Mother of the Bride (39 page)

“And the mistress of French toast is here to prepare it.” Georgette breezed into the kitchen from the hallway, with Herb behind her. “Fry sausage, Cydney,” she said, nudging her aside at the stove. “Kindly cut the grapefruit, Herbert. Angus, set the table. And Fletch, stay on that stool and out of my way.”

“Well, I like that. Just when I was about to offer to take you back.”

Georgette swung a look at him over her shoulder, Aunt Phoebe's king-size cast-iron skillet in her hand. “For my French toast, of course.”

“Absolutely.” Parrish slid her a wicked smile and twisted a cigarette into his gold holder. “What other reason could I possibly have?”

Georgette glared at him, but her eyes twinkled as she banged the skillet on the front burner. “You're a wretch, Fletch.”

“You're a poet, George.”

They laughed at each other across the kitchen, trading a look that didn't quite strike sparks but came close. Cydney and Herb popped out of the fridge side by side, Herb clutching four fat, red grapefruit; Cydney a package of sausage on top of the butter dish, a dozen eggs and a half gallon of milk, an uh-oh pucker between her brows. Gus folded his arms on the island and smiled. This was getting fun again.

Cydney scurried toward the stove, splitting a what's-going-on-here look between her parents. Herb plunked a cutting board on the far end of the island and a grapefruit on top of it. Fletch lit his cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke. Herb waved a hand in front of his face.

“Must you smoke in here?”

“Sorry.” Fletch slid off his stool. “Call me when breakfast's ready.”

He pushed through the swinging door, a thin, blue curl trailing behind him. Herb watched him go, picked up a cleaver and whacked the grapefruit in half, hard enough to squirt juice in Gus' eye.

“Oops. Sorry, Gus.”

“It's okay, Herb.” He rubbed his stinging right eye and took himself out of the line of fire to set the table.

When Fletch came back he had Aldo with him. “Look who I found,” he said. “The handsome groom.”

“And where's the beautiful bride?” Georgette asked, a razor-thin edge in her voice as she put a platter of French toast on the table.

“She's got a headache. Bride nerves, she said, whatever that is.” Aldo shrugged and grinned. “I offered to take her breakfast, but she said she wasn't hungry and I could have hers.”

Georgette slid a look at Fletch, and Cydney one at Gus that said, “What do we tell this poor dumb schmuck nephew of yours?” He gave her a nothing-yet shake of his head and sat down at the table.

“Aldo tells me the two of you are off to buy tuxedos today,” Fletch said to him halfway through breakfast. “Mind if I tag along?”

“Not a bit.” Gus sipped his coffee. “How 'bout it, Herb? You game?”

“No thanks, Gus.” He lifted Georgette's hand from her lap and kissed her fingers. “I'll stay here and be muscle for the ladies.”

Georgette smiled at Herb. Fletch frowned. Cydney bit worriedly at her bottom lip. Gus wiped his mouth with his napkin to hide the grin on his face. Aldo kept on eating, his share and Bebe's and then some.

He was still eating when Louella and Mamie and Sarah and Cloris and her sisters arrived and trooped into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Everyone got a laugh out of him following his plate in Georgette's hand toward the sink, still wiping up the last bit of syrup on the last piece of French toast and forking it into his mouth.

It was possible that Aldo was fully aware of Bebe's modus operandi and saw nothing wrong with it, although Gus hoped not. He'd hate to have to kill his nephew four days before his wedding. If Aldo were truly clueless, and Gus bet he was, then the question was how much and who best to tell him. He hoped Parrish had a reason for tagging along on the tux trip, because he really didn't want to be the one. Aldo wouldn't believe him, anyway. Gus wasn't sure he'd believe anyone.

They left for Springfield, where Gus figured they'd find a better selection of tuxedos, right after breakfast in his red extended cab Ford 4×4. Jags were ho-hum, Fletch claimed, and it had been years since he'd ridden in a pickup. He spent the trip telling Gus how to drive and asking Aldo about his studies and his plans for the future.

