School of Fortune (7 page)

To please her parents Pippa danced with mayors and senators for what seemed like eons. Lance skulked back into the tent as the toasts began. As he slid into his seat beside her at the head table, neither offered a word of apology. In silence they watched Kimberly stagger to the microphone.

“Good evening!” she called. “Have y'all been enjoying those weird little mushrooms?”

“French truffles,” Rosimund corrected from the end of the table.

“Truffles, wuffles.” That got a nice titter. Encouraged, Kimberly continued, “The bridesmaids have come up with three reasons Lance and Pippa are getting married. One, it's no fun chasing your lover through Prague in the dead of winter. Two, Lance doesn't want to get confused with Oedipus.”

Kimberly and her friends were laughing so hard that they barely noticed no one over the age of twenty-two was laughing with them. “Three, Pippa wants good seats for Cowboys games.” To what she thought was universal cheering, Kimberly stumbled back to her seat.

“That was pretty vicious,” Woody whispered. “I'm surprised at you, Kimberly.”

“Go back to your own table!” she snapped.

“You're so drunk, you forgot the toast.”

Woody went to the microphone. “Very nice job, Kimberly. I'm sure you won't remember anything in the morning, and neither will the rest of us, hopefully. I'd like to propose a toast to the best guy on earth, Lance Henderson. I wish you a lifetime of tribulation. Sorry! I meant jubilation. All this Champagne is going to my head. I'd like to congratulate Thayne and Robert, Rosimund and Lyman, for raising such wonderful children. Lance and Pippa, you're breaking every heart in Texas tonight.”

Parents and children stood up for bows. “Who is that fellow?” Thayne whispered to Rosimund. “He's quite eloquent.”

“That is Lances physical therapist. He flies in every two weeks from New York to check the cartilage in Lance's knees. They're insured for seventy million dollars.”

As waiters served the next course, a melange of exotic greens and nuts atop a wedge of hard-boiled ostrich egg, Lance began dancing rather pelvically with the bridesmaids. Pippa sat and fumed: in three years they had only danced waltzes together.

“Just look at my boy.” Rosimund beamed from the other side of the table. “So light on his fee—”

She dropped her fork as yet another groomsman yanked her chair back and planted his lips on her neck. “You've got my blood boilin', Mrs. Henderson. Say you'll dance with me or I'll kill myself.”

“Why, Lawrence! You do flatter me.”

Seconds later, as Thayne was grimly salting her ostrich egg, she received a similar invitation from another groomsman. The mayor of Dallas asked Pippa to dance. Off she went, leaving her father alone with Rosimund's husband, Lyman. “Weddings,” he said, shaking his head. “You'd think this was the oil rush of ‘01.”

“I'm looking forward to some semblance of sanity next week,” Lyman said.

“I wouldn't count on it. If Rosimund is anything like Thayne, she's going to start planning little Arabella's nuptials the minute this one's over.” Robert raised his glass. “Here's to many years of fine golfing, Lyman.”

“And fine fishing, Robert.”

At the stroke of midnight, just as the Johann Strauss Orchestra packed it in, the Lester Lanin Orchestra swung into high gear in the next tent. Those interested in dessert, coffee, and open bar simply followed the music to the Summer Pavilion. Here the canopy was made up of hundreds of yards of deep green silk embroidered with gold stars. The orchestra sat on a revolving stage in the center of a small lake teeming with goldfish and water lilies. Two gondolas—each longer than the single gondola Thayne had imported from Venice for Pippa's engagement party—were available for rides. Oarsmen expertly steered them through a Tunnel of Love made up of a hundred thousand red roses. Elsewhere in the tent, fountains modeled on those at the Villa d'Este overflowed with creme de menthe, Amaretto, Grand Marnier, Cham-bord, and other strong colors. In lieu of tables, hundreds of deck chairs were placed about the artificial turf for the comfort of spectators at croquet, bocce, and horseshoe courts: Rosimund was a devotee of English lawn parties. Unlike Thayne, she didn't expect her guests to cavort till dawn on fruit cups. She offered a sixty-foot-long chocolate buffet. Every conceivable manifestation of chocolate was there in profusion: cakes, puddings, bombes, gelatos, pies, truffles, brownies, candies, pots de creme . . . Thayne could only watch in impotent rage as her bridesmaids piled their plates with two and three of everything.

Dancing continued. The drinking never abated. Soon wading, swimming, and falling overboard ensued. No one knew exactly what happened between Kimberly and Woody while their gondola was in the Tunnel of Love, but it emerged upside down. Thayne had planned to make a dignified exit at the stroke of one o'clock but that was impossible when a handsome young swain was begging her to tango every two minutes. She even allowed herself a second helping of chocolate chiffon pie to keep her energy up.

