The Queen of Hearts(72)
The line slowly advanced. A photographer dressed as Pliny the Elder stopped each couple as they neared the volcano to snap a photo for the local society magazine. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, give me a smile,” called Pliny, his camera flashing well before we had a chance to rearrange our startled faces.
We reached the volcanic entrance. The twenty-eight members of the Arts Council board clustered around the doors, clad in togas—not a universally flattering look, especially on hairy older businessmen—handing out small gold bags stuffed with gift certificates to upscale restaurants, boutiques, and sports venues. Wyatt peered into his. “Acceptable,” he pronounced.
We stepped into the hotel lobby, where more togas materialized with glasses of champagne and wordlessly ushered us to a tucked-away set of elevators. There was a backlog here, naturally, so we trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor—Emma and I grimacing with every step—until we reached a vast glass atrium sandwiched between buildings. The interior had been transformed by rows of roofless columned buildings representing the ruins of Pompeii, and an even larger volcano jutted out from the elevated stage on the loftlike area at the rear of the space, this one spewing some kind of red bubbles. We gaped.
“Who has the time to build this stuff?” wondered Drew, accepting a miniature crab cake from a passing tray.
Next to Drew, who had femurs of NBA quality, Wyatt looked like a chubby fifth grader. He waved off a group of elegant beauties from the club who were beckoning him to the dance floor.
“Because I’m African-American,” he commented, “everyone makes two assumptions, only one of which is correct: that I can boogie and that I’m hung like a forty-ounce beer can.”
I fell for it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance,” I mused.
Wyatt lowered his chin and made meaningful eye contact. “That’s because I’m an appalling dancer,” he said.
Emma rolled her eyes and dragged him off, both of them returning a moment later with glasses of champagne. She handed one to me and clinked hers against it. “Thank you for talking to Boyd,” she whispered. “For the first time in months, I think I might survive this.”
Optimism suffused me along with the alcohol as I downed my glass. “It’s going to get better,” I said. “I feel good about next week. This could be over.”
A tiny cloud passed over Emma’s face at my injudicious words. I could read her mind: It will never be over. Before I could speak, she took a decorous sip of her drink, but then abruptly upended her glass, guzzling the champagne in one swoop. “Wow,” she said, reeling a little. “Wow, wow.” I burst into laughter.
Along the far wall of the atrium there was a table with place cards and, next to that, a bar. We meandered in that direction, but progress was slow, since all four of us were stopped repeatedly by effusive greetings from other partygoers. All the women looked lovely. I had managed to score in the dress department: I’d found a spectacular vintage Chanel at Design to Consign, and even though there was a nearly one hundred percent chance somebody here was going to recognize me as a dress consignee, I didn’t care. I wasn’t likely to rewear this one, and I wasn’t going to spend a fortune on something I’d only don once. It was a champagne strapless gown blending almost perfectly with my leonine hair. At home, getting ready, I’d had that elusive sense of pleasure that comes with feeling beautiful: the dress complemented my curves, somehow managing to make me feel both light as air and voluptuous; aside from my tortured feet, I was ready to dance all night.
Emma wore a skintight rose-colored dress. She looked stunning, but she didn’t appear to know or care. Her sleek blond hair was pinned back, showing off her lovely cheekbones and her aqua eyes, and her full lips were a glistening pale pink. Her heels lofted her to well over six feet tall, dwarfing Wyatt, who declared he didn’t mind: “It is hard,” he observed to Drew, “to object to finding oneself smack-dab at breast height.”
“Yep,” agreed Drew, grabbing another appetizer.
I reviewed our table card with interest. The hostesses at these things generally alternated males and females, so you never knew what kind of random conversation would result. So: Blake Porcher; Emma; Buzzy Cooper; me; Jack Inman, who was Emma’s lecherous partner; Caroline Cooper, who had finally mailed me a dry card of thanks for my role in Buzzy’s resuscitation; Wyatt; Tricia Inman, Jack’s beleaguered wife; Drew; and my partner, Mary Sarah. Hattie must have found it amusing to seat the Coopers at a table with Buzzy’s erstwhile surgeons, probably figuring it would generate some lively discussion.
I looked around. Ancient Rome sprang to life in the elaborate table decor. The chargers were golden coins, expanded to plate size, graced by profiles of some gent with an aggressive nose. The candles rested on Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian pillars made of real plaster. Each place setting offered another beautifully wrapped freebie: gold-plated bracelets made of interlocking Roman numerals for the ladies and similar cuff links for the men. The whole thing reeked of decadent expenditure. Clearly Reginald, who was even more parsimonious than Drew, had not been consulted.
The party roared around us. Alcohol flowed in rivers out of the open bar, everyone chugging down premium labels with abandon. I wandered outside to a pleasant flower-filled balcony and found myself knocking back bourbon as if I were back in my Louisville school days, which brought on a sudden memory of my friends: fiery Georgia, intemperate and gregarious, now living in Charleston, with a thriving urology practice (of all things!); Hannah, an ob-gyn in California, sweet and maternal, ironically cursed with infertility; and the guys, Rolfe and Landley. Rolfe was a cardiologist, still living in Louisville, but to everyone’s shock, Landley had barged out of the closet after residency and was a nationally renowned ophthalmologist whose husband was a B-list Hollywood actor currently playing the role of a serial killer. Their Christmas card this year featured a bloodshot eye gazing upon a partially opened door with some lacerated limbs hanging out, which stuck out like a humungous pimple on a cover model when I’d hung it alongside the wholesome happy family cards from everyone else.