By Invitation Only, Page 2

  I looked at her and wondered how she had become so grown-up. When I thought of her in my mind’s eye I saw a little girl with a long ponytail and skinned-up knees. When did she become old enough to get engaged and think about things like china patterns and silver? That realization almost took my breath away. And she obviously didn’t want my opinion either. My God. My little girl was gone forever.

  Shelby blew me a kiss and hurried to the foyer.

  “I’ll drop the invitations off with the doorman, okay? What’s the matter? You look upset.”

  “Oh, no! I’m fine! Just wondering what to wear, that’s all. And where we should stay. You know, logistics, that’s all.”

  I sank into a chair and stared at the invitation again. It was a simple lightweight card of no particular significance with a cheesy champagne bottle and two flutes in the margin. Please join us to celebrate the engagement of Frederick Stiftel to Shelby Cambria . . . just like that. Here came the mail with an invitation announcing that my daughter was going to marry into a family of strangers from far away, written on flimsy card stock with no imagination. Good grief. We’d probably be drinking from jelly jars and eating something on picnic tables. Alejandro was going to hate this party. I was already dreading it. And worse, how was I going to stop our friends, most especially Judy, from attending? I had a lot of phone calls to make. Judy Cunio Quigley (aka Judy CQ, and she called me Susan KC), my nemesis/bestie, wouldn’t miss this for the world. The relished details would roll from her lips behind my back for months. Ever since I agreed to cochair the Lyric wine auction with her, she was in my life, one-upping me, every day.

  That night my husband and I discussed our day over cocktails at our club. Alejandro and I had been members of the Union League Club for more years than I could count. It was nice to have a place to go where you knew everyone. The membership was made up of successful financiers, attorneys, and other professionals who enjoyed the clubs around town. We were waiting for a potential client of his to arrive and I was swirling my olive around in my vodka with a tiny bamboo skewer.

  “What’s the matter, amorcita?” he said.

  “You know me too well,” I said. That was Alejandro’s pet name for me.

  He glanced at his watch. “He’s already ten minutes late. You know how much I hate it when people are late.”

  “It’s rush hour, Alejandro. He’s probably stuck in traffic.”

  “But we’re on time, aren’t we?”

  I nodded. There was no reason to belabor the point. Never mind that we both worked within walking distance of this divine spot. Punctuality was my husband’s particular pet peeve.

  “Don’t scowl, darling. It makes you look ancient.” He immediately changed his expression to something more civil. Neither of us liked looking one day older than we were. “So, here’s what has my knickers in a twist.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It seems we are obliged to make an appearance in South Carolina, where Frederick’s mother is throwing an engagement party.”

  “Well, that’s pretty standard, isn’t it? What’s the problem?”

  “I think it’s our prerogative to decide who gives the engagement party.”

  “Oh, come on now, darling. It’s 2016! They can have a party and we can have one too.”

  “Shelby has already invited half of Chicago to go to this shindig in South Carolina.”

  “So, invite the same people to a party here and let them decide which one they want to attend, or both!”

  “You don’t understand—you’re going to be miserable the whole time,” I said.

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Because I suspect they are very unlike us.”

  “Meaning what? They have taxidermy and a gun safe in every room in the house?”

  “Dear God! I hadn’t even thought about that! Do you think they keep guns?”

  “Let’s calm ourselves, shall we? If they have firearms I’m sure they have a good reason. I spoke to Frederick’s mother when we called her. She sounded normal enough to me.”

  “Oh, I agree. It’s just that I think we’ll have a hard time finding common ground with them. They are very rural.”

  “They’re farmers. Of course they’re rural.”

  “It’s just that . . . oh, I don’t know. I feel uneasy.”

  On the way to the powder room, I glanced up at the Monet hanging in the grand stairwell, bought for a song in 1895. I stopped and really looked at it, even though I’d seen it a thousand times. Apple Trees in Blossom. All the white flowers were so beautiful against the rustic ground. I thought so, anyway. I felt so lucky then to be a member of a club that appreciated how the world looked through the eyes of a great artist. I could come here and see this remarkable painting any time I wanted to, as though I sort of owned it. It was a rare privilege and one for which I was grateful. I wondered then if Frederick’s family had ever even heard of the Impressionists. Surely not. Oh, dear. Well, what could I do?

