Midnight Brunch Page 2

  The horses were a pretty sight as they grazed in the green fields. I took a path that skirted the barn, to establish the location of Ernie, the ranch hand and family confidant. The dark, compact man was hammering away at some wood and wire fencing, being all manly. I waved to him, and he waved to me, but he was engrossed in his project. This was my window of opportunity.

  I la-di-da’d along my usual route beside the narrow creek that bisected the property. I talked to the baby, describing the oak-covered hills that ringed the valley, the beauty of the gray-blue rocks in the creek, the red, black, and white markings of a woodpecker.

  Then I casually swerved forty-five degrees to a path that led behind the barnlike structure that housed the swimming pool. Because of the family’s skin disorder, the pool was enclosed, but the sliding roof was usually opened at night.

  The family had told me the pool was off-limits due to an accidental spill of cleaning chemicals. Although I hadn’t studied chemistry at F.U., I was highly skeptical of the toxic pool story, especially since I’d spied Ernesto hauling lumber into the enclosure.

  Once out of view of the Big House and the barn, I looked for the knothole in the redwood fence that I’d noticed before. Using a nail file, I worked at the knot until I could pry the chunk of wood out. I peeked inside.

  To one side of the pool was a square platform with a canopy of dark red velvet. In the center of the platform was a rectangular table that held a large marble basin. Two rows of wooden chairs, ornately carved and black, faced the platform.

  Whatever they were planning, it was more than a simple naming ceremony.

  While the baby slept, I rubbed the sandpaper around the perimeter of the knot until it was smooth, and I did the same with the hole in the fence. Then I placed the knot halfway in the hole. When I pulled, it slid out easily.

  I wasn’t going to miss the show just because no one would give me a ticket.

  Two

  What’s Blood Got to do with it?

  W hen I returned to the house, I put the baby down for a nap, and Edna commandeered my assistance to prepare rooms for our visitors. Winnie’s parents, Sam’s parents, and Oswald’s parents would stay in the guest rooms upstairs. Oswald’s cousin, Gabriel, would take the maid’s room beside the kitchen. Other relatives and guests would stay at the old Victorian hotel in town.

  As I changed linens, arranged flowers, and vacuumed, I fixated on the plethora of fashion crimes I might commit at Nancy’s wedding. Sadly, women’s magazines didn’t offer advice on social armor for soirees filled with people who esteemed lineage above boobiage.

  Between a bout of pillow fluffing and furniture polishing, I went to the study and phoned Nancy. “Nancy-pants, ’tis I, Milagro.”

  “Milagro!” she yodeled. “I am thrilling to see you. Everything is going très fantastically, and in a few short days I will be living in wedded blish.”

  “It’s bliss. Have you been drinking?”

  “Not yet. I like blish. It’s like blush, the color of my gown, which is to die for, and lisps, which are the sexiest.”

  “I totally agree—about lisps, not blush. I thought everything was going to be puce.”

  “How could I when you told me puce means flea-colored? Yeuw. It’s pêche and blush and blish.”

  “On the topic of clothes, what should I wear?”

  “Whatever—all eyes will be on the lovely bride. Am I going to finally meet this mysterious Osborne of yours?”

  “His name is Oswald and he still can’t make it.”

  “Oh, Mil, quelle pathétique! Don’t I sound just like Leslie Caron?” she asked. “We’re going to a French place for our honeymoon, so I rented Gigi. Do you know the most shocking thing in that film, besides the fact that Louis Jourdan so obviously dresses to the right?”

  “What?”

  “When he’s about to take innocent virginal Gigi as his mistress, and Maurice Chevalier says, ‘She will amuse you for months.”’

  “I had no idea that movie was so cynical. How awful to think that a young lady is only temporarily entertaining.”

  “That’s why a prenup is essential.”

  “Now you are being cynical.”

  “Au contraire, mon petite chouchou. I trust in Todd’s undying romantic love for my father’s money,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m putting you down for the wedding as ‘and guest.’ But don’t bring one of your ‘arty’ beaus.”