They did the tuxedo thing first at a specialty store in the Battlefield Mall. Time he bought himself a new monkey suit, too, Fletch said. Aldo cracked up at the phrase, which he'd never heard. Parrish made a big deal out of Aldo, said how proud he was to have him as his grandson-in-law It made Aldo flush, and it made his eyes shine. As soon as the salesman found out his customer was Fletcher Parrish, they were fitted
at the speed of light and told their tuxedos would be ready at 3
P.M.

Next stop the barbershop. Gus choked up watching Aldo's mane come off, revealing the strong line of his jaw and the cords of muscle in his neck. It reminded him of the first time he'd taken his nephew for a haircut, especially when the barber finished and Aldo swept one long tendril off the floor.

“To save for Beebs,” he said, and Gus had to wipe his eyes.

Aunt Phoebe had wiped her eyes, too, when she'd plucked a white-blond curl off the barber's chair to press into the baby book Beth had started for her son.

Fletch offered to buy lunch. “But no mall food,” he insisted, and he insisted on driving in their search for a suitable restaurant. God, what a riot. Little bantam rooster man versus the big-ass truck. Gus practically had to lift him up behind the wheel. Aldo gave him a bright blue Kansas City Royals baseball cap. Fletch grinned, put it on backwards, and off they went, gears grinding, clutch squealing and dual exhausts belching.

He and Fletch ate 16-ounce T-bones for lunch, Aldo a 32-ouncer, in a swank red leather and dark paneled steak house. Gus had coffee after, Aldo a giant-size hot fudge sundae and Fletch a whiskey sour and a cigarette that made Gus yearn for a cigar.

“Bebe's a lucky girl.” Fletch leaned his elbow on the table and pointed his cigarette at Aldo. “You're a fine young man.”

“No, Mr. Parrish. I'm a lucky guy.” Aldo caught a chocolate drip at the corner of his mouth with his spoon and grinned. “Beebs tells me that all the time. And she tells me not to forget it.”

With her big brown bedroom eyes and her lush body. When he was Aldo's age, Gus would've believed anything that came out of a mouth like Bebe's.

“I'm sure you've noticed that now and then Bebe is a bit, hmmm …” Fletch rubbed his chin. “Shall we say, high-strung?”

“You mean like she cries a lot and stuff?”

“That's what I mean.” Fletch laid a hand on his shoulder. “Could I give you some advice, Aldo? A few tips on how to handle Bebe?”

“Sure.” Aldo laid his spoon in his empty dish with a clink. “I get a headache sometimes, she cries so much.”

“How 'bout some coffee, guys?” Gus wiped his mouth and stood up. “I'll send the waitress over on my way out.”

“Where are you going, Uncle Gus?”

“Uh—to buy cigars, Aldo. Can't have a decent wedding without cigars. I'll be back in—?”

“An hour.” Fletch glanced at him and laid his hand on Aldo's shoulder again. “Never think a woman's tears are just tears, Aldo. She may be sad and cry, or angry and cry, but she is never just sad or just angry. There's always a deeper emotion, something else going on beneath the surface of her tears. The trick is figuring out what. If she tells you she's just sad, or just angry, don't believe her.”

Gus stood beside the table listening and thinking of Cydney. The tears in her eyes when he'd found her in the brown chair on Sunday, the ones she'd blinked back when he'd helped her with chapter five, the quivery, watery smile on her face this morning.

“Gus.” Fletch shot him a get-outta-here look. “Forget something?”

“Uh—no. Back in an hour.”

Gus went, wondering what all those damn tears meant. What was Cydney trying to tell him that he was too dumb to figure out?

chapter

twenty-six

Bride nerves, Cydney's left big toe. Bebe no more had a headache than she did. She was upstairs plotting while Cydney and her mother and Herb and the ladies of Crooked Possum slaved downstairs to get the great room ready for her wedding. It was 12:45. How much longer was Georgette going to let Bebe get away with this?

Why are you waiting for your mother to do something?
her little voice asked.
Why don't you take charge, for a change?

“'Cause I'm not supposed to know about this,” Cydney muttered.

“You aren't supposed to know about what?” her mother asked.

From the foot of the stepladder Cydney stood on, startling her so badly she had to grab the mantel to keep from falling. She glanced at Georgette over her shoulder and frowned.

“I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me, Mother.”

