Mad Girls In Love (58 page)

“A stranger,” Violet said.

“Oh, my lord!” Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth. In a whisper, she said, “You were attacked?”

“God forbid.” Violet shut her eyes. “That's too awful to contemplate.”

“Then…how?” Dorothy's eyes wobbled.

“Artificial insemination.” Violet smiled down at her stomach.

“Now why would you go and do that?” Dorothy cried. “Why didn't you get old what's-his-name to inseminate you?”

“George? Well, he tried his best,” said Violet in an offhand voice. “But time was running out, and we wanted a baby.”

“Well, don't feel bad. All the movie stars do it.” Dorothy's hand moved toward Violet's stomach. “Would you mind if I touch it?”

Chick Wentworth passed by, ice tinkling in his glass. His eyes bugged when he saw Dorothy's hand on Violet's belly. His cummerbund had slipped a notch, riding low on his hips. Then he turned away, and Bitsy saw that he was going bald.

“A sperm donor might be the way to go,” Dorothy said, shaking her head at Chick. “Some men just shouldn't breed.”

The women turned to look across the tent, past the tables and chairs, toward Claude, who was milling through the crowd, shaking hands and smiling. “Where is Jennifer?” Violet asked.

“She's in a tent somewhere, getting ready,” Bitsy said, looking over her shoulder.

“Why aren't you with her?”

“Haven't you heard? The Wentworths have worked it all out,” said Dorothy. “Yes, Bitsy should be with Jennifer right now. Helping her daughter get ready. Fluffing her veil, making sure she has something borrowed and something blue. Instead, Claude's g.d. gal pal is helping. Miss Betty couldn't wait to rub that in.”

The violinist was now following some teenage girls, playing the theme song from
The Thomas Crown Affair,
Claude's favorite movie. He and Bitsy had seen it at the Princess Theater in 1971, and its lusty scenes had ultimately led to Jennifer's conception.

“There are four mothers of the bride here tonight,” Dorothy told Violet.

“You know, I'm a psychiatrist, but I never understood Claude's hold on Jennifer,” Violet said.

“Just look around.” Dorothy raised her hand. “A fabric tent. Chandeliers. Porta-Johns with marble floors. A fountain spurting out champagne.”

Violet looked through the tent, into the field, at the enormous fountain. Guests were bending toward its arcs, holding out their glasses.

“Although it could be piss,” added Dorothy.

The musicians took their seats in a roped-off area and began tuning their instruments. The ushers had gathered beneath a canopy that jutted from the center of the tent. Beyond the canopy were the white chairs, where a few elderly guests had already been seated.

“This music is making me ill,” Violet said. “I'm not used to the horrors of light FM.”

Bitsy tried not to smile. She loved the music. She needed it. Sometimes she even sang it when she was all alone.

“Aww, I know you like that song.” Violet put her arm around Bitsy. “But it's too sad for wedding music.”

“You should've been here earlier,” Dorothy said. “They were playing something from the
American Tail
soundtrack.”

“Wedding music should be symbolic,” Violet said. “They could at least play Midler. Maybe something from the Bathhouse Bette CD. Like ‘That's How Love Moves.'”

“I wasn't exactly consulted.” Bitsy smiled.

“Toughen up, kid.” Violet made a fist and gently touched her cousin's chin. “If you can get through this wedding, you can get through anything.”

“You'd better toughen up yourself,” Bitsy said. “Here comes your mother.”

But Violet was following Dorothy's gaze, toward the fountain, where an unruly mob had gathered. In their midst was Louie DeChavannes—dashing in cream trousers, a crisp Zegna shirt, blue-gray silk tie, and a pink cashmere jacket. A linen handkerchief was artfully arranged in its front left pocket. On his lapel was a pink tiger lily. And he was wearing mirrored sunglasses.

“All that
pink
,” gasped Dorothy. “Jennifer will die.”

“I like it,” said Violet, then she hummed a few bars from “Hotel California,” about pretty boys.

“At least he isn't wearing matching trousers,” said Dorothy. “Knowing him, that jacket probably cost a small fortune.”

“It did,” Bitsy told her. “I helped him buy it.”

“Gad, that was years ago,” said Violet.

“What were you thinking, honey?” Dorothy's forehead puckered as she turned to Bitsy. “I know you like pink, but
on a man
?”

