The Queen Gene (30 page)

“Okay,” he said flatly, likely still in shock. “Sorry ’bout that.” Randy turned around and left. And that was it. No drama. He just disappeared back to his house, leaving me with two servings of his excellent chicken piccata.

Chapter Thirty-Five

When Earl found out about Kimmy and Nick getting married at the open house, he immediately asked me to write a story about it. How my cousin’s naked wedding had anything to do with healthy living was beyond me, but the magazine paid well and I enjoyed working with Earl so I gladly accepted. When Kimmy had married herself, I wrote about it for
Glamour.
I suppose it was my lot in life to write about my cousin’s bizarre nuptials.

Since Aunt Rita and Uncle Arnold had left, I wrote almost nonstop. Before I finished one article, I had ideas for three more, all of which were miraculously accepted by magazines I’d never worked with before. My batting average had never been better. Not only was my creativity at an all-time high, the visiting artists were all working round-the-clock producing pieces for the open house, which was just days away.

The day before the event, Renee asked if our offer for her to be our third resident artist next season still stood. “I’m leaving him,” she told me as we assembled displays on Friday evening. I didn’t know what to say. Do you congratulate someone on a divorce? Though it was clearly the best choice for her, it was still a loss. For the first time since I’d known her, Renee finally showed a trace of human frailty as she told me about her decision. Her voice caught as she recalled telling Dan that she was filing for divorce. “I’ve tried to repair this marriage, but it’s killing me,” she said, not dramatically, but with an awareness that tolerating his infidelity was taking its emotional toll on her. “Every time he comes home, I wonder whether he’s been with her. And every time I torture myself with this question, I’m forced to face the fact that by putting up with this shit, I’m telling myself that it’s okay to treat me this way. And it’s not. God, I love him so much, though. I wish he would’ve stopped seeing her when he promised to and went to counseling with me months ago. I know we could’ve worked it out, but I can’t rebuild a marriage on my own, you know?”

Of course, Jack and I had already agreed that if Renee and her kids wanted to spend the following season with us, they would be more than welcome. I was both elated and saddened for her.

* * *

The big day finally arrived. Anjoli chartered several buses for Kimmy and Nick’s wedding guests, who were, much to their disappointment, the first to arrive. They didn’t seem to realize that when you’re with a group of two hundred, the concept of being fashionably late becomes irrelevant. As caterers began pouring champagne, they quickly got over it. At noon, it was balmy without any sign of the oppressive heat we expected.

I recognized the KAT girls immediately. Not simply because they were all young and adorable, but because they surrounded Anjoli and J.Lo like an entourage. A dozen young women with trendy hair and perfect outfits walked to the backyard, where tents and tables were set up and wait staff were placing canapés on clear Lucite trays. I was amazed at how the young women could balance themselves on such narrow heels on grass and unpaved dirt, but they walked it like a runway.

Anjoli and J.Lo wore matching emerald silk dresses with pillbox hats. J.Lo sported a necklace with a purse that was an exact replica of her carrier. I later learned this was where Kimmy and Nick’s rings were being safeguarded.

Four gay men in black t-shirts and jeans followed Alfie into the house, where they would set up their body-painting station and decorate the bride. Thankfully, Jack had been relieved of this duty.

About a half-hour later, a white stretch limousine pulled up to the house, passed the VW bug (which Jack had painted white and decorated with tulle and flowers), and delivered Kimmy in her white bathrobe. She held her hand over her head and waved. “Hugs and kisses everyone,” she shouted from the back deck, making sure we all saw how fabulous she looked without a stitch of makeup on. “It’s me! The naked bride,” she announced with a giggle of excitement. How does one even respond to that?
Hi, naked bride!

By three o’clock that afternoon, our backyard was packed with everyone I’d ever seen in town, the entire Junior League, and some people I’d never met. Watching people mill about the tents, Jack and I stood close to each other and drank it in. “Pretty cool, huh?” he asked. “Remember when this was all a pipe dream?”