  By “arty” she meant unemployed.

  “Where in France are you going?” I asked. “Somewhere on the Riviera?”

  “No, the hot French island with the tropical beaches. Tibet.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” I said, but I already had. “Tahiti?”

  “You’re no fun when you guess right so quickly.” Nancy then launched into a detailed description of her beach wardrobe and said, “Mil, is it okay that you’re not one of the bridesmaids? Todd’s still upset that Sebastian isn’t coming.”

  “Nancita, I’m just happy to be there on your day of blish,” I said. We had had a falling-out because of her fiancé’s association with SLIME and CACA. We were trying to mend our friendship. For her sake, I hoped that Todd wasn’t as much of a repressed, corn-fed, entitled jackass as he appeared to be.

  When I was done with my chores, I reported to Edna, who was in the kitchen. This was the time we usually had drinks on the terrace and shared a tranquil espíritu de los cocteles, but our drinks and dinner would wait until the guests arrived.

  Edna looked me up and down and said, “Young Lady, you will make yourself presentable before everyone gets here.”

  “Edna, I will try, considering the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “The circumstance of still not being invited to the baby’s christening and having only work clothes.”

  “Work clothes? Remind me of your profession again.”

  “I bitterly resent your implication that my clothes are trashy. The few clothes that I do own are trashed from honest labor in the garden.”

  Edna was making a supercilious snarking sound, something between a laugh and an “ack!,” when Oswald came in the door. He kissed Edna on the cheek and gave me a more substantial smooch.

  I said, “Your grandmother has been working me to the bone.”

  Oswald reached over and pinched my fanny. “Grandmama, you’ve still got a long ways to go,” he said. They thought this was hilarious.

  The phone rang, and Edna said, “Oswald, I have a feeling that’s your mother again.” She went to take the call in the study.

  Winnie and the baby appeared just as Sam got home. Sam strongly resembled Oswald, but his nose was a bit narrower, his jaw a little rounder, and his cheekbones not as angular. He had big, brown somber eyes and wavy brown hair that he tried to control.

  We were chatting away when Edna came back into the kitchen.

  “Was my mother sidetracked by a sale?” Oswald asked.

  Edna said calmly, “It wasn’t your mother. It was Ian. He’s coming here.”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if she had slapped me upside the head with a ten-pound coho salmon.

  Ian Ducharme was Winnie’s distant cousin. He had visited last year, and we had spent a few debauched days in each other’s company. I’d found Ian dashing, compelling, and quite depraved, and he’d been inexplicably fond of me.

  In the tradition of blaming the messenger, Oswald stared stonily at his grandmother.

  Sam said with his characteristic solemnity, “No matter what our personal experiences with Ian, I am glad that he is interested in seeing the baby and establishing a relationship with her.”

  “Sam’s right,” Winnie said. “It’s an honor for him to come…”

  “Why is it an honor?” I asked. What was so special about having a jet-setting bon vivant at a baby party?

  “I meant that it’s very nice of him to come,” Winnie said quickly. “Isn’t it nice, Sam?”

  Sam agreed that it was nice and quickly adde
d, “It’s nice to have relatives who care.”

  I couldn’t comment, since I had no experience with relatives who cared, except my long-dead grandmother.

  Winnie gave Oswald a steely glance that made us all remember that she routinely controlled a waiting room full of meth addicts, rowdy drunks, and screaming teenagers. She said, “I am happy that my cousin is coming for the baby’s sake. Anyone who isn’t happy can take it up with me directly.”

  Oswald gave a brief nod of concession.

  Winnie smiled and changed the topic to the baby’s name. Most of the family members had taken presidential last names when they immigrated to this country, so the kid would be stuck with Harding-Grant or Grant-Harding.

  “What about a presidential first name, too?” I asked. “Warrenette or Millardina.”

  Winnie looked so affronted that I shut up.

  When we walked back to the shack, Oswald was quiet. Finally, he said, “Goddamn Ian Ducharme.”

