Too Good to Be True(107)
“Oh, well, then, you can take her. You and Andrew,” I said. “For as long as you want.”
“He wouldn’t survive the week.” She grinned.
“Nattie,” I said slowly, “about us being equals…” She nodded encouragingly. “I want you to do me a favor, Nat.”
“Anything,” she said.
I turned a little to better face her. “Nat, I don’t want to be maid of honor tomorrow. Let it be Margaret. I’ll be your bridesmaid, go down the aisle and all that, but not maid of honor. It’s too weird, okay? A little pimp-ish, you know?”
“Okay,” she said instantly. “But make sure Margaret doesn’t roll her eyes and make faces.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t guarantee anything,” I said with a laugh. “But I’ll try.”
Then I stood up and pulled my little sister to her feet. “Let’s go back, okay? I’m starving.”
We held hands all the way back to our table. Mom hopped up like an anxious sparrow when she saw us. “Girls! Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mom. We’re fine.”
Mrs. Carson rolled her eyes and gave a ladylike snort, and suddenly, our mother wheeled on her. “I’ll thank you to wipe that look off your face, Letitia!” she said, her voice carrying easily through the restaurant. “If you have something to say, speak up!”
“I’m…I don’t…”
“Then stop treating my girls like they’re not good enough for your precious son. And Andrew, let me say this. We only tolerate you because Natalie asked us to. If you screw up any of my girls’ lives again, I will rip out your liver and eat it. Understand me?”
“I…I definitely do understand, Mrs. Emerson,” Andrew said meekly, forgetting that he was supposed to call Mom by her first name.
Mom sat back down, and Dad turned to her. “I love you,” he said, his voice awed.
“Of course you do,” she said briskly. “Is everyone ready to order?”
“I can’t eat beets,” Mémé announced. “They repeat on me.”
WE ALMOST GOT THROUGH the dinner without further incident. In fact, I was trying to resist the urge to lick my bowl clean of crème brûlée when there was a commotion at the front of the restaurant.
“I’m here to see my wife,” came a raised voice. “Now.”
Stuart.
He came into the dining room, dressed in his usual oxford and argyle sweater vest, tan trousers and tasseled loafers, looking like the gentle, sweet man he was. But his face was set, and his eyes, God bless him, were stormy.
“Margaret, this has gone on long enough,” he announced, ignoring the rest of us.
“Hmm,” Margaret said, narrowing her eyes.
“If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine. And if you want sex on the kitchen table, you’ll get it.” He glared down at his wife. “But you’re coming home, and you’re coming home now, and I will be happy to discuss this further once you’re na**d and in my bed.” He paused. “Or on the table.” His face flushed. “And the next time you leave me, you’d better mean it, woman, because I’m not going to be treated like a doormat. Understand?”
Margaret rose, put her napkin by her plate and turned to me. “Don’t wait up,” she said. Then she took Stuart’s hand and let him lead her through the restaurant, grinning from ear to ear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE MINUTE I CAUGHT SIGHT of Andrew, I saw it.
Trouble.
The organ played Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, the fifty or so guests, most related to either the bride or groom, stood and turned to look at us, the freaky Emerson sisters. There was Stuart, looking smugly blissful, the expression of a man who saw a lot of action last night. I grinned at him. He nodded and touched his forehead with two fingers in a little salute. There were Cousin Kitty and Aunt Mavis, who both smiled with great false sympathy as I passed. Resisting the urge to give them the finger (we were in church, after all, and Mayflower descendants and all that crap), I looked ahead and, for the first time that day, saw the groom.
He ran a hand through his hair. Pushed up his glasses. Coughed into his fist. Didn’t look at me. Bit his lip.
Uh-oh. This did not look like a man whose dreams were all about to come true. This was more than the discomfort of standing in front of dozens of people. This was bad.
I gave Andrew a questioning look, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze bounced around the church, flitting from guest to guest like a housefly bouncing against a window, relentlessly seeking escape.
I hiked my skirt up a bit and stepped onto the altar, then made room for Margs. “We have a problem,” I whispered.
“What are you talking about? Look at her face,” she whispered back.
I looked at Natalie, beautiful, glowing, her sky-blue eyes shining. Dad looked tall and proud and dignified, nodding here and there as he walked his baby girl down the aisle to the grand music. “Take a look at Andrew,” I whispered.
Margaret obeyed. “Nerves,” she muttered.
But I knew Andrew better than that.
Nattie got to the altar. Dad kissed her cheek, shook Andrew’s hand, and then sat down with Mom, who patted his arm fondly. Andrew and Natalie turned to the minister. Nat was beaming. Andrew…not so much.