  Picnic tables and southern food. We would fulfill this obligation with a smile on our faces if not with a song in our hearts.

  Chapter 3

  Diane’s Southern Soiree

  “Alden is not my boyfriend,” Diane said.

  “Well, he ought to be,” Virnell said.

  september

  The screen door slammed with a loud thwack. It was just after six a.m. Suddenly my brother Floyd was in our kitchen, where I was putting breakfast together.

  “Morning, Floyd. People are still sleeping, you know.”

  “Mom and Pop are as deaf as doornails, and your boy ought to be up anyhow. BJ is pig sitting.”

  “Good. You want something to eat?”

  “Nah, but thanks. Anytime I leave a roasting pig unattended, I worry about a grease fire.”

  “As you should.”

  The first barbecue pit Floyd built was too close to a stand of azaleas. There was a strong wind, a flare-up, and whoosh! The azaleas became a part of our family lore and we became acquainted with the Mount Pleasant Fire Department.

  “These folks had better be grateful. Irma was my favorite sow,” Floyd said. “Such a high-spirited old girl.”

  “It was her time,” I said, smiling to myself. “Besides, this is a noble cause.”

  Floyd had Irma in the smoker and had been tending to her all night. He needed a shower and some strong coffee. His well-worn overalls were splotched with grease, and the stench of woodsmoke and beer traveled with him. I filled a mug and handed it to him.

  “Fred really still sleeping?”

  “Oh, yeah. Poor baby didn’t get in until midnight. His flight was late.”

  Floyd grunted. “Ain’t no baby if he’s old enough to marry.” Floyd felt every able-bodied man ought to be up and working when day breaks. “When’s the princess coming?”

  “With her folks, this afternoon.”

  “Are they staying out here with us?”

  “Oh, heavens, no! They’re at Zero George.”

  “Zero George? That’s way too highfalutin for my blood. So they’re fancy city people.”

  “Big-time,” I said, feeling my heart quicken a little from insecurity.

  “La-di-da. Wait till they get out here and smell this air! They’re gonna fall in love.” Floyd smiled at me, trying to show support. “How many heads we aiming to feed?”

  “The count’s coming up to the better part of a hundred,” I said.

  “Well, just one of Irma’s haunches will feed that many. No problem. What else are we cooking?”

  “Alden has a whole Lowcountry menu going. We figured they can’t get authentic Lowcountry food in Chicago.”

  Alden Corrigan was my sometime boyfriend without benefits. I’d known his family all my life. My mother always said that his mother had the cleanest house in South Carolina, which was a peculiar claim to fame, if you ask me. But for as much as I loved to cook, I couldn’t handle a crowd as large as the one we were expecting without some serious help. Besides that, the night was
too important for me to be hanging over a stove or a barbecue pit, coming away smelling like my sweet brother. This is the first time we ever had a catered party here. I wanted to impress Shelby’s parents by showing them their daughter was marrying into a nice family. I hoped I wouldn’t have to muzzle my brother.

  Alden was a retired naval commander and his catering business was his retirement job. He liked nothing better than telling people what to do when and how to do it. I’d known his ex-wife. She was perfect, and if it was perfection that got his motor going, I definitely was not the girl for him. It was probably his very exacting management style that took an intimate encounter with him off the table, so to speak. But he ran events without a single hiccup, and given the stress and anxiety I was feeling, I was grateful to have him in my corner. And honey? He was one gorgeous man. Floyd was plain jealous. And Alden made me a little nervous.

  “He should be here by ten to oversee setup,” I said.

  “Aw, Gawd. Alden!” He called out his name in a falsetto voice. “That sumbitch ain’t coming over here and telling me how to cook my pig, is he?”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” I said. “Everybody knows you’re the pit master, even him.”