  “I know you have your Issues with Ian; however, I was free at the time, and you were engaged to Winnie. I’ve reconciled myself to your past, and I think you should do the same.”

  “That is a false comparison. My engagement was practically an arranged affair and I never had a physical relationship with Winnie.”

  “Really, Oswald, you’re arguing the technicalities.”

  He glared at me, and I quickly added, “Think of the baby. Be tolerant for the sake of the wee infant, pobrecita Calvina.”

  After a moment, he said, “Little baby Woodrowette. Sweet Lyndonissa.”

  “Darling Rutherfordyne,” I said.

  When he said “Adorable Ronald-Ann,” I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

  Once inside the shack, I said, “I don’t know why you get jealous of Ian, anyway. I’m the one who should be jealous. You feel up nekkid women every day and I understand that it’s just your job.”

  “Liar. It drives you crazy.”

  “Of course it does. I want you all to myself.” I slipped my hands under his shirt and along the smooth skin of his back.

  He looked down at me. “Ian’s coming back for you.”

  Ian still sent notes and gifts that I hid in the closet, but I said, “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about some silly Mexican girl he once met.”

  “I couldn’t.” He kissed my mouth, running his thumb against the artery in my neck. “We have time before they come,” he said. He took my hand and gently bit the skin on the inside of my wrist, signaling what he wanted from me.

  I pulled off his jacket, slipped his tie over his head, and un-buttoned his shirt. I undressed quickly and he pulled me to him, running his hands down my back and over my hips, nipping my neck playfully.

  I kissed his chest and tasted the subtle saltiness of his skin from a long day at work. I thought everything about him was perfectly right. I unbuckled his belt and tugged his slacks down. He whispered my name as his hands explored further, stroking me until I felt drugged with pleasure.

  “May I?” he asked politely. He always asked. His voice was low, melodious.

  “Yes.” I would have said yes to anything then.

  He reached behind a painting on a shelf, finding the scalpel where we always hid it.

  He removed the protective plastic sheath over the blade.

  I shivered despite the warmth of the evening. I wasn’t a girl who sought pain, but some activities, like planting a garden, were worth the petty injuries suffered.

  Oswald caressed me until I arched back and closed my eyes, aware of nothing but his hands. I felt the cut across the top of my breast, so fast and light that it was virtually painless. I opened my eyes and watched as he bent his head to the welling of crimson blood. He shuddered in pleasure. Seconds later, when he drew his lips away, the cut had mended and the skin was as it had been.

  We slipped down to the wool rug and made love. He pricked my forefinger with the tip of the scalpel, sucking at the droplets of blood. I rolled him onto his back and had my way with him.

  I was drowsing contentedly when I heard the dogs barking as the first guests arrived. I glanced at the clock and squirmed out of Oswald’s embrace. “Do you realize how late it is?” I asked.

  “How late?”

  “Really, really late.”

  He remained on the rug, watching me as I went to the closet.

  The burgundy cotton blouse and skirt I planned to wear looked shabbier than they had last night. There was nothing I could do now, so I laid them on the bed.

  “Let me shower with you.”

  “We don’t have time. I need to shower like Speedy Gonzales.” I rushed to the bathroom and worried through my three-minute shower about meeting Oswald’s relatives in general and his parents in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Grant had just spent a year in Prague, and I’d seen numerous photographs of them doing all things Praguish: reading at cafés, visiting museums, attending cultural events, and discussing existentialism.

  They had raised a marvelous yet down-to-earth son, so how could they not be wonderful? I secretly hoped that they would embrace me fondly and that we would grow to care deeply for one another. Perhaps Oswald’s mother and I would have long phone conversations and she would offer kind and wonderful advice. We would all join in holiday celebrations, and they would keep a photo of Oswald and me on their mantel.

  I dried off with one of Oswald’s thick Egyptian cotton towels and towel-dried my hair. After slathering myself with lotion that was supposed to impart a subtle glow, I dashed to the bedroom.

