lofty archway to the living room. She seemed to be seeing things I had not yet viewed, things no one would ever see and love the way she did.
Her dim eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “Thank you so very, very much.”
I moved away to explore more of the Whitcomb mansion. There was a grand staircase leading to upper floors, but a velvet rope had been stretched to block use by the evening’s guests. I strolled to the enormous living room, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances, kissing a few ladies’ hands because I was in a Continental mood. There was a bar set up along one wall, doing a brisk business.
A superb pine-paneled dining room accommodated the buffet boards presided over by the caterer and her crew. What a feast! I shall not detail the viands offered, in deference to calorie-obsessed readers. Well, just one: broiled chicken livers topped with squares of bacon and sharp cheddar.
The enormous dining table was still in place, surrounded by twenty chairs. Additional small tables and folding chairs, obviously rented, had been placed about so guests would not be forced to eat standing while balancing a full plate and a brimming glass. It was in this banquet hall I found the second of the three bars Sunny Fogarty had promised and ordered a double vodka gimlet, believing it would last me twice as long as a single. Silly boy.
Dancing space was provided in a smaller chamber that appeared to be an informal sitting and TV viewing room. Furniture and rugs had been removed, the planked floor waxed, and a trio tootled away in one corner, playing mostly show tunes and old favorites such as “Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!” It was here I found my parents at the third bar, looking about amusedly while sipping what seemed to be Perrier with lime slices.
“Mrs. McNally,” I said, bowing, “may I have the pleasure of this dance?”
“Let me look at my card,” she said, then giggled.
We placed our drinks temporarily on the bar, and father smiled benignly as we went twirling away to the rhythm of “Try a Little Tenderness.” Mother is hardly a sylph but remarkably light on her feet, and I think we justly believed ourselves to be the most graceful couple on the floor.
The tune ended, we rejoined the squire at the bar.
“Well done,” he said as if delivering a judicial opinion. And then to mother: “The next dance is mine. Unless they play something too fast.”
Like “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top”? I wanted to ask—but didn’t of course.
I meandered back to the dining room, which I now thought of as Bulimia Heaven. It was beginning to fill with ravenous guests. I was about to join the famished throng at the buffet when I espied Sunny Fogarty standing alone at the bar. I observed her from afar and concluded she was a handsome woman. Not lovely, not beautiful, but handsome. There are fine degrees of female attractiveness, you know.
I moved to her side and she looked at me with a tight smile. “Good evening, Archy,” she said. “So glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Thank you for the invitations.”
“I saw Binky,” she said. “Does he always dress like that?”
“Always,” I said sadly. “His sartorial sense is gravely retarded. He once wore spats over flip-flops to a beach barbecue.”
She laughed—which was a relief for she had seemed tense, almost angry.
“I met Sarah and Horace,” I told her. “Lovely people.”
“Yes, they are.”
“She’s quite ill?”
Sunny nodded.
“Cancer?”
She nodded again. “They said it was in remission, but it wasn’t.”
“I thought her a very brave lady.”
“An angel. She’s an angel.”
I said, “I was surprised that Oliver and his wife weren’t also receiving.”
Her bitterness returned. “So like them,” she said. “So selfish. To be late at his mother’s birthday party—that’s not forgivable. They arrived just a few minutes
Her dim eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “Thank you so very, very much.”
I moved away to explore more of the Whitcomb mansion. There was a grand staircase leading to upper floors, but a velvet rope had been stretched to block use by the evening’s guests. I strolled to the enormous living room, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances, kissing a few ladies’ hands because I was in a Continental mood. There was a bar set up along one wall, doing a brisk business.
A superb pine-paneled dining room accommodated the buffet boards presided over by the caterer and her crew. What a feast! I shall not detail the viands offered, in deference to calorie-obsessed readers. Well, just one: broiled chicken livers topped with squares of bacon and sharp cheddar.
The enormous dining table was still in place, surrounded by twenty chairs. Additional small tables and folding chairs, obviously rented, had been placed about so guests would not be forced to eat standing while balancing a full plate and a brimming glass. It was in this banquet hall I found the second of the three bars Sunny Fogarty had promised and ordered a double vodka gimlet, believing it would last me twice as long as a single. Silly boy.
Dancing space was provided in a smaller chamber that appeared to be an informal sitting and TV viewing room. Furniture and rugs had been removed, the planked floor waxed, and a trio tootled away in one corner, playing mostly show tunes and old favorites such as “Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!” It was here I found my parents at the third bar, looking about amusedly while sipping what seemed to be Perrier with lime slices.
“Mrs. McNally,” I said, bowing, “may I have the pleasure of this dance?”
“Let me look at my card,” she said, then giggled.
We placed our drinks temporarily on the bar, and father smiled benignly as we went twirling away to the rhythm of “Try a Little Tenderness.” Mother is hardly a sylph but remarkably light on her feet, and I think we justly believed ourselves to be the most graceful couple on the floor.
The tune ended, we rejoined the squire at the bar.
“Well done,” he said as if delivering a judicial opinion. And then to mother: “The next dance is mine. Unless they play something too fast.”
Like “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top”? I wanted to ask—but didn’t of course.
I meandered back to the dining room, which I now thought of as Bulimia Heaven. It was beginning to fill with ravenous guests. I was about to join the famished throng at the buffet when I espied Sunny Fogarty standing alone at the bar. I observed her from afar and concluded she was a handsome woman. Not lovely, not beautiful, but handsome. There are fine degrees of female attractiveness, you know.
I moved to her side and she looked at me with a tight smile. “Good evening, Archy,” she said. “So glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Thank you for the invitations.”
“I saw Binky,” she said. “Does he always dress like that?”
“Always,” I said sadly. “His sartorial sense is gravely retarded. He once wore spats over flip-flops to a beach barbecue.”
She laughed—which was a relief for she had seemed tense, almost angry.
“I met Sarah and Horace,” I told her. “Lovely people.”
“Yes, they are.”
“She’s quite ill?”
Sunny nodded.
“Cancer?”
She nodded again. “They said it was in remission, but it wasn’t.”
“I thought her a very brave lady.”
“An angel. She’s an angel.”
I said, “I was surprised that Oliver and his wife weren’t also receiving.”
Her bitterness returned. “So like them,” she said. “So selfish. To be late at his mother’s birthday party—that’s not forgivable. They arrived just a few minutes
Similar Books
