Mad Girls In Love (57 page)

The late-afternoon sun dipped behind a cloud, throwing Hammersmith Farm into shadow. Just off the main road, five teenage boys sullenly directed traffic into the pasture: Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, Cadillacs, and Lincolns. After parking their cars, the men strode forward, but the women picked their way around the cow flops, their gowns held above their ankles. They headed toward a path outlined with hundreds of white balloons, each printed with Jennifer & Pierre.

“I don't like outdoor events,” Dorothy said as Bitsy angled the Jeep under the banner that read
Wentworth-Tournear Nuptials
, as if to differentiate it from the hundreds of other weddings taking place on this mountain, and parked next to a black Lincoln. Ian was riding shotgun, looking elegant in his tuxedo. Dorothy leaned forward from the backseat, edging between them. “Did you talk my sister into coming?” she asked.

Bitsy turned to Ian. “My aunt Clancy isn't family-oriented.”

“And you are?” Dorothy cocked her eyebrow, which had been drawn in brown pencil—Mocha Frost by L'Oréal. Bitsy didn't respond, so Dorothy reached inside her jacket, where she'd safety-pinned a ten-dollar bill to her slip—her just-in-case-there's-trouble money.

“We could get bitten by ticks and come down with Rocky Mountain spotted fever,” she said. “The bride and groom could get bitten.”

“Now there's an idea,” Bitsy said.

“I wish Mack had come with us.” Dorothy sighed.

“He'll be here,” Bitsy told her. “He's picking up his date.”

“You said the keywords—pick up.” Dorothy sighed. “I hate to see what
this
one looks like.” She sighed again and brushed lint from her jacket. Dorothy watched as Ian helped Bitsy out of the Jeep and wondered if he had any uncles. She looked damn good in this Chanel suit. She just hoped that Ian didn't know where she'd gotten it, or about her time in the asylum.

Ian turned to Dorothy and offered his hand. She took her time easing out of the Jeep, thanked him, then steadied herself and watched him turn back to Bitsy. The way they looked at each other made Dorothy's heart lurch. If only a man had ever looked at her like that…well, it might have helped if she'd had an hourglass figure and nicer features. Maybe then her life would have been different.

“Well,” she said, “we'd best get a move on. We don't want to be unfashionably late. Speaking of which, let's pray that Bitsy hasn't over-dressed.”

Bitsy was wearing a black, off-the-shoulder top with a long pewter-and-cream skirt. Dorothy reached out, as if to pat her daughter's shoulder, but slid her hand down Bitsy's blouse and grabbed the tag.

“Chetta B?” she said, mimicking Jennifer's voice. She released the tag, feigning disgust. “What kind of no-name designer is
that
?”

They looked at each other and laughed. Bitsy grabbed a handful of tulle and lifted her skirt. Ian took one look at her silver evening shoes, then lifted her into his arms again and carried her across the pasture to the path. It was damp because of last night's rain—and more was expected tonight—but Claude's hired hands had laid down clear rubber mats.

At the top of the path, six little girls were holding hands and running in a clockwise circle. “Ashes, ashes,” they sang. “All fall down.” A few yards away, two little boys were juggling lemons. Smoke curled up from behind a lattice screen, giving off the scent of grilled steak and shrimp. A telephone pole stood near the edge of the hill, with wires running to the tent and to the Porta-Johns, each one the size of a caboose. Claude had electrified the mountain. He probably would have moved it if Jennifer had asked, Dorothy thought. They passed the Porta-Johns and one door stood ajar, showing black-and-white marble tile floors, gold faucets, marble sinks, glittering chandeliers. Two men hurried by, carrying a board—a giant ice carving surrounded by curly endive. The carving appeared to be a chipmunk.

“What is the significance of the rodent sculpture?” Ian asked.

“It was supposed to be a heart,” Dorothy told him.

“Perhaps they'll sort it out.” Ian watched the two men disappear behind the lattice screen into the catering area. Waiters were rushing around with trays, sidestepping the children. Inside the tent, more chandeliers hung from the pleated ceiling. Tear-shaped bulbs cast light on the black-and-white marble dance floor and the makeshift stage. The tables, each one with an elaborate floral arrangement, formed a C around the checkerboard floor.

