Hearse and Gardens by Kathleen Bridge

clasped Uncle Harry’s hand. After the news of his son’s death, I had a feeling he wasn’t up for the walker.
    Uncle Harry’s skin tone matched the color of the churning Atlantic—gray, gray, and more gray. I glanced at the other guests. Like Elle, their glasses were filled with clear liquid. I’d been to a few highbrow society parties in my time and knew it wasn’t the guest’s choice to choose white wine, vodka, gin, or champagne. It was the host’s. Spilling red wine, even fine bourbon on a white rug or chaise was a no-no and an even bigger no-no if someone bumped your elbow and your cabernet splashed onto a de Kooning or Pollock.
    I grabbed a glass of wine from a roaming waiter and made my way over to Elle and Uncle Harry.
    Elle stood and offered her seat. “I’m so happy to see you. Brandy left me with Uncle Harry forty-five minutes ago, and I need to use the ladies’ room. Wow. You clean up nicely. So happy you wore red. There’s too much black in the room. Love the stilettos.”
    Like I had a choice. I was pretty proud of myself for keeping my cool. What I really wanted to do was shoutit from the rooftops that I’d been SLIMED. “Thanks. No problem. Anything I should know?” I looked at Uncle Harry’s nodding head.
    â€œNothing to know. Just look for Brandy. He doesn’t look so good.”
    That was an understatement.
    Elle darted in and out of the mourners. I wouldn’t consider half of the people invited as mourners; they probably didn’t even know Harrison Falks, or his deceased son. Celia took center stage, laughing, giggling, and flirting with any man over eighteen. I didn’t see her glance once in her husband’s direction. I set my wineglass on a—you guessed it—Plexiglas side table and looked out the window. Two figures stood under the floodlights, in view of anyone who wanted to see. They were in a heated conversation, arms flailing, spit flying. It was Brandy and Richard. I wished I had a better view so I could read their lips. The only words I could make out were from Richard because he faced me—they were “committed” and “testify.”
    Uncle Harry opened his eyes. He looked around and demanded to be taken to his room. He must have thought I was Brandy. Though you could never confuse the two of us, especially in the chest area. “Let me get Celia to take you up.”
    â€œI doubt you’d be able to tear her away. You take me.” He put his hands on the wheels of the wheelchair and pushed forward.
    â€œSure, Uncle Harry. No problem.” I looked out the window. Brandy and Richard had disappeared.
    On my way through the gallery, I almost bumped into two people I never thought I’d see at Sandringham. ByronHughes, star landscape architect, and Justin Marguilles, star attorney, whom Gordon Miles hired to kick me off my property. And they were both chatting like old Harvard buddies. If they were friends and I cozied up to Byron, maybe he could sway Marguilles to drop the silly lawsuit.
    I kept my head down as we left the gallery. I wasn’t sure where Uncle Harry’s bedroom was, but I remembered the last time I was here, he’d taken an elevator hidden in the foyer. I found it and wheeled Uncle Harry inside. The doors opened on the second floor and Uncle Harry pointed the way. When we stopped in front of a double door carved with ornate flourishes, I pushed the button to the right of the doors and they opened inward.
    The original Sandringham in England had been built for Queen Victoria. The mammoth suite we walked into was built for a king.
    Uncle Harry said, “Please help me onto the bed.”
    â€œOf course.” I maneuvered the wheelchair next to a bed the size of a small yacht and was totally surprised at how little Uncle Harry weighed as I helped him up. He lay back among the white linen monogrammed
F
pillow shams, and I tucked a cashmere throw