Good Riddance(17)

The featured drink was a Tickled Pink, prepoured and lined up, awaiting our ticket redemption. With the pretty drinks in hand, we wove our way to table five. There were four seats occupied so far, two couples, all smiling hospitably. The men stood until we’d shaken hands and took our seats. One wife, coal-black hair in an upsweep, said, “You’re the New Yorkers!” She pointed to the name tag pinned to her black lace bodice: She was Donna; her husband was Dave. The other couple, both elfin and white-haired with matching rimless eyeglasses, introduced themselves as Ritchie and Mimi Perry.

I asked if all four had been classmates. Donna said, “Yes, but we winter in Florida now.”

“Ritchie and I are both from here,” said Mimi. “Though he was born in Laconia.”

Ritchie said, “I wouldn’t expect you to remember us—arrangements were made with your father—but we are Perry Funeral Home.”

“Of course. I thought you looked familiar. You did a lovely job.”

Wouldn’t this be a good time for someone, anyone, to extol the memory of their famously devoted teacher or at the very least rote-reply about my having their thoughts and prayers?

But then we were eight as two women took their seats. More introductions. They were Roseanne and Barbara, friends going back to junior year when they tried out for varsity cheerleader. Their shrugs and wistful smiles indicated they hadn’t made it.

Mimi said, “But runners-up automatically make the PHS pep squad.”

“And then we both went to Plymouth State,” said Roseanne.

“Where we met the guys we married. And get this: Our husbands worked together at Travelers,” said Barbara.

“They’re skipping tonight?” asked Geneva.

Both women laughed. “They haven’t been to one of these since our—do you remember which one?”

“Tenth,” said the other. “That’s the reunion where you want everyone to know you got married.”

“Interesting,” said Geneva, managing to convey in one word that the opposite was true.

Mimi said, “Daphne is Mrs. Maritch’s daughter.”

“Wow!” said Roseanne. “Is she here tonight?”

There was an intake of breath around the table. Mr. Perry took the reins, explaining in a somber professional tone that Mrs. Maritch had passed away a year ago last month.

“I’m so sorry!” said Roseanne. “Was it on the class Facebook page?”

I said apparently not.

Geneva said, “Facebook page. I’ll have to get on that,” prompting Donna to ask what her connection to the class was.

“I’ll let Daphne answer.” She turned to me. “Since you’re so worried about what I might say.”

Did the others hear the peevishness in that? I said, “Geneva wants to make a documentary about . . . well, you explain because I’m not sure.”

“Maybe after I’ve had another drink,” said Geneva, fishing the lime slice out of her otherwise empty glass.

“About us?” asked Mimi.

“No,” I said.

Geneva fired off a sarcastic Ha! followed by “She wishes no.”

I took over lest Geneva’s amplification point to my mother’s poison pen. “Ms. Wisenkorn was inspired by the yearbook, so to the extent it contains your photos, it would include some of you. But right now, it’s only . . .” What? Notes on paper? In Geneva’s head?

Luckily, something else was distracting her. “Other tables have food,” she said. “Fruit cup, it looks like.”

Dave said, “With a scoop of orange sherbet. Those are tables one through four. We’re next.”

“Food committee,” his wife said proudly.

It was then that our final tablemate appeared, holding a glass of red wine. He was tall, gray-haired, dressed in an expensive-looking suit. All four women looked happy if not triumphant. “Peter!” I heard. “Pete!”

Was it merely his distinguished good looks and sartorial splendor that made everyone proud to have snagged Peter Armstrong for table five? He asked Barbara, who’d taken the seat next to me, if she minded scooting over one because he had very much hoped to speak with Miss Maritch.

“Sure,” she said. “We figured.”

I offered my hand. “Daphne,” I said rather needlessly.

“I know. Hence the jockeying for the seat next to you. You got my note?”

“Upon arrival.”

Now seated, napkin in place on his lap, he leaned in my direction, and said quietly, “We must talk.”

Across the table, Dave said, “Congratulations on the landslide. You had my vote. Both our votes.”

“For what?” asked Geneva.

“Dog catcher,” Armstrong said with a wry smile. “Hasn’t that news made its way to New York City?”

“He’s joking!” said Barbara. “Peter’s our new state senator.”

“Senator?” I repeated. “Wow. That’s big. That’s like . . . next stop White House.”

“Not U.S. senator. State senator. In Concord.”

Did Geneva’s first question really have to be “Is there a Mrs. Armstrong?”

“Not at the present time.”

“Divorced?”