Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews Page A

daughter-in-law. Maybe she was a big part of my problem with commitment after all. Maybe I'd feel differently about moving in with Michael, much less (maybe? eventually? if things worked out?) marrying him, if I sensed something even vaguely resembling approval from her.
    Suddenly she headed our way.
    "Hello, Mother," Michael said when she reached us. "You look very nice."
    "Hello," she said. "So do you."
    She glanced over at me as she said it, leaving me to guess whether I was supposed to be included in the "you" or not. I resisted the impulse to tug at my dress. Not only did the neckline seem much lower all of a sudden, but every time I looked down, my breasts looked much closer than I was used to seeing them. I had to fight the irrational fear that if I stumbled they would fly up and smack me in the face.
    "Meg," Mrs. Waterston said, "did you find that recipe yet?"
    "Recipe?" Michael echoed. He knew perfectly well how implausible it was for anyone to ask me for a recipe.
    "I'm sorry. I've been so swamped getting ready for the fair that I really haven't had time to look. I will as soon as I get home, though."
    "I'd appreciate it," she said, and sailed off.
    "What was that about a recipe?" Michael asked.
    "I owe your mother a recipe," I said.
    "What recipe?"
    "The beef with peppercorn sauce she had when she came to dinner at my place in June."
    "You made the beef with peppercorn sauce?" Michael asked.
    "You don't have to sound so incredulous," I said. "I'm not such a lousy cook."
    "No, just an infrequent one," Michael said.
    "I had no idea you made that. I thought you got it from Le Rivage after you burned the roast."
    "Well, of course I did," I said.
    "Then why is she badgering you for the recipe?"
    "Well, I didn't want to admit that I'd served her carryout food."
    "Didier's filet au poivre isn't exactly carryout food."
    "Yes, but I didn't want to admit I hadn't made it myself. So, when she asked for the recipe, I pretended I'd mislaid the card, and I looked up a recipe that sounded like the same thing and sent it to her. Apparently I didn't guess that well."
    "I still don't understand…." he began.
    "You never will," I said, with a sigh. "It's a chick thing."
    "Next time, just tell her it's an old family recipe, and your mother forbids you to give it out."
    "Now that might work," I said. "Better yet, I'll confess."
    "That you didn't cook the sauce?"
    "No, I'll confess that I lost the copy of the recipe Mother gave me, and was trying to write it down from memory, and that she'll have to get it from Mother. Mother can do the old family recipe bit much better than I ever could."
    "Yes, and Mom would certainly understand your mother not wanting to give her the recipe," Michael said.
    His mother had taken up a post near the center of the party, about ten feet from my mother. The two had their backs to each other, and they were both laughing, talking, and gesturing with practiced gaiety.
    Suddenly they both turned and, as if on cue, reacted with visible (though implausible) delight and surprise at seeing each other and managed, despite their enormous panniers, to maneuver themselves close enough to kiss each other carefully on or near the cheek.
    I wondered if real colonial grande'dames lost quite so much hair powder over the course of an evening. Mrs. Waterston's shoulders had been speckled with it, like artificial dandruff, and now, when her towering wig and Mother's happened to touch during their choreographed embrace, a small cloud of powder rose, reminding me of the haze of musket smoke that began to cover the reenactors' battlefields after the first volley or two of musket fire.
    "I have a bad feeling about this," I said.
    "Maybe I should go round up your dad, so he and I can distract them if necessary," Michael said.
    He kissed me on the cheek and launched himself through the crowd.
    "Start looking near the food," I called after him. I wasn't sure he heard me, but then he knew Dad well enough by now to figure that out on