Just then Louie saw Bitsy and did a double take. When he smiled, Bitsy couldn't help but smile back. He was still handsome, but he didn't look healthy. Under the tan his complexion was gray and chalky. He took off his sunglasses and saluted the women with his empty champagne glass.

I wish he'd—
Bitsy stopped herself. Wish what? That he'd shrivel up and die? That she'd never met him? She began looking for Ian. He was standing close to the bar, talking to Mack and the redhead. The musicians started playing “Greensleeves,” and Bitsy stole one more glance at Louie. He had put the sunglasses back on, and was leaning over the fountain, extending his champagne glass beneath a sparkling arc.

Let's get this over with
, she thought, and squeezed through the crowd. When he saw her coming, he raised his champagne glass in another silent toast.

“Beauty,” he said, bowing over her hand. His grip tightened, and he rhythmically squeezed her fingers. She knew the code by heart.
Let's get out of here
, the code said. Her limp hand sent back a terse reply:
No.
A waiter passed, balancing a tray of champagne, and Bitsy let go of Louie's hand and reached for a glass.

“It was kind of you to come,” she told him. “It means a lot.”

“To whom?” He took a sip of champagne. “Jennifer?
You?
”

She didn't answer. If only he'd take off those goddamn sunglasses. She remembered his last letter.
This is it, kid.

Over Louie's shoulder, she saw her mother pushing through the guests, a panicky look on her face as she approached. On the other side of the tent, the musicians started playing “Ode to Joy.”

“Dorothy!” Louie's voice boomed. “Get over here and give me a hug.”

“You haven't changed one bit,” Dorothy said in a girlish voice. She reached her chubby arms around his neck.

“Nor you,” he said, smiling.

“Flatterer.” Dorothy's eyelashes fluttered.

Louie turned to Bitsy. “I hope your mother warned you I was coming.”

“I did,” Dorothy said.

“Bitsy, I—” He faltered, and his lovely eyebrows came together. Dorothy leaned forward, too. Her heart began to flutter beneath the Chanel suit. Why, he's going to tell her that he still loves her, Dorothy thought. Oh, this was more exciting than the star-crossed romances on
Guiding Light.
His lips were moving rather frantically, but the words seemed lodged in his throat.

Say it, Dorothy thought. Just spit it out. Then Louie's eyes rounded. He looked past Bitsy and stepped backward. Dorothy turned and saw Ian squeezing through the crowd, holding three champagne flutes—quite a neat trick. She almost said, Shoo, Ian! Not that she had anything against the man, except for his U.K. address. She held her breath and tried to shove her thoughts in her daughter's direction.
Bitsy, you belong with Louie.
True, he was limited, but what man wasn't? Then she saw how her daughter was looking at the Englishman, and Dorothy knew the moment had passed.

Ian walked up and held out the flutes. Bitsy put down the untouched glass she'd been holding, then accepted the new one from Ian. A veil fell over Louie's eyes. Then he seemed to collect himself. His smile was automatic, his manners polished and cordial. Bitsy made the introductions, and Louie took off his sunglasses and extended his hand. “Looks like rain,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “It could be a portent. Did you see the ice sculpture?”

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. This was part of the famous DeChavannes charm, inserting levity at the precise moment it was needed. “I witnessed the catfight between the delivery men and some blonde—”

“The wedding planner,” Bitsy supplied helpfully.

“She was going wild.” Louie's grin widened. “Apparently the heart Jennifer ordered went to a reception for a naturalist who specializes in squirrel photography.”

“But the sculpture is a chipmunk.”

“It seems the sculptor sneezed at a critical moment and lopped off the damn thing's tail.”

“Well, it's a warm night.” Bitsy laughed. “It won't be a chipmunk for long.”

 

While the violinist played “Isn't She Lovely,” several young men lurched toward the Porta-Johns, but were deterred by the long lines. They reeled toward the pine-strewn path, looking for a private place to urinate. One fellow stumbled down the hill. His friends went after him, and when they returned, their suits were coated in beggar lice.

“We're almost ready,” the wedding planner said. “You'll walk down first, Bitsy. Followed by Samantha. Let's just get lined up. Todd? You need to get over here with Jennifer's mother.”