I smiled as I recalled the image of Jack and me excitedly sketching our artist colony on napkins at Steve’s Lunch in Ann Arbor. Now, not only was it real, but hundreds of guests had come from as far as New York to see our artists’ show. The sun beat on my shoulders and the familiar scent of honeysuckle wafted through the air. Adam held court in the air jump we had rented for the children of guests. Part of this was our genuine desire to provide a party-like atmosphere, but a more cynical side of us had hired babysitters and entertainment so parents could deposit their kids and focus on spending their time viewing our residents’ work. For the sake of our guests, we hoped people would buy the art in large quantities. I was especially concerned about Maxime and Jacquie as they seemingly had nowhere to go and no money to support themselves after they left our place. Unfortunately, Jacquie had maxed out their credit cards during her Rita-inspired shopping sprees. Several of the stores accepted her returns, but most did not because she had used or worn her purchases.

Chantrell wore her hair in two tight French braids, a tribute, I believe, to her two new best friends, Maxime and Jacquie. She sat on a plain wood chair and played classical music as guests milled about, filling our yard to capacity. Jacqueline and Maxime sat peacefully in front of their white canvas tent, ushering guests in to see Maxime’s sketches in ink and mud. Faidra and Anderson were intently discussing something with the couple. My eyes scanned to the most crowded station of all — Randy’s. Savvy salesman that he was, my favorite glass sculptor had created dozens of original perfume bottles, giving the female guests a reason to linger around his tent. Every Junior League member was clearly recognizable because she was wearing a t-shirt painted by Renee and toting a small purple shopping bag that Randy had purchased especially for his customers.

An excitement filled the air. It was the thrill of looking at original art. The adrenaline rush of new purchases. And the feeling that something exciting was yet to come. The anticipation of a naked wedding is not easy to describe. There’s the giddiness associated with the most ordinary weddings, but an added element of sexual titillation when the guests know the bride will be wearing nothing but paint. Oh, excuse me, and glitter.

I went to Kimmy’s dressing room — or should I call it a preparation room — to see how off-the-charts stunning she looked. It was amazing. Alfie and his assistants used different shades of white to create shadows and accents so realistic, one could barely tell that her dress wasn’t made from actual cloth. In the ultimate touch of irony, they painted a high-neck collar on her gown, giving it a Victorian look. The glitter was barely noticeable, though the bodice had an inexplicable shine. This area also included painfully detailed painted laces that looked as though they were actually holding together the bodice and tied at the bottom. I couldn’t help glancing down, curious to see how they handled the issue of her pubic hair. I couldn’t help it. Aunt Bernice’s weekly Snatch Reports had made me increasingly pubecentric. As I later learned, Bernice had offered her free laser treatments to Kimmy as a wedding gift. Apparently, the Florida salon Bernice and her friends patronized had sister salons in New York. All that could be seen was the slightest sliver that separated her vaginal lips, tastefully decorated with clear rhinestones. It kind of looked like a change purse.

Kimmy’s northern hair was brushed up to the top of her head with loose tendrils of curls cascading down above her shoulders. Again, the Queen Team made great effort to ensure that every pearl was in its perfect location, and not a strand of hair fell into the painted-on gown. If
Playboy
ever decided to do the ultimate antithesis of itself — a bridal issue — Kimmy would be the cover girl. And I, no doubt, would write the story.

“Kimmy, you look gorgeous,” I said, awestruck by the incredible job Rafael had done on her makeup. It was perfectly elegant with subtle touches of kinky white to give it the quirky tie-in one needs when walking down the aisle in virtual nudity. The insides of her lips and a tiny section of her eyelids were pearlescent, posing a stark contrast to the earthen pinks on the rest of her face.

“Thank you!” Kimmy beamed. “My weddings are such fun, aren’t they?” Indeed they were. This was Kimmy’s third trip to the altar and, if all went according to plan, it would be the first time she wound up with a husband.

Anjoli burst through the door, clutching J.Lo, announcing there was a
crisis
at the show. Knowing she was dismissed from these, Kimmy turned away and gave her full attention back to her personal Fab Five. “Darling, some imbecile brought her dog, and the vile little schnauzer is trying to hump little J.Lo!” The dog was shivering in my mother’s arms, visibly shaken by the assault. Anjoli patted J.Lo’s forehead with a damp napkin and encouraged her to take deep, stress-reducing breaths. “You must ask this Faidra person to take her dog home immediately.”