At two o'clock Lance waded across the water to the Lester Lanin Orchestra and took the microphone. His pants were soaking wet. He was barefoot. “I'd like to make a toast,” he said. “But first everyone has got to understand that I'm totally, hopelessly sm—smi—”

He paused, trying to form the words. The audience thought Lance was going to say, “Smitten.”

Instead he said, “Smashed!”

Rosimund didn't cheer as raucously as everyone else. Sensing that her son was about to say things he might regret, she began working her way over to the man in charge of the PA system.

“I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight,” Lance began. “I don't know about you, but I really love this tent. It's like
Brideshead Revisited
stuffed with Texas heifers and longhorns. Hard to believe I'll be playing football right here in two months. Anyway, thank you all for coming tonight. I've already said that? So what, I really mean it. What a tent! There's nothing my mother enjoys more than dropping a couple million bucks on a party instead of donating to the homeless. You're my girl, Rosimund! Where are you, darlin'?” Lance blew a kiss into the crowd. “I know it's going to be a strain, me bringing another lady into the house, but remember, nothing in this world is permanent except death, taxes, and your mother.”

Lance doused his face with water from the goldfish pond. “Some people think of marriage as a prison sentence. Just ask my father. But I hope that's not going to be the case for me. I hope it will be my refuge. That ring on my finger, that's going to be my little Pippa smiling up at me all day long.” Lance staggered backward into the arms of the conductor. “Nice biceps there, sir. Anyway, everyone, I want to thank you for coming tonight. It's the eve of my execution.”

Rosimund finally reached the PA engineer. “Pull the plug on that microphone.”

“If I do, the whole tent goes out,” he replied, which was a lie. Fifteen seconds ago Thayne had stuffed three hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, promising seven more if he turned the volume up.

Rosimund paled. She stepped to the edge of the pond. “Play the loudest piece in your repertoire,” she commanded the conductor. “Lance, you're exhausted. Come down.”

“You play one note and I'll break your arm,” Lance growled. The conductor decided not to play one note. “Mother, stop ordering people around. You're a worse control freak than Tom Landry.” Lance suddenly began to whimper. “You deserve better than me, Pippa. I'm just a jock.”

“Lance, that's enough,” Rosimund called. “You've had too much to drink.”

“Tomorrow I'm going to inherit the mother of all mother-in-laws. Can you imagine what my life will be like with Rosimund AND Thayne coming to dinner? That's like playing the Raiders without a helmet!”

With that, Lance plummeted into the goldfish pond. His friends splashed in after him. As they carried him out of the tent, Rosimund waded over to a microphone. “Boys will be boys,” she announced with a
wasn't-that-adorable
smile.

Pippa had been watching Lance's monologue from the croquet court. Drunk or no, he seemed at wit's end. “I've got to see if he's all right,” she told her grandfather, pushing through the crowd.

Thayne intercepted her halfway across the tent. “We're returning to the hotel.”

“Let me go! I have to see Lance.”

Were that to occur, this wedding had a fifty-fifty chance of incinerating. “Honey, you've got to back off. He's under the influence. Mark my words, Lance will be throwing himself at your feet tomorrow.” Thayne patted her daughter's hand. “I was in the same condition my own wedding eve. Your father has never mentioned it and I have never forgotten his gallantry.” Thayne strong-armed Pippa into the cool night. “Before we go, let's peep inside that last tent.”

Rosimund's fourth tent was a paean to autumn. The canopy was orange silk embroidered with apples. A twenty-foot-high
H,
constructed entirely of spray-painted foliage and sheaves of wheat, stood in the center. A fifteen-foot high
W,
constructed of gourds and black plastic bats, stood behind it. Guests could take hayrides on a path winding around the two towering letters. One thousand pumpkins, flown in from somewhere they were actually in season, had been carved into jack-o-lanterns. They were arranged fifty across and twenty rows high on a gigantic scaffolding. Six men on ladders hastened to light their candles before guests migrated in. Caterers were already arranging a breakfast buffet. A rock band, effortlessly resembling scarecrows and ghouls, warmed up in half a barn that had been dismantled in Vermont and reconstructed here.

“Way over the top,” Thayne snorted, leading Pippa away. “Rosimund should be ashamed of herself.”

P
ippa didn't sleep all night. Something was terribly wrong with Lance. He had been unreachable for the past few days. He had muffed nearly every line at the rehearsal. En route to the Henderson Ball he had seemed oddly glib. He never did introduce her to Woody. As for that drunken, rambling speech, what was he trying to say? Did he really feel he was going to his execution? Pippa had never heard him castigate his mother, even in private; nor, judging by the dismay on her face, had Rosimund. Lance hoped his marriage would be a refuge rather than a prison. What did he need refuge from? Behind all the wild remarks, Pippa had sensed howling desperation. Was Lance marrying her simply to make his mother happy? Was she doing the same for Thayne?

