The Perfect Couple(28)
“And hot,” she reminds him.
“Hottest woman here,” Tag says. “Not that I’ve noticed another soul.”
“Have you seen Featherleigh?” Greer asks. This will not seem like a loaded question, because in all this time, Greer has never confronted Tag with her suspicions.
“I caught a glimpse,” Tag says. “She looks god-awful.”
“Does she?” Greer says, although she knows the answer is yes. Greer sought Featherleigh out immediately after dealing with the last-minute party logistics, and although it’s ungracious, Greer will say that the twenty pounds (at least) that Featherleigh has gained and Featherleigh’s bad haircut and her even worse dye job and her reddened nose are the best things about this wedding weekend so far.
Greer had checked both of Featherleigh’s hands—she was not wearing the ring. Greer had found herself almost deflated by this; she had been ready for a confrontation. Instead, Greer had no choice but to be civil.
“Featherleigh Dale, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
The corners of Featherleigh’s mouth had pulled down unattractively. “Thank you for having me,” she’d said. She had then proceeded to detail the horror of her travel. No money for a first-class ticket so she was squished in coach. The flight from New York to Nantucket was overbooked, everyone was obnoxious, there was no decent food at the airport, she’d had a Nathan’s hot dog and the thing was as shriveled as a mummy’s pecker. She finds Nantucket damp, just look at her hair, the place she booked is an inn, not a hotel, so there’s no room service, no fitness center, no spa, and the pillowcases are decorated with tulle flowers, they’re honestly the most hideous things she’s ever seen, how she’s supposed to lay her head on something like that she has no idea, but the inn was the only place available because she’d waited until the last minute. She wasn’t going to come at all because she was so low on funds, but then she hoped the trip would help snap her out of her funk.
“Funk?” Greer asked, wondering if this litany was ever going to end.
“My business went belly-up,” Featherleigh said. “And I’ve been through a devastating breakup”—Aha! Greer thinks. So it’s over with Tag?—“which is why I have this bad dye job and I look like an absolute hippo. It’s been all vodka and fish and chips and takeout vindaloo for me. I’m forty-five years old, I’m not married, I have no children, I have no job, I’m under investigation—”
“A devastating breakup?” Greer said, backing up to the only one of Featherleigh’s complaints that she cared about. “I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone special.”
“It was on the down-low,” Featherleigh said. Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s married. I knew he was married, but I thought…”
“You thought he would leave his wife for you?” Greer asked. She had gathered Featherleigh up in a hug, mostly to put an end to the tears—nothing kills a party like somebody weeping—and said, “Men never leave their wives, Featherleigh. You’re old enough to know better. Is it anyone I know?”
Featherleigh had sniffed and shaken her head against Greer’s shoulder. Greer eased away, suddenly concerned about mascara on her ivory silk jumpsuit. Would Featherleigh cry about her breakup with Tag to Greer? Was she capable of that kind of insidious deception?
“And why,” Greer asked, “are you under investigation?”
“For fraud,” Featherleigh admitted glumly.
So clearly she was capable of deception. And that would explain the absence of the ring.
“When was this breakup?” Greer had asked. “Recently?”
Featherleigh’s bottom lip trembled. “May,” she said.
May? Greer thought. She’s positive Jessica Hicks said that Tag had bought the ring in June. But Greer supposes she could have been mistaken; she should have asked Jessica to forward the receipt to her e-mail, but Greer had been so stunned, so seized with angst, that she had hurried out of the store without proper follow-up.
After writing twenty-one novels in the persona of Miss Dolly Hardaway, Greer had cultivated the mind-set of a detective. Once her head cleared of all this champagne and excitement, she would go back over the events of May with a fine-tooth comb. See what nits she could pick.
“Go get yourself a drink,” Greer had said. “It certainly sounds like you could use one.”
Greer’s seating chart is brilliant, she thinks, except that the seat of honor, the seat next to Benji, is empty. Where is Celeste? She’s sitting with her parents, naturally, playing nanny to both Karen and Bruce. Celeste cracks the claws of her mother’s lobster and pulls the snowy meat from it with the slender silver pick, just as Greer taught her. She pries the tail meat free and cuts it into bite-size pieces, then identifies the cups of melted butter. Because this is an Island Fare clambake, every traditional element has been given a sophisticated twist. There are three kinds of melted butter for the lobster: regular, lime, and chili pepper. There are two types of corn bread, one with whole sweet corn kernels and one with pork cracklings. There are also feathery-light buttermilk biscuits made even more savory by the addition of aged English cheddar. Alongside the standard grilled linguica are house-made lamb sausages, another offering to please the Brits. In the center of every table is a pinwheel of Bartlett’s Farm hothouse tomatoes drizzled with a thick, tangy blue cheese dressing and sprinkled with chopped green onions and crispy bacon.