“Then they called all over town to restaurants where they’re known and had them send over platters of hors d’oeuvres quick as they could.”
“So they were good sports about it,” said Samantha.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. They pulled it off, and I guess by the time about half the guests had arrived, the newcomers wouldn’t have known what a surprise it really was, if the others hadn’t told ’em. But after it was over, I heard Miz Queen had a fit. A real hissy. Said it was all Mr. Ridley’s fault—someone making a fool of her.”
“Well, well, well,” George said. “Isn’t that something?”
Horace careened the old Lincoln, tires squealing, off Peachtree onto Andrews Road. In moments they would be at their destination.
“Any theories about who sent those invitations?” Sam asked.
Horace, who was concentrating on passing a delivery van, shook his head.
They zipped past palatial estates, each of them set far back from the road behind a carefully manicured park. In this North Side neighborhood of Andrews and Habersham and West Paces Ferry roads, above the springtime fragrance of lilac and wisteria floated the aroma of old money.
Then they were at the Kays’ gate, where a young college boy in a white jacket greeted them. “Good to see you this evening, Mr. Adams, Ms. Adams,” he said.
George grinned at Samantha’s surprise. “Edison never does things halfway.”
“Does he have mug books?” she asked.
As another young man handed them out of the car under the porte cochere, Horace, who would park the car and then wait for them in a back room where a poker game had probably already started, leaned out the window.
“I’ll nose around and see what I can find out about those invitations,” he said.
“You just concentrate on winning,” Sam called behind her. “Then it’s the Varsity, guys. My treat. Or depending on what you take the suckers for, Horace, yours.”
Five
Edison Kay stood in his black-and-white marble tiled foyer with arms spread wide. A tall, substantial, fiftyish man with wings of gray in the dark brown hair that he wore long in the old-fashioned planter/politician style, Kay cut an impressive figure.
“George!” he cried. “Why, it’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve seen you. Delighted that you could make it. Though I wouldn’t give a hoot about you coming if I hadn’t wanted to rest my eyes on the beautiful Miss Samantha.” He laughed expansively, and Sam found herself being gathered up and smothered in a bear hug that smelled of lemony Guerlain 4711 and bourbon.
Then he pulled back, smiling into her face while still holding her by the shoulders. His was a handsome face, clean-shaven, with a long aristocratic nose and brown eyes that were knowing but not particularly warm.
“Why, I haven’t seen you since you were fourteen or fifteen years old. I’d heard tell that you were back from Baghdad-by-the-Bay, having transmogrified yourself from a young colt into a full-fledged woman, but your Uncle George has been keeping you well hidden.”
Sam didn’t remember ever having seen this golden-tongued man in her entire life, but then George was saying something about going up to the Kays’ house in Tate one summer, and she smiled politely and said, “It’s good to see you again, too.”
“Hell!” Edison laughed. “No need to be so formal.” He dropped one arm down to Sam’s waist. “Kay Kay, come see who’s done us the honor.”
Edison Kay’s wife—whose Christian name made her Kay Kay, which she was always called as if she were named Billie Sue or Mary Ann or one of those other double-barreled Southernisms—was as blond as Queen Ridley and of about the same stature. But there the resemblance ended, for Kay Kay hailed from Fort Worth, and her good-old-Texas-girl voice projected across her foyer as easily as it did across a cow lot.
“Why, hon,” she said to Samantha, “I’m so glad to see you I could hug your neck.” And then she did
“So they were good sports about it,” said Samantha.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. They pulled it off, and I guess by the time about half the guests had arrived, the newcomers wouldn’t have known what a surprise it really was, if the others hadn’t told ’em. But after it was over, I heard Miz Queen had a fit. A real hissy. Said it was all Mr. Ridley’s fault—someone making a fool of her.”
“Well, well, well,” George said. “Isn’t that something?”
Horace careened the old Lincoln, tires squealing, off Peachtree onto Andrews Road. In moments they would be at their destination.
“Any theories about who sent those invitations?” Sam asked.
Horace, who was concentrating on passing a delivery van, shook his head.
They zipped past palatial estates, each of them set far back from the road behind a carefully manicured park. In this North Side neighborhood of Andrews and Habersham and West Paces Ferry roads, above the springtime fragrance of lilac and wisteria floated the aroma of old money.
Then they were at the Kays’ gate, where a young college boy in a white jacket greeted them. “Good to see you this evening, Mr. Adams, Ms. Adams,” he said.
George grinned at Samantha’s surprise. “Edison never does things halfway.”
“Does he have mug books?” she asked.
As another young man handed them out of the car under the porte cochere, Horace, who would park the car and then wait for them in a back room where a poker game had probably already started, leaned out the window.
“I’ll nose around and see what I can find out about those invitations,” he said.
“You just concentrate on winning,” Sam called behind her. “Then it’s the Varsity, guys. My treat. Or depending on what you take the suckers for, Horace, yours.”
Five
Edison Kay stood in his black-and-white marble tiled foyer with arms spread wide. A tall, substantial, fiftyish man with wings of gray in the dark brown hair that he wore long in the old-fashioned planter/politician style, Kay cut an impressive figure.
“George!” he cried. “Why, it’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve seen you. Delighted that you could make it. Though I wouldn’t give a hoot about you coming if I hadn’t wanted to rest my eyes on the beautiful Miss Samantha.” He laughed expansively, and Sam found herself being gathered up and smothered in a bear hug that smelled of lemony Guerlain 4711 and bourbon.
Then he pulled back, smiling into her face while still holding her by the shoulders. His was a handsome face, clean-shaven, with a long aristocratic nose and brown eyes that were knowing but not particularly warm.
“Why, I haven’t seen you since you were fourteen or fifteen years old. I’d heard tell that you were back from Baghdad-by-the-Bay, having transmogrified yourself from a young colt into a full-fledged woman, but your Uncle George has been keeping you well hidden.”
Sam didn’t remember ever having seen this golden-tongued man in her entire life, but then George was saying something about going up to the Kays’ house in Tate one summer, and she smiled politely and said, “It’s good to see you again, too.”
“Hell!” Edison laughed. “No need to be so formal.” He dropped one arm down to Sam’s waist. “Kay Kay, come see who’s done us the honor.”
Edison Kay’s wife—whose Christian name made her Kay Kay, which she was always called as if she were named Billie Sue or Mary Ann or one of those other double-barreled Southernisms—was as blond as Queen Ridley and of about the same stature. But there the resemblance ended, for Kay Kay hailed from Fort Worth, and her good-old-Texas-girl voice projected across her foyer as easily as it did across a cow lot.
“Why, hon,” she said to Samantha, “I’m so glad to see you I could hug your neck.” And then she did
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