Mothers
, Bitsy thought. The music segued into Vivaldi's “Spring.” She slipped her hand into the crook of her usher's arm. He laid his hand over hers and winked.

“You're one fine-looking mama,” he said. “What you doing later tonight?”

“Hush, y'all!” The wedding planner snapped her fingers. Her young assistant rushed up to her, whispered urgently into her ear. “Oh, for heaven's sake,” said the planner, and dashed off into the crowd, pausing to glance over her shoulder at the wedding party.

“I'll be right back. Don't anyone move,” she ordered

From the corner of Bitsy's eye she saw a flash of white satin tulle—Jennifer was riding piggyback up the path on a bearded usher. Her hitched-up mermaid dress showed trim, tanned thighs, dainty ankles, and white pumps. In her right hand she was holding a bottle of champagne. The bridesmaids surrounded her, their blood-colored gowns skimming lightly over the damp grass. They resembled ballerinas, tall, anorexic sugarplum fairies. Each girl was wearing pearl studs and a pearl choker, and their hair had been styled into identical French twists. The maid of honor had white powder on her nose and upper lip, as if she'd been eating self-rising flour. She was obviously wired, giggly and electrified. The groom was nowhere in sight. Trailing behind the wedding party was Samantha, holding up the hem of her baby-pink gown—it was the color of the sugar roses on Jennifer's seven-layer wedding cake.

“Okay, I've had enough,” Jennifer told the usher. “Put me down, Christopher.”

“No!” squealed Samantha, throwing out one manicured hand. “Keep holding her, Christopher. The grass will ruin her dress, and it's a Vera Wang.”

The bridesmaids began to twitter, “The bride wore Wang.”

“Vera Twang,” said one.

“Vera Wrong,” said another.

“Vera Wang Wang Blues.”

“Y'all shut up.” Jennifer slid down the boy's back, and the satin dress made a scratchy noise. Her spiked heels sank into the ground. “I've got to walk sooner or later, and besides, my butt was getting numb.”

“Don't smudge your dress,” Samantha called.

“Why, do you plan to wear it next?” Jennifer fluffed the veil, which she'd somehow affixed to her short, spiky hair. Her bangs stuck out, the color of oakwood, darker than Bitsy's. Then she lifted the bottle of champagne and took a sip. Bitsy noticed it was Moët, not Dom Perignon or Five Star.

“I resent that. I'm only trying to help.” Samantha's cheeks turned pink.

“Oh, don't get your panties in a wad,” said Jennifer. “I don't mind if you borrow it. And I've resigned myself to far worse than grass stains.”

She glanced down the length of the field, past the white tent, past the musicians, who were playing “Beau Soir” by Debussy. Then she took a step forward, her gown skimming over grass. Lifting her eyes, she looked straight into Bitsy's face. Apparently Samantha saw, too, and tried to position herself between the two women, but Jennifer threw out her arm.

Bitsy stepped hesitantly forward, thinking that her daughter had indeed made a beautiful bride. She started to tell her, but the wind caught the veil, lace and tulle floating around Jennifer's head, who cursed and swatted it down. The wedding planner came rushing up, gripping her sheaf of papers.

“You aren't supposed to be out here,” the woman told Jennifer. “Get behind the curtain this instant.”

“What does it matter?” Jennifer shrugged.

“Go!” The wedding planner held out one arm, pointing at the tent. She looked just like a bouffant munchkin, shouting at the Wizard of Oz. The musicians began to play “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.”

“God, those
fools
!” The wedding planner grimaced. “That's a recessional. And it's not even the one we picked. They're supposed to be playing Canon in D. Dammit, what else can go wrong?”

 

When Jennifer finally started down the aisle with Claude, lightning zigzagged behind them. They marched on, oblivious to the disturbance. As they passed the grandmothers' row, Jennifer nodded at both sets of relatives. Miss Betty always called Dorothy “that nut,” and Dorothy always referred to Miss Betty as “hoity-toity.” But they'd called a truce today. Taking another step forward, Jennifer glanced furtively at her mother, thinking that grace and good looks were inherited. She couldn't help but wonder if she had misjudged the woman. Last night she had found letters stuffed inside the Fitz & Floyd tureen, and she'd stayed up past midnight reading them. And when she returned from her honeymoon, she planned to read them again and have a long talk with her mother.