said the success of the event was a long shot at best, but she herself no longer gave a rip. Here was a woman who wanted to get Tracy Kane married and then get the hell out of Idaho.
“This is awfully formal,” I protested. “I was just going to help out.”
“That is what you’re doing, sweetie, helping us out.” Cissy barely glanced up from her inspection of the menu. “Just sign so we can eat, all right?”
“Give me a minute.” I scanned the document. Other than stipulating a remarkably generous payment for me, it was vague about my responsibilities, lumping them under “Duties As Assigned.” I hated the idea of working for Beau Paliere, but since he wasn’t actually going to be here in person, and since Eddie and I were in serious need of the revenue... “Well, it looks pretty straightforward, Cissy, if you’re sure this is what you and Tracy want.”
“Of course we do,” she said absently. “Or maybe the crab cakes. What are you having, sweetie?”
“Not sure.” As I initialed, I asked Shara Mortimer, “Are you joining us for lunch?”
“No.” She closed her briefcase with a vicious snap and rose to her feet. But she must have heard how rude she sounded, because she unbent just a little. “I’ve already eaten. I’m meeting the photographer for a drink by the pool. You and I can get together later.”
“Sure. Where?...”
But the New Yorker, finished unbending, was already striding away.
“She’s staying here at the lodge,” Cissy said. “I lined up this gorgeous suite for Beau, and now it’s going to waste on
her.
I’m going to try the Cobb salad. Or maybe the Asian orange duck salad. Do you suppose those are mandarin oranges? Because I’m not sure I like mandarin oranges...”
I saw Shara pass Tracy on the terrace steps; the two women exchanged distant nods but didn’t speak.
What have I gotten
myself into?
Well, I’d just keep everything smooth and cooperative with Ms. Mortimer, win her over with my professionalism, and I’d be fine.
Meanwhile, I watched Tracy as she sailed across the terrace like a breeze across a wheat field, leaving a murmuring stir in her wake. Her layered ensemble was a mix of textures, fluttery silk and nubbly cotton and airy chiffon, that also mixed shades of white, from ivory to cream to champagne. Very feminine, very aristocratic, very
wow.
I made a mental note to put together a white-on-white outfit for myself, next time I had the funds to go clothes shopping.
As Tracy took her seat, excuses were made for Danny and air kisses were exchanged, then we ordered Cobb salads all around. The bride, perhaps mindful of her waistline, indulged in three or four bites, and given my condition, I didn’t exceed her by much. But Cissy cleared her plate gallantly, sopping up the dressing with a roll, then ordered raisin rice pudding and coffee, extra cream.
And all the while, she talked. The rosebud lips managed to have food going in and words coming out, simultaneously, for every minute of the next three-quarters of an hour.
“I was going to stay with purple, Carrie, you know how that’s my special color, but then I saw this dress in pink, not pink-pink, you know, but more shell pink...”
Tracy, having heard all this before, sat gazing at the skaters without much interest, waving vaguely at a friend or two, and autographing napkins for the waiter, the busboy, and four tittering women at the next table. I found myself watching her: the way she didn’t fidget with her hair, not even once, the way she drank her coffee with a straw to preserve her lipstick. Always onstage, always perfect.
The few times Tracy took her shades off, her eyes were distant and preoccupied. Or was that just boredom?
“...but then when I had my pumps dyed they came out more of a rum pink, so I had to find new ones, which took even
more
time, and I’m already as busy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs...”
I was starting to glaze over myself when a shriek from inside
“This is awfully formal,” I protested. “I was just going to help out.”
“That is what you’re doing, sweetie, helping us out.” Cissy barely glanced up from her inspection of the menu. “Just sign so we can eat, all right?”
“Give me a minute.” I scanned the document. Other than stipulating a remarkably generous payment for me, it was vague about my responsibilities, lumping them under “Duties As Assigned.” I hated the idea of working for Beau Paliere, but since he wasn’t actually going to be here in person, and since Eddie and I were in serious need of the revenue... “Well, it looks pretty straightforward, Cissy, if you’re sure this is what you and Tracy want.”
“Of course we do,” she said absently. “Or maybe the crab cakes. What are you having, sweetie?”
“Not sure.” As I initialed, I asked Shara Mortimer, “Are you joining us for lunch?”
“No.” She closed her briefcase with a vicious snap and rose to her feet. But she must have heard how rude she sounded, because she unbent just a little. “I’ve already eaten. I’m meeting the photographer for a drink by the pool. You and I can get together later.”
“Sure. Where?...”
But the New Yorker, finished unbending, was already striding away.
“She’s staying here at the lodge,” Cissy said. “I lined up this gorgeous suite for Beau, and now it’s going to waste on
her.
I’m going to try the Cobb salad. Or maybe the Asian orange duck salad. Do you suppose those are mandarin oranges? Because I’m not sure I like mandarin oranges...”
I saw Shara pass Tracy on the terrace steps; the two women exchanged distant nods but didn’t speak.
What have I gotten
myself into?
Well, I’d just keep everything smooth and cooperative with Ms. Mortimer, win her over with my professionalism, and I’d be fine.
Meanwhile, I watched Tracy as she sailed across the terrace like a breeze across a wheat field, leaving a murmuring stir in her wake. Her layered ensemble was a mix of textures, fluttery silk and nubbly cotton and airy chiffon, that also mixed shades of white, from ivory to cream to champagne. Very feminine, very aristocratic, very
wow.
I made a mental note to put together a white-on-white outfit for myself, next time I had the funds to go clothes shopping.
As Tracy took her seat, excuses were made for Danny and air kisses were exchanged, then we ordered Cobb salads all around. The bride, perhaps mindful of her waistline, indulged in three or four bites, and given my condition, I didn’t exceed her by much. But Cissy cleared her plate gallantly, sopping up the dressing with a roll, then ordered raisin rice pudding and coffee, extra cream.
And all the while, she talked. The rosebud lips managed to have food going in and words coming out, simultaneously, for every minute of the next three-quarters of an hour.
“I was going to stay with purple, Carrie, you know how that’s my special color, but then I saw this dress in pink, not pink-pink, you know, but more shell pink...”
Tracy, having heard all this before, sat gazing at the skaters without much interest, waving vaguely at a friend or two, and autographing napkins for the waiter, the busboy, and four tittering women at the next table. I found myself watching her: the way she didn’t fidget with her hair, not even once, the way she drank her coffee with a straw to preserve her lipstick. Always onstage, always perfect.
The few times Tracy took her shades off, her eyes were distant and preoccupied. Or was that just boredom?
“...but then when I had my pumps dyed they came out more of a rum pink, so I had to find new ones, which took even
more
time, and I’m already as busy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs...”
I was starting to glaze over myself when a shriek from inside
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