  Oswald, wearing only boxers, sat on the bed, one leg slung over the other, humming to himself.

  “Honey, you’re sitting on my—” I began, but he wasn’t. I glanced around the room. “Where are my clothes?”

  “I think you look better without them,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “And I love your delusions. Now, where did you put my clothes?”

  “The living room? Try there.”

  I was saying “Ha, ha, and ha” as I walked in a crouch to the other room, so that anyone strolling by the shack wouldn’t get a full-frontal of my chichis. Oswald trailed after me.

  On the sofa there were several garment bags and packages from an expensive department store. “What’s this?” I asked, standing straight.

  “Open them and find out.”

  It was like Christmas. Not Christmas at my parents’ house, where my mother Regina opened the innumerable presents she had bought for herself, but Christmas in television shows, where the kid is surprised as her loving parents look on.

  There were pretty summer frocks, sandals, a chic black suit, silk blouses, sleek trousers, soft shawls and sweaters, and matching accessories. There were elegant flats, saucy high heels, and cool sporty shoes. One box was filled with lingerie wrapped in crisp tissue paper. And there was a dress, the perfect dress for Nancy’s wedding: a deep rose silk dress edged in velvet, simple and beautiful.

  “Why did you…how did you have time?”

  “I can’t take credit for anything. Grandmama suggested that I have my personal shopper pick everything.”

  It would have been so easy, too easy to take things from Oswald. I wanted to love him for being Oswald, not for the things he could give me. “I can’t accept all this from you.”

  He looked exasperated. Then he grabbed a pair of filmy black panties from the pile of lingerie. Reaching down, he lifted my right foot and then my left, pulling the panties up on my hips. “Now you can’t return them,” he said. “Get dressed and let’s go face the firing squad.”

  While he showered and shaved, I examined the clothes again and wondered what instructions he had given the personal shopper. While some of the clothes had classic lines, many had a distinct prelude-to-a-boink aesthetic. I picked out a pale blue blouse and darker blue skirt that would be suitable for an introduction of parents to their son’s lovely girlfriend.

  Oswald held my hand as we walked to the Big House. The windows were open to the mild evening and lively voices carried across the f
ield.

  “I’m nervous,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Oh, one last thing, Milagro. Some of the guests are here because of their position, and their views may seem eccentric.”

  “Eccentric? In what way?”

  “Uh, they’re a little paranoid about outsiders, that’s all. So don’t get riled if they say anything weird.”

  Expensive cars with a new layer of country dust filled the car park.

  “Do not worry your very pretty noggin,” I said. “I shall be the very picture of tolerance and solicitude.” The more anxious I was, the more ridiculously I nattered.

  I took even breaths as we walked into the living room. It looked like happy hour at a country club, which was enough to make me want to run away screaming. The men wore polo shirts, khakis, and large gold watches. The women had neat suburban hairdos and wore light blouses and slacks or skirts. A few of the group had suspiciously orange tans. A woman who was an older version of Winnie held the baby in her arms while other women hovered nearby, admiring the munchkin.

  I did a quick scan for Ian, who wasn’t there, and saw two men who looked out of place. One was an elderly fellow with a head as bald and fragile as an egg. Despite the pleasant temperature, he wore a three-piece wool herringbone suit and perched in a wing chair by the fireplace. The country-clubbers stood around him, heads tilted down to listen as he spoke.

  At his right was a narrow young guy in black slacks and a black shirt, with ferret-sharp features, hair bleached to whiteness, and watery light-blue eyes. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance, but he drew my attention like a monkey to a shiny coin.

  “Mom, Dad,” Oswald said, and let go of my hand.

  He hugged a small, attractive woman, who stroked his hair and said, “Ozzie, how’s my handsome boy?” Her face was youthful, but not scarily taut and frozen.

  Oswald then hugged the compact, good-looking man at her side. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Oswald,” his father said warmly, as if the name were enough.

  Oswald brought me forward. “Mom, Dad, this is Milagro. Milagro, these are my parents, Conrad and Evelyn Grant.”