“I didn't sneak up on you. You didn't hear me because you were talking to yourself. You do that a lot, you know. It's very disconcerting to other people, Cydney.”

“All writers talk to themselves, Mother.”

“I talk to my secretary. It's called dictation. What aren't you supposed to know about?”

Cydney looked at the far end of the great room, where Herb and the ladies were putting a spit and polish shine on the bar. She doubted they could hear her, but she kept her voice low anyway.

“I'm not supposed to know Bebe isn't a dumbbell. Or that she's a selfish, spoiled, lying, scheming—”

“Come down here.” Georgette crooked a finger. When Cydney reached the floor, Georgette caught her arm and towed her up on the dais, put a bottle of Windex and paper towels in her hand.

“Don't use the whole roll.” Georgette ripped off a fistful of sheets. “I'll need at least half of it to shove down your father's throat.”

“Dad was not indiscreet. I overheard a conversation he had with Bebe in the kitchen this morning.” “You mean you eavesdropped.” “Yes, Mother. Just like you do all the time.” “And here I thought all my training had failed. Squirt me.”
Where?
her little voice asked, but Cydney ignored it. She spritzed the glass wall with Windex and they both wiped ammonia streaks.

“So why were you up the ladder muttering about this?” “I'm angry. Bebe used us, took advantage of us. I think she has Aldo totally hoodwinked. That's not right, Mother. It's not fair to Aldo.”

“Of course it isn't. That's why your father tagged along to buy a tuxedo. If anyone can find a gentle way to break it to Aldo that Bebe is a shameless manipulator, it's Fletch.” Georgette paused in mid-wipe and smiled at her. “Since it takes one to know one.”

“I'd also like you to explain to me why we're down here working our butts off while Bebe is upstairs lolling on hers.” “I don't think she's lolling. If she's doing anything up there, she's making voodoo dolls.”

Cydney held her hand out to her mother. “Bet me.” “All right.” Georgette shook her hand. “Bet you what?” “Bet me Herb's the next one to punch Dad in the nose.” Georgette's nostrils flared. “You said your father wasn't indiscreet.”

“He didn't have to be indiscreet. I was in the kitchen this morning and so was Herb when Dad flirted with you and you
flirted right back. Dad is a married man, Mother. And you are engaged to Herb.”

“Stop right there before we end up on
Jerry Springer.”
Georgette threw one hand up like a traffic cop. “Go get Bebe.”

“Missed a spot.” Cydney pointed at a streak on the glass, handed her mother the paper towels and sashayed out of the great room.

Being mature and in control was heady stuff. Now if she could stay in the zone until she talked to Gus. She had a sexually mature adult speech all prepared. If she could just deliver it without falling apart.

Cydney took the back stairs, planning to make a pit stop before she dragged Bebe down to the great room by her hair. Her Keds, mud-free at last from her walk on Sunday, didn't so much as squeak as she crossed the alcove at the end of the hall and opened her bedroom door.

Bebe spun away from the Duncan Phyfe desk, her eyes and her mouth wide-open. With guilt and surprise at being caught, Cydney thought and felt a sick clutch in her stomach. She'd left her laptop on the desk, plugged into the outlet and running on screen save.

“If you touched one file,” she threatened, “one chapter of my book, I'll make you eat the hard drive.”

“I didn't. Honest. I just brought you something.”

Bebe sidled away from the desk, lifting her hand awkwardly at a single red-gold zinnia tucked in a small white vase next to the laptop. A square pink envelope sat propped up against it.

“I'm sorry, Aunt Cydney. Really, really sorry. That's all.”

Cydney stepped into the room away from the door. “Get out.”

A bright vermilion flush shot up Bebe's throat. Her eyes filled with tears but she went, head down, and pulled the door quietly shut.

Cydney raced to the laptop and checked her files. All there. All safe. Thank God. She dashed to her suitcase, rummaged for a box of disks, flew back to the desk, sat down and copied
all five of her precious chapters. Twice. When she finished, she sagged back in the chair, her hands and her insides trembling, her face hot, her fingers icy.

She stared at the zinnia and the pink envelope. She shouldn't open it. She should just throw it away, but she picked it up and opened it, pulled out a white card and read: