bracelet. I brushed my hair carefully and then put on a braided headband to keep the mass out of my face (and my drink, and my food).
Food. I hoped Eileen and Sally had a tableful. Maybe those sausage and biscuit balls?
My mouth watered while I swapped purses, and when my mother rang the doorbell, I was feeling ravenous.
My mother, Aida Brattle Teagarden Queensland, looked aristocratic and slim and cool as ever in a gorgeous royal blue suit. She is a woman dauntingly difficult to criticize. Her clothes and behavior are always appropriate for the occasion. She always thinks before she speaks. Her extensive and successful business dealings are always ethically aboveboard, and her employees have excellent health benefits and a profit-sharing program.
But she is definitely not a woman you would run up and hug without a fair warning and a good reason, and she is not sentimental, and she never forgets anyone who does not deal fairly with her.
Mother gave me a careful, cheerful kiss on the cheek. She was finally marrying me off, enjoying all the mother-of-the-bride things that she’d been denied. And she knew I was happy.
And she approved of Martin, though I sensed reservations. Martin was closer to her age than to mine, and that worried her a bit. (She had asked me if I’d seen his company’s insurance policy, for example.) And, being my mother and extremely property oriented, she wanted to know how much money Martin had in the bank, what his salary was, how much of that he saved, and what his pension program was. Since it was impossible for her to ask Martin these things point-blank, it had been amusing to hear her try to maneuver the conversation delicately around to what she wanted to know.
“I’m willing to give her a full, typed financial statement,” Martin had told me after we’d eaten supper with Mother and John one night.
“That would be too direct,” I told him. “I don’t know why she’s in such a lather, anyway.”
(Though actually, my mother in a lather was pretty unimaginable.) “I have plenty of money of my own, safely invested, well protected.”
“She’s just watching out for you,” Martin said fondly.
I had dark thoughts about why everyone seemed to feel I needed “watching out for,” but considering my mother had a right to if anyone did, I kept quiet.
Now as Mother swept me into her superior car (she’d picked me up because she considered my old Chevette to be too plebeian for The Bride) she checked me over as though I were going on my first date, gave a quick little nod of approval, and asked me if I’d heard from my father lately.
“Not since he called me after he talked to Betty Jo about coming,” I answered. Betty Jo was my father’s second wife, down to earth, plain, and homey as all get out. When he’d fled my mother, Father had certainly run in the opposite direction. He and Betty Jo lived in California now, with their child, my brother Phillip, age nine. I hadn’t seen my father or Phillip or Betty Jo in nearly three years.
“He said they were?”
“If he could take his vacation time then. He was going to ask.”
“And you haven’t heard back,” my mother murmured, almost to herself.
I didn’t say anything.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” she said decisively. “He has to let us know.”
“I’d like Phillip to be ring-bearer if they’re coming,” I said suddenly.
It was lucky we were in Mother’s big Lincoln, because it was full of thoughts unsaid. Phillip had had a traumatic experience the last time he spent the weekend with me. They’d moved to California in a (to me) mistaken attempt to help Phillip recover, and he’d been seeing a counselor for a year afterward. According to my father’s rare letters, Phillip was fine now.
Then, as we parked at Eileen’s house, I caught a glimpse through the picture window of a table covered in white with white and silver wedding bells hanging from the light fixture, and Eileen carrying in a big tray of
Food. I hoped Eileen and Sally had a tableful. Maybe those sausage and biscuit balls?
My mouth watered while I swapped purses, and when my mother rang the doorbell, I was feeling ravenous.
My mother, Aida Brattle Teagarden Queensland, looked aristocratic and slim and cool as ever in a gorgeous royal blue suit. She is a woman dauntingly difficult to criticize. Her clothes and behavior are always appropriate for the occasion. She always thinks before she speaks. Her extensive and successful business dealings are always ethically aboveboard, and her employees have excellent health benefits and a profit-sharing program.
But she is definitely not a woman you would run up and hug without a fair warning and a good reason, and she is not sentimental, and she never forgets anyone who does not deal fairly with her.
Mother gave me a careful, cheerful kiss on the cheek. She was finally marrying me off, enjoying all the mother-of-the-bride things that she’d been denied. And she knew I was happy.
And she approved of Martin, though I sensed reservations. Martin was closer to her age than to mine, and that worried her a bit. (She had asked me if I’d seen his company’s insurance policy, for example.) And, being my mother and extremely property oriented, she wanted to know how much money Martin had in the bank, what his salary was, how much of that he saved, and what his pension program was. Since it was impossible for her to ask Martin these things point-blank, it had been amusing to hear her try to maneuver the conversation delicately around to what she wanted to know.
“I’m willing to give her a full, typed financial statement,” Martin had told me after we’d eaten supper with Mother and John one night.
“That would be too direct,” I told him. “I don’t know why she’s in such a lather, anyway.”
(Though actually, my mother in a lather was pretty unimaginable.) “I have plenty of money of my own, safely invested, well protected.”
“She’s just watching out for you,” Martin said fondly.
I had dark thoughts about why everyone seemed to feel I needed “watching out for,” but considering my mother had a right to if anyone did, I kept quiet.
Now as Mother swept me into her superior car (she’d picked me up because she considered my old Chevette to be too plebeian for The Bride) she checked me over as though I were going on my first date, gave a quick little nod of approval, and asked me if I’d heard from my father lately.
“Not since he called me after he talked to Betty Jo about coming,” I answered. Betty Jo was my father’s second wife, down to earth, plain, and homey as all get out. When he’d fled my mother, Father had certainly run in the opposite direction. He and Betty Jo lived in California now, with their child, my brother Phillip, age nine. I hadn’t seen my father or Phillip or Betty Jo in nearly three years.
“He said they were?”
“If he could take his vacation time then. He was going to ask.”
“And you haven’t heard back,” my mother murmured, almost to herself.
I didn’t say anything.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” she said decisively. “He has to let us know.”
“I’d like Phillip to be ring-bearer if they’re coming,” I said suddenly.
It was lucky we were in Mother’s big Lincoln, because it was full of thoughts unsaid. Phillip had had a traumatic experience the last time he spent the weekend with me. They’d moved to California in a (to me) mistaken attempt to help Phillip recover, and he’d been seeing a counselor for a year afterward. According to my father’s rare letters, Phillip was fine now.
Then, as we parked at Eileen’s house, I caught a glimpse through the picture window of a table covered in white with white and silver wedding bells hanging from the light fixture, and Eileen carrying in a big tray of
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