As Dorothy wove among the tables, looking at the place cards, the violinist followed behind her playing “Evergreen.” Ian and Bitsy followed her. Beyond the tent, on the fescue, white wooden chairs were laid out in a symmetrical pattern reminiscent of the white marble crosses in St.- Laurent-sur-Mer, the hilltop cemetery in Normandy overlooking the sea.

Over by the fountain, the groomsmen were jostling each other. Tonya stood near them, patting her huge white corsage. Resembling a tidal wave in her silk seafoam suit, she stepped over to Pierre and straightened his bow tie in a proprietary way. Claude, looking pale and haggard in white tie and tails, stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, leaning over the bar was Chick, watching the bartender mix a scotch and soda. He wore a glossy black tuxedo, and a massive cummerbund was stretched over his abdomen like a surgical bandage.

“Chick's got mud on his shoes,” Dorothy said with a sniff. “They're Gucci, I'll bet. I've seen his old ones at the thrift store. Is he jaundiced, or is the light too harsh? They
say
he needs a liver transplant. But it could be a rumor. Look—there's Miss Betty.”

Holding her ever-present glass of wine, Miss Betty struck a regal pose. She wore a long beige taffeta dress—a traditional color for the mother of the bride. Her corsage was askew—white sweetheart roses mingled with orchids and satin ribbons. Emerald-cut diamond earrings peeked through her chin-length, lacquered hair. And she was wearing tinted sunglasses, even though the sky was rapidly filling with clouds.

“What, no corsages for us?” Dorothy whispered.

“An oversight, no doubt,” Bitsy whispered back. “Shhh, she's coming this way.”

“Well, hello again,” Miss Betty said in a grand voice. She appeared sober and had no trouble recognizing Bitsy this time. “You look younger than springtime with that choppy hair. I'm sure it's the latest style in…where are you living now?”

“England,” Dorothy said. “She lives in London, England.”

“Yes, I believe Jennifer mentioned that you'd moved. She said you were running away from another husband.”

“She left right after his funeral,” Dorothy said. “The poor dear.”

Ian laughed, and Miss Betty gave him a sharp look. She lifted her glass, tossed down the wine, then said, “I don't believe we've met. You're Bitsy's parole officer?”

“Indeed I am,” said Ian in his crisp, British accent.

“He's her boyfriend,” Dorothy said. “And he's a real famous editor.”

“Well, I'd be careful if I were you,” Miss Betty said in a flat voice. She started to take another sip of wine then realized her glass was empty. “Have either of you seen Jennifer? I suppose Samantha's helping her get ready. You
do
know Samantha, don't you, Bitsy?”

“We met last night,” Bitsy said. And thought,
You old bitch
.

“Yes, yes. That's right. You all met at the rehearsal dinner.” Miss Betty turned to Ian. “You missed the gorgeous dress that Bitsy wore last night. Why, I've never seen
any
thing quite that purple, except in a lingerie store.”

“No, I saw it,” Ian said, reaching for Bitsy's hand, giving it a squeeze.

“It's an Oscar de la Renta,” Dorothy said.

“Dorothy, I've got to give you credit,” said Miss Betty. “You might be insane, but you have a great sense of style. By the way, your suit is gorgeous.”

“It ought to be, it was
yours.”
Dorothy flashed a triumphant grin. Miss Betty seemed dumbstruck. She took off her sunglasses, and glared at the suit. But before she could speak, Dorothy put one hand on Ian's elbow, her other hand on Bitsy's and steered them toward the opposite side of the tent. Behind them, the violinist closed in on Miss Betty and began to play “We've Only Just Begun.”

After Ian took off toward the nearest bar with their drink orders, Dorothy nudged her daughter. “There's your brother. And just look at that
thing
hanging on his arm.”

“What thing?” Bitsy thought Mack looked stunning in his rental tuxedo. He was standing at the opposite end of the tent, near another bar, holding hands with a tall redhead in a slinky orange dress.

“Don't ask me her name,” said Dorothy, “but she works at the Kroger deli. And she has three children—each one by a different husband. At least I think they were husbands. I hope she doesn't try to trap Mack.”

The wedding planner hurried by, wearing a whispery beige gown, the hem already stained by the grass. She clutched a sheaf of papers, and her forehead was creased with a deep, V-shaped wrinkle. When she saw Dorothy and Bitsy, she stopped. “The most terrible thing has happened,” she said. “The ushers' tailcoats don't match.” The woman looked up into the tent's puckered ceiling, shaking her head. The huge beige bow at the back of her head wobbled. “How can this be?”

