An hour into her daughter’s engagement party, and Emma May is still fussing with the hem of her blouse. It won’t lie flat and pops inside out every time she moves. If she could, she’d glue her arm to her side to keep it in place, but there’s too much for the mother of the bride to do. Too many hands to shake, waiters to direct, small details to fix.
One of the hydrangea blooms in the arrangement on the front table has begun to droop. She tucks it behind a lily and wills it to stay.
“Are you sure they have the right address?” Portia asks. They’re waiting for Lyle’s parents, and her daughter’s worry lines are going to crease her makeup if they don’t arrive soon.
Lyle kisses his fiancée gently. “I guarantee you this is what’s happening: my parents got into town twenty minutes ago, but my dad refuses to pay for parking. Mom is grousing about having to walk too far in heels, and at the same time refuses to let Dad drop her off at the door because it’ll make her look like—” he makes finger quotes “—a call girl in a cab.”
Good grief. Emma smooths her shirt. Don’t they sound like a pair.
She has not yet met her daughter’s future in-laws. She’s extended several invitations, but Mr. and Mrs. Fluke live in suburban Sacramento, two hours away from Emma in Petaluma.
“Is there anything I can do to help your parents fully enjoy the evening? Do they know many of your friends?”
She glances around the patio, expecting to recognize more of Portia’s friends than she does.
Lyle doesn’t have time to answer. “Dad! Mom! Over here.”
A man with Lyle’s angular chin plus forty years of sun damage scans the courtyard. He’s no more than six feet away, but the look on his face says he’d just exited customs and can’t locate his passport.
The woman beside him reaches for his elbow and pulls it close, a guarded tourist clutching her possessions tight.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fluke?” Portia waves her fingers in the air and her diamond catches the sun, throwing glitter.
The in-laws remain frozen in place.
“I’ll get them.” Emma squeezes between a cocktail table and a man wearing a three-piece suit with flip-flops. Lyle has been interrupted briefly by a round of congratulatory backslaps, and Portia shouldn’t have to be responsible for rescuing her fiancé’s parents at her own engagement party.
Come to think of it, where has Portia’s father, Devin, disappeared to?
“Sylvester? Doris? I’m Emma May, Portia’s mother.” She extends her hand.
Sylvester ignores it. “Where did you park? I couldn’t find any lots charging less than twenty-five dollars.” The man is dressed as if he’d just stepped out of the State Farm Insurance office he’s reportedly owned for thirty-some years.
Emma withdraws her unshaken palm and uses it to straighten her hem. “I used the valet, actually.” Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, though why, she cannot imagine. How she spends her money is her business.
At least she arrived on time.
Doris Fluke hugs her husband’s elbow ever more tightly to her side, adding nothing.
“You look lovely, Doris. That color is—” Emma has blanked. Lovely is the only word coming to mind, but she’s already said that. “Lovely. It’s just lovely.”
Tasteful. The word comes too late. Doris’s pantsuit is a tasteful shade of lilac. Not too-polyester purple nor nursing-home lavender. Lyle obviously gets his height from his mother, who stands a half of a head taller than her husband. She’s at least six feet tall. And imposing. Broad. Not fat, so much as, well, Emma can’t put her finger on it. Just that she can’t be an easy woman to dress. There’s the height, plus a certain lack of curves.
But the pantsuit really is lovely. Ruching circles Doris’s waist and the jacket lapels meet at a single mother-of-pearl button. The pants do tug a bit at the thighs, which causes the line to flare wider than intended, though Emma can see the outline of swelling around her knees.
She’s suddenly aware that there has been no conversation for several seconds.
“Mom. Dad. Thanks for coming.” Lyle pecks his mom on the cheek and extends a hand to his father. Which the man takes, unlike Emma’s.
“How did you get here? What did the cab cost?”
Lyle shakes his head. “My place is close enough to walk. One of the reasons we chose to hold the party here.”
The venue, Giardino Blanco, is less than two blocks away from Lyle’s Hayes Valley apartment. Emma knows because she and Portia have walked here several times, even though neither of them live in the city. Portia lives in Napa, where she teaches second grade. But Emma isn’t afraid of the city; she likes it.
Portia beams at her soon-to-be family. “We’re so pleased you decided to join us.”
Emma’s ears perk at the word decided.
“And you’re certain you don’t want to stay at my place overnight?” Lyle’s generosity of spirit was one of the first things Emma liked about him. “I’ll take the couch so you can have my bedroom.”
Sylvester grimaces. “I have a 7:00 a.m. tee time with Bernie Rundgren.”
Doris lifts her foot ever so imperceptibly, wiggling her toes inside her shoe.
“Let’s get you seated.” Emma takes her by the hand, not giving the woman the option to refuse. “I saved you a table near my friends.” She catches Portia’s eye as they pass. You were right about these two.
With the Flukes seated at a table with a few of Lyle’s childhood friends, Emma reviews the to-do list in her head. She’d been on her way to greet Portia’s bridesmaids before getting distracted.
“Emma?” She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns.
The face she sees is one she’d have recognized anywhere. “Benjamin.” She throws her arms around him.
Emma and Ben went to high school together. A good-looking kid loaded with multiple talents, he played goalie on the soccer team and went to the state debate team championships. In other words, he was way out of quiet Emma Johnson’s league.
Thirty-five years later, his hair gray and his muscular build softened, he looked just as good as he had back then.
“You’re even more beautiful than you were in high school,” he told her.
Emma blushed. Then reminded herself that he’d been captain of the debate team in high school. The compliment wasn’t anything more than skilled flattery.
“It’s astonishing.” Ben beamed. “You really haven’t changed a bit.”
If only you knew, she wanted to reply. Instead, she tossed her hair and laughed. “I’ve had a good life. I’m very lucky.” She tried not to look for a ring, keeping her eyes glued to his face. Could she help it that he used his left hand to scratch his chin?