the nest egg. You know what I mean?"

I had no idea what she meant. Why would anybody be looking for Henry Hudson's maternal great grandfather? I nodded politely, though.

"Not just amateurs, either. Professionals. Are you a DAR, Mrs. Hollowell?"

"I don't think so."

"The Daughters of the American Revolution. Are you a member?"

"No."

"Oh, you should be. Your maiden name was Tate, wasn't it?"

I nodded.

"Incredible!"

"It's a fairly common name around here."

"I meant the cake." Meg Bryan stopped. "Would you look at that!"

In sixty years of attending weddings, I had never seen such a cake. It rose in many tiers of white icing decorated with marzipan flowers the same pink as the bridesmaids' dresses. On the top were rubric lilies that matched the bouquets the bridesmaids had carried.

"Good Lord," I said, wondering if "baroque" could describe a wedding cake. "How are they ever going to cut it?"

"Very carefully." The groom had come up behind us. We both hugged him and wished him every happiness.

"A beautiful wife and two daughters. How could I miss?"

He had also just added on Sister as a mother-in-law. But I smiled and agreed that he would be sublimely happy from this moment on.

Henry kissed each of us on the cheek. "Aunt Pat. Cousin Meg. Y'all get you some lunch now."

We assured him that we would, and watched him greeting other guests as he walked away.

"Yes, indeed," Meg Bryan said. "Henry's going to be fine."

It wasn't crowded at the buffet table yet because most of the guests were still concentrating on champagne. It's at parties like this that I most regret being allergic to alcohol. It would have been nice to let the bubbly add to the celebration. On the other hand, I enjoy the food more.

I was piling my plate with fruit, sliced turkey, little quiches, and various salads when Sister came up.

"I know you're anorexic, but would you please make an effort. This stuff cost me a fortune."

I just grinned. "Thanks, I will." I took another quiche. "Did you get your problem solved?"

"Bonnie Blue had another pair in her purse. They're a little dark, but God knows you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. I told Bonnie Blue, I said, 'Bonnie Blue, I can't believe you're this organized.' Can you, Patricia Anne? Believe Bonnie Blue's that organized?"

"She's organized."

Mary Alice turned to Meg Bryan. "Are you getting some of everything? How about the tortellini salad?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Fruit? How about a peach? God only knows where they came from in March, but I'm supporting some third-world country this month."

"No, thank-you," Meg smiled.

"Go mingle," I told Sister, "and count not the cost."

"Count not the cost? Are you crazy? I may have to get married again."

"There's no one here old enough."

Mary Alice frowned. "I cannot believe you said that, Patricia Anne." She started to walk away and turned. "Oh, by the way, Fred's out on the terrace tete-a-teting with some blonde."

"There's no such verb, Sister."

"Well, whatever you call it, he's doing it." This time she kept going.

Meg Bryan laughed. "You two sound like me and my sisters."

"How many do you have?"

"Four. I'm the oldest. Our family name was March, so there's Jo, Amy, Beth—" She noticed the look on my face and smiled. "Beth lives in Hawaii with her husband and three children. The rest of us are still in Fairhope."

I grinned. "You scared me for a minute."

"How do you think Beth's always felt? The third daughter is Trinity, though. Papa named her. I think he thought that would be the end of it, but Mama got right back to her plan."

"They're fine names."

"Yes, they are. Trinity and I are both widowed now and live in the old family home."

Both our plates were full. "Tell you what," I said, "why don't we just take our food and mosey out to the terrace? It's so nice out there." Also no one out there was wearing a yellow suit.

"Fine," Meg agreed.

Mary Alice had been telling the truth; Fred was in deep conversation with a cute young blonde. Since my hands were full, I nudged him gently in the leg with the toe of my shoe. There was no reason for him to say, "Ow," and jump like he had been shot. I suggested later that maybe the champagne had lowered his pain threshold, but he said that wasn't it, that I had kicked him hard as a son-of-a-bitch.

Be that as it may, and it's my word against his, Meg Bryan and I were introduced to Kelly Stuart, a manufacturer's rep who called on Fred and who—big smile with Nancy Kerrigan teeth—just loved doing business with him.