  Floyd harrumphed, shrugged his shoulders, and refilled his mug. “So, you didn’t answer me. What’s Pretty Boy serving? Itty-bitty finger foods in dainty pastry cups with a little lacy napkin?”

  Pretty Boy. Lace napkins. In Floyd’s opinion, despite Alden’s military history, he still wasn’t manly enough. My brother had a nickname for everyone. I just shook my head and picked up the ten-page contract from Alden’s catering company and read it to him.

  “The usual Lowcountry stuff. A mountain of boiled peanuts next to a huge presentation of shrimp and grits. Then he’s roasting May River oysters if he can get them. Coleslaw and potato salad. Deviled eggs. Bluefish spread on toast points. Deviled crab cakes. Corn muffins. Biscuits. And of course, Mom’s peach cake with homemade vanilla ice cream.”

  Floyd harrumphed again. “That ought to make ’em happy,” he said. “And if it doesn’t, they can all go home and scratch their mad place.”

  “Amen.”

  No one ever really defined what one’s mad place might be, but it was assumed to be in the area of one’s personal Lowcountry.

  “Well, I don’t want you worrying about tonight. I’ve got clean camo pants and a new T-shirt from the Dollar Store. Me and BJ gon’ charm the manure out of everyone.”

  Manure. I just looked at him and he could see the horror on my face.

  “Just fooling with you, Lady Di. I got brand-spanking-new khakis and I’m gone douse myself good with a bottle of swell smell I got for Christmas. BJ’s got not one but three new dresses and an appointment at the beauty parlor. And I spit-shined my Weejuns. Don’t worry, sister. We’re gonna do you proud!”

  “I wasn’t worried for one second, Floyd.” And the Academy Award for Best Liar goes to . . . From the moment I started to plan this party, I’d had recurring nightmares about what he might do. “Not for one second.”

  He put his mug in the sink and turned back to face me.

  “It’s gonna be a wonderful night, sister. Irma is as tasty as she was beautiful.”

  “Only you, Floyd. There’s only one like you.”

  “Later!”

  Needless to say, he slammed the screen door nearly off its hinges on the way out of the house as well.

  I pulled out the old cast-iron skillet and filled it with strips of cold bacon. Pipes rattled and toilets flushed, signaling the start of the day for my parents and for Fred. As soon as the bacon began to sizzle they’d flock to the kitchen, beckoned by the irresistible smells of maple and brown sugar. I slid the double griddle pan across two burners, brushed it with butter, and, as soon as water drops bounced, ladled batter onto its surface.

  “G’morning!” It was Pop. He came into the kitchen, neatly dressed, freshly shaven, and smelling like Old Spice. “Pancakes?”

  I flipped three onto a plate and drizzled syrup over them. No one ever saw my dad in his pajamas unless he had the flu.

  “Can I tempt you with this?” I said. “Coffee?”

  “I’ll pour my own. You know I’m watching my waistline, but why don’t you set that plate on the table right there and let’s see what happens.” He winked at me and said thanks.

  I turned the bacon over onto paper towels and refilled the skillet. Next came Fred.

  He appeared wearing freshly pressed linen Bermuda shorts, a knit shirt tucked in, and his alligator belt with the monogrammed gold buckle. His short hair was neatly combed and his breath smelled like toothpaste. Here was my boy, a man now, about to be married. He was capable, affable, and self-sufficient. Self-sufficient. It gave me pause to realize this, and I almost choked up. Was I really ready to release him? Was I releasing him, or had I been deluding myself all along that he was ever mine to release? Was I gaining a daughter? There wasn’t much positive evidence on that last one. Why didn’t anyone tell me how emotional this would be? Suddenly the business of my only child getting married felt like a kind of death.

  “How’s the greatest mom in the world?” Fred said and kissed my cheek. “Pancakes! Oh, wow! Hey, Pop! How are you?”

  A tiny smile crept across my father’s craggy face and his eyes—lined with red, faded to a pale shade of nickel, and sagging from the harrows of age—twinkled with affection for my son.

  “Every day above ground is a victory, I reckon. You?”

  “Ha-ha! That’s a good one! We got any juice?” Fred said.

  His head was inside the refrigerator when my mother walked into the room.

  “Here’s my baby doll!” Pop said and raised himself from his chair.

  “Don’t get up, sweetheart,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  She was wearing a floral-print dress with pockets and sensible shoes that could traverse the yard to the farm stand without her feet suffering the roots and rocks that pockmarked the distance. She was still pretty spry for her age, but lately I’d noticed her using handrails to pull herself up a flight of stairs and struggling with lifting things more and more often. I hated every single hint that my parents were aging.

  “On the door, second shelf,” I said. “G’morning, Mom!”

  “Good morning, everyone! Come give me a hug, Mr. Grown-up, soon to be a married man, grandson of mine!”

  “You bet!”

  Fred hugged my mother like a caveman and lifted her off the ground.

  “Put me down, you young whippersnapper!”

  She was laughing, pretending to be offended, when we all knew she loved every second of attention that he gave her. When he finally put her feet back on the floor he planted noisy smooches on her cheeks.

  “Oh, you!” she said. “Oh, my! I’m a little dizzy!”

  “Better check your pressure,” Pop said.

  “Check your own pressure,” she said. “Mine’s fine!”

  Fred held her chair for her and she sat down at the table.

  “All right now. Here’s coffee,” I said and placed the mug on her right.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Now just tell me how I can help you get ready for tonight.”

  “I’ll know more after Alden gets here. We’re going to do a walk-through. Why don’t you come?” I liked to include my mother whenever I could.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “You might have overlooked an important detail.”

  “Like the outhouse they delivered yesterday,” Dad said. “It might be stinky. I’d check it out.”

  “Outdoor toilets?” Fred said and laughed, raising his eyebrows.

  I knew immediately that he was wondering how his future in-laws would take to the idea. Admittedly, portable johns would hardly enhance our reputation as country squires. But we had too many guests for our meager indoor plumbing to accommodate. Surely Shelby’s parents had attended an outdoor concert at some point in their life and had used one.

  “Hmmm. They’re from Royal Restrooms,” I sai
d. “I’ll have y’all know it’s actually considered a luxury restroom trailer. Three thrones and a vanity with two sinks. Frankly, the one in the yard is more up-to-date than the ones in this house. Which reminds me, I need to put some flowers in there on the vanity and a basket of things people might need.”

  “Like what?” Fred said. “Bug spray?”

  “Oh, dear! I hadn’t even considered the bugs.”

  We cleaned up the kitchen, and when everything was put away, I wandered outside with my mother to find Alden. She made a beeline for Floyd’s pit and I searched the small army of workers for Alden. He was in the side yard, a wide and deep space in front of the barns, talking to the supervisor from Snyder Rental who was overseeing the final details for the evening. Strings of lights crisscrossed the yard and the tent. They were the old-fashioned kind, clear and round, the size of golf balls. Farm tables and folding chairs surrounded the dance floor. Bales of hay decorated with buckets of wildflowers and greenery, pots of chrysanthemums, late-season watermelons, early pumpkins and gourds, flanked the walkway and bars. Tall buckets of wildflowers with trailing tendrils of ivy decorated the buffet tables anchored with large lanterns that held fat columns of candles. The inescapable and delicious perfume of Irma was everywhere. I dared Shelby’s parents not to fall under her spell.

  “Alden!” I called out. “Good morning!”

  He turned when he heard my voice, and I saw his face brighten. “Good morning, Diane! It’s a beautiful day for a party, isn’t it?”

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  He walked toward me and I thought anybody could see the love in his eyes. It was a shame that I wouldn’t let myself feel it for him. He was such a great guy. The truth was, I hadn’t had any heat for anyone in decades, having decided the orange of romance simply wasn’t worth the squeeze. Or maybe I was just too tired all the time to give it a try.

  “I was just talking to the guy from Snyder and I told him they had to move the generators. Too noisy.”

  “Good catch! I probably would’ve realized that tonight in the middle of everything when it’s too late to do anything about it.”