I shuddered at the thought of a bunch of kids watching a schnauzer humping a miniature Chihuahua in a Vera Wang original. Thankfully, I had made sure the kiddie tent was a good distance from the rest of the show so no little ones would ask mommy if they could put rhinestones on their coochie like the pretty bride did. The unforeseen benefit was that I shielded them from their first episode of
Dogs Gone Wild.
I noticed that poor J.Lo had lost her pillbox hat in the dreadful transaction. “Did the kids see what was going on?” I asked.

“No, thank the divine energy for that, darling!” Anjoli said, now stroking a calmer J.Lo. I could see Alfie and his friends trying to contain their laughter. “Well, they saw it, but they thought the dogs were dancing! They thought it was part of the show. You know that I’m very open-minded on issues of sexuality, but I don’t want my little J.Lo used as a prop for their discussion on masturbation.”

“Is it masturbation if another dog is involved?” Alfie asked.

“Of course it is,” Rafael said, shooing with his hand. “What do you think, he needs to be alone with dog porn?”

Alfie feigned outrage and placed a hand on his hip. “It was just a question. No need to be bitchy.”

“Darlings, this is no time for jokes!” Anjoli exclaimed. “Tell that woman that a wedding is no place for her dog.”

“Mother, you brought J.Lo,” I reminded her.

“J.Lo is the ring bearer!” Anjoli said. “J.Lo is part of this family. J.Lo is wearing Vera Wang! That dirty little schnauzer has no business here.”

“Can’t you just keep her in your purse?”

“She can’t walk down the aisle in my purse, darling!”

“Why not?” I asked. “I’m walking down first then you go right afterward. Why can’t you just take J.Lo with you? The rings will get there just the same. Does she have to toss rose petals or something like that?”

“Don’t be ludicrous, darling,” Anjoli answered. “That’s the flower girl, and we’d never do something as pedestrian as that. J.Lo needs to make her own entrance, and it needs to be before you walk down the aisle.”

“It does?”

“It does.”

At this point, Kimmy turned to us to voice her agreement with Anjoli. “Lucy, I don’t think you fully appreciate how hard Auntie Anjoli has been working with J.Lo to get her prepped for this.”

“Prepped?” I asked. “The dog has to walk a straight line.”

“The timing is everything, darling,” Anjoli explained. “J.Lo has the most graceful gait
and
she knows to stop and turn toward the audience once she reaches the altar.”

The audience?

“I saw it the other day, Lucy,” Kimmy said. “You are going to be so totally stoked when you see J.Lo strutting her stuff. She even knows to make eye contact with guests on both sides of the aisle. She’s pretty amazing. I hope I have a dog like J.Lo someday.”

Oh, Kimmy, I’m quite certain you will.
I headed for the door, conceding defeat. “Kimmy, it’s your day,” I conceded. “If it’s important to you that J.Lo walk down the aisle, I’ll go ask Faidra to bring her dog home or tie him to a tree or something.”

“Or put him to sleep,” I heard Anjoli suggest as the door closed behind me.

When I returned to the yard, it was like Carnival in Rio. Not that I’ve ever been to Rio, but this is how I imagined it might be. People were running around with multicolored balloon sculpture hats and painted faces while Chantrell — and three new musicians who had mysteriously appeared — had changed the repertoire to Latin jazz. The constant hum of conversation and laughter filled the air, frequently punctuated by the clinking of champagne glasses. I found Faidra surrounded by a sea of floral t-shirts, telling the ladies that she had just invited Maxime and Jacquie to stay at their estate indefinitely. As she saw me approaching her group, Faidra smiled brightly. “I know why you’re here,” she sang.

I live here
, I didn’t sing back.

“Confucius has a thing for J.Lo,” Faidra teased.

Huh? Oh, right, Confucius the schnauzer.

“They say it’s only puppy love,” I said, not able to resist a joke that is typically delivered by an old man who farts when you pull his finger. Mercifully, the group laughed. “But could we separate the two for the ceremony since they’re so, um, how do I put this?”

“Ready to fuck each other?” Faidra said, laughing. She pointed to a fold-up chair where Confucius was tied by his leash. I was grateful that she seemed so easygoing about the issue, but felt oddly compelled to correct that J.Lo most certainly did not return Confucius’s feelings. Thankfully, I controlled the urge to set her straight. Let her harbor delusions about her dirty schnauzer’s sex appeal.