“I didn't even notice,” Bitsy said.

“I hope Jennifer doesn't,” said the wedding planner, her eyes growing wide with alarm.

“She probably will,” Dorothy said. “She made me order Mack's tux months ago.”

“What about the ice sculpture?” Bitsy asked. “Has Jennifer seen the chipmunk?”

“What chipmunk?” The wedding planner froze.

Bitsy started to explain, but the woman rushed off, pushing her way through the crowded tent. Over by the bar, Bitsy caught sight of a woman in an electric blue dress, the fabric stretched over an enormous stomach. Dorothy saw her at the same time. “That can't be Violet,” she squinted. “Lord, she's gotten hefty.”

“She's pregnant,” Bitsy said.

“Don't be silly.” Dorothy punched Bitsy's arm. “Violet's too old. I bet she has gray pubic hairs.”

In the distance, Clancy Jane trudged up the path. Perspiration slid down her face, and her long silver-blond hair had stuck to her neck. She was trailed by three little girls in white organdy dresses.

“Good lord, it's my sister. And look how she's sweating.” Dorothy shook her head. Then, in a singsong voice, she said, “She's
melting
, Auntie Em.”

“Keep your voice down.” Bitsy shook her mother's arm, and the upper flesh jiggled. “Just for today. Just for me.”

“I'll try.” Dorothy sighed. “But I can't give a guarantee.”

Clancy Jane and the children moved across the field, pausing beside the buffet. She snatched up a handful of green mints, causing the caterer to scream. “Oh, don't be so anal,” yelled Clancy Jane, throwing candy to the little girls.

Dorothy raised her eyebrows. “And you're telling
me
to keep
my
voice down?”

“I want to see Violet,” Bitsy said.

“No fair. I saw her first,” Dorothy cried, scuttling forward. She caught up with Violet at the bar and let out a whoop. She grabbed her niece's arm and pulled her into an awkward embrace. Violet barely had time to shift her massive stomach out of the way.

“Nice to see you, too, Aunt Dorothy.” Violet laughed. “Is Bitsy here?”

“She's right behind me.”

“I suppose she looks wonderful—as always.”

“Better than wonderful,” said Dorothy. “I suspect plastic surgery, but she denies it. Maybe you can tell if she's lying. Although she could be a witch. Witches never age.”

Bitsy rushed past Dorothy and threw her arms around her cousin. Dorothy drew back, as if scrutinizing Violet's shape. Bitsy could almost read her mother's thoughts,
It could be a tumor, Or middle-age spread gone haywire.
She knew she'd been right when Dorothy blurted, “Violet, have you gained a little weight?”

“Thirty pounds.” Violet placed her hand on the curve of her abdomen, staring at it reverently. “Eight is baby weight, I'm guessing. But I'm afraid the rest is fat.”

“I
knew
it,” Dorothy said.

“Say hello to Mariah,” said Violet.

“Mariah Carey is
here
?” Dorothy's head swiveled, looking at the crowd.

“No, my baby's name is Mariah. I'm having a girl.”

“Does Clancy Jane know? I sure hope you've prepared her, because she just arrived.” Dorothy pointed to the far end of the tent, where her sister had set up court with the little girls, feeding them mints and dancing in circles. Acting demented, in Dorothy's opinion.

“Not yet.” Violet turned to stare at her mother. “That's the reason I kept waffling about coming home. I knew I'd have some explaining to do.”

“Go on, I'm listening,” said Dorothy. “But first, tell me why you and George waited so long to get pregnant.”

“Aunt Dorothy, you haven't changed at all.” Violet laughed. “You're still nosy.”

“Quit changing the subject. Why did you wait so long?”

“It wasn't intentional.” Violet leaned forward. “It's sort of a virgin birth.”

Dorothy's eyes widened. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“George isn't the father,” Violet said.

“You had an affair?” Dorothy's hand rose to her throat. Like mother, like daughter, she thought. When those two wanted a man, they just
took
him.

“God, no.” Violet shook her head. “I'd never cheat on George.”

Bitsy gestured at her cousin's stomach. “If he isn't the daddy, then who?”