The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(58)

“Great,” said Nina. “But the camel?”

Annabel shrugged. “It’s not mine. It’s here for the wedding.”

“Was it invited?”

“No,” said a voice behind her, and Nina turned to see Lili, looking resigned and amused. “It was sent in place of someone who was invited, but what I’m supposed to feed it, I have no idea. It came with a guy who backed it out of a horse box, handed me the rope, and said, ‘I’ll be back in three hours.’ ” She looked at Nina. “You saw the invite; the RSVP was yes or no, not yes, no, or send a camel.”

The camel turned and regarded them thoughtfully, found them boring, and turned away again.

“Well,” said Nina, looking around at the rugs and cushions. “It sort of goes with the theme. And at least it didn’t bring a plus one.”

A tall man came over with two buckets of water, which he placed in front of the camel. Annabel’s little sister, Clare, was behind him.

“Hi, Nina,” she said. “Did you meet the camel? Isn’t he lovely? They didn’t tell us his name, but I’m calling him Humpy Bogart. Did you know camels don’t actually store water in their humps, that they’re just big mounds of fat? Like boobs?” Behind her Lili covered her face and the tall man snorted.

Nina nodded. “And did you know that they can drink up to forty gallons of water in one giant slurp?”

The tall man frowned. “Maybe I should have brought bigger buckets.” He had an accent and smiled at Nina. “I’m sorry, my name is Edward. We haven’t been introduced.”

“This is Nina,” said Clare. “She’s my guest. I invited her.”

Edward nodded. “Lovely, so happy you’re here. Clare, you better find out where Nina’s sitting and show her to her . . . uh . . . rug.”

Clare reached out and took Nina’s hand. “Come on, let’s look at the chart. The show will be starting soon.”

Nina followed her. “But I still don’t understand about the camel.”

“Me neither,” said the little girl, “but my mom said Aunty Rachel knows a lot of strange people all over the world, because she’s a smuggler of rare and beautiful things”—she ran that last part all together, so it sounded like rareandbeautifulthings—

“and one of those people sent the camel.” She glanced up at Nina and made a face. “It’s not for keeping, though; it’s only for looking at.”

“Bummer.”

“You said it.” Clare paused and lowered her voice. “I’m thinking maybe the camel stays.” Nina could see the cogs turning.

They reached the front of the meadow, where Clare tugged Nina up to a large display board. They’d passed dozens of people, all of whom were lolling, exactly as the bride had planned. So far, so good.

Clare studied the board. “Where are you?” Nina, looking over her head, quickly spotted her name.

“I’m on rug fourteen. With . . .”—she read out some names—“Mike and Angie, Eloise and Frances, and Frances and Michael.” She smiled at the little girl. “Two Franceses?”

Clare nodded. “They’re easy to tell apart. One is bigger than the other.”

“But if they’re both called Frances then I can use the same name for both, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because they’re easy to tell apart.”

There comes a point with young children, Nina had learned, where it was best to say OK and walk away.

“It’s a good rug,” said Clare, like a ma?tre d’ leading a guest to a special table. “They’re garden club people, apart from the other Frances, who’s a friend of my mom’s.”

Nina arranged her features in a friendly expression, getting ready to be introduced to strangers. For some reason, she wasn’t feeling as anxious about it as usual. There was something about being outside that kind of gave you more room. Perhaps she should move into a tent.

“Hi, Clare,” said a larger, older woman who was sitting on the rug Nina and Clare were clearly approaching. “I thought you were a bridesmaid.”

“I am,” said Clare.

“Well, shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I am ready.”

Both the lady and Nina looked at Clare, who was, Nina realized, wearing Peppa Pig pajamas with a long pink slip over the top. The kind of slip Elizabeth Taylor wore in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; the kind with lacy bits and straps.

“And very nice you look, too,” said another woman, who looked vaguely familiar. “I bet that’s your favorite dress.”

“It is,” beamed Clare, glad someone was on the ball this evening. She turned back to Nina. “These are the Franceseses.” She stumbled over the pronunciation, and tried again. “Francesssess. Franceses.” She sighed. “They have the same name.”

Both women smiled. The older one reached up a hand. “I’m Frances from Gardening Club,” she said. “This is my wife, Eloise.” Another lady who looked pretty similar to her waved lazily.

“And I’m Frances from school,” said the other one. “Don’t you work at Knight’s, on Larchmont?”

“Yes,” said Nina, “I’m Nina Hill,” and she reached out and carefully shook both their hands.