Unable to come up with a definitive “no,” Pippa stared at the moon. No question she and Lance had allowed this fest to get out of hand. Neither of them had made any attempt to slow down their mothers, although once those two runaway trains got rolling, nothing short of an atomic bomb could have derailed them. But that didn't mean Pippa and Lance were forced into the marriage, or that they didn't love each other.

She thought back to the first time they met, freshman year at SMU, History of Texas 101. Thayne had insisted Pippa take the course and note how many times the Walker family was mentioned. Lance sat

next to her. For a football player, he was remarkably literate. And so nice! For the first six months, they only knew each other by first name. Neither wanted to intimidate the other by divulging negative baggage like “Henderson” or “Walker.” Pippa always looked forward to seeing Lance and she increasingly felt the feeling was mutual. A true Southern gentleman, Lance proceeded slowly and chivalrously with her. He didn't ask her out until Thanksgiving. He planted his first good-night kiss on her hand, not her mouth. Three dozen roses arrived the next day with a note thanking her for her delightful company. Intrigued by his heavy cream stationery embossed with an
H,
Pippa thanked Lance for the roses on her own heavy cream stationery embossed with a
W.

Next day the truth came out. “You mean you're one of
those
Hendersons?”

“You're one of
those
Walkers? We're almost kissin' cousins!”

Lance was too well bred to rush into a turbulent romance. Besides, he was obsessed with football. On his free nights they would study together and, over a few glasses of neat bourbon, discuss Princess Diana conspiracy theories and their mothers. Mothers were a favorite topic.

Then, in Pippa's junior year, along came Andre, a slovenly, profane, pack-a-day smoker from the backwaters of Louisiana. His blue eyes could burn holes in reinforced steel. He was brilliant, opinionated, and incandescently sexual. He wanted to make art films. Andre stopped Pippa as she was crossing the campus one morning en route to Psych 101.

“Stay right there.” He whipped out a throwaway camera. “You're beautiful. Don't move! Turn your head. Look over the hill and smile as if your lover just ravished you and you're still in flames.”

Pippa had no idea what that smile might look like. “How's this?”

“Way too virginal, but I'll take it.”

Andre soon ushered Pippa into the garden of earthly delights, something she had been waiting for Lance to do for three long years. Although he tried not to show it, Lance was crushed by Pippa's desertion. He remained civil but their late-night talks ceased. Convinced that Andre was the next Truffaut, Pippa followed him to Europe, where he was shooting his first film,
Prague-Nosis.
It was about a student from Louisiana who, discovering he had terminal cancer, self-medicated with sex and drugs. Pippa got her grandfather to put up fifty thousand dollars for the project. She rented a luxurious apartment in the heart of the historic district and acted as Andre's secretary, paymaster, cook, and lover.

The year went from bad to worse. One day, after a fight with Andre, she called Lance. They began to have long chats, just like the old days. When Pippa inevitably caught Andre in bed with two Czech actresses, she flew back to Dallas. Lance was waiting at the airport with an armload of roses. Although he had a big game that weekend, he listened to Pippa's long, tearful tirade and never once said “I told you so” before taking her home.

After Thayne got over her shock at seeing Pippa on the doorstep, first thing she said was, “I told you so.” She glared at Lance. “And who is this? The key grip?”

“Lance Henderson, ma'am.” He held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Rosimund's son?”

He smiled. “You know my mother?”

“I know of her.” The gears were already clicking in Thayne's head. “Please come in.”

“I'd love to, but the team has curfew.” Lance hugged Pippa. “Good night.”

“Do you know who that boy is?” Thayne cried the moment the door shut.

“I don't want to talk about it, Mama.”

Next day a courier delivered one ticket to Lance's football game at SMU. Pippa finally met Rosimund, who said little but observed much: she had been pressing Lance to find a suitable fiancee for years. Lance played brilliantly, snapping a three-game slump. He didn't blow a game, nor did Pippa miss one, for the remainder of the season. He proposed to her at Thayne's annual Christmas Eve party.

Come to think of it, that was the only other time she had seen Lance drunk. Pippa watched an airplane slice through the night sky: lucky passengers, going somewhere else! Lance had swept her behind the Christmas tree and pretended to lose a cuff link. They were crawling around on the floor when he said, “Found it.”

In his hand was a platinum ring with a fancy yellow diamond, over two carats, radiant cut, about seven millimeters square, held in place by two half-moon white diamonds. The ring was so big that at first Pippa thought it was a button that had popped off someone's Santa outfit. “I know just one of us is supposed to be on our knees for this,” Lance said, suddenly serious. “But will you marry me, Pi—?”

Before he could finish the last syllable, a seismic hiccup shook him head to foot. Her name emerged as “Piccup.” “That's quite a ring,” she said.

“It belonged to my great-grandmother. Rosimund wants you to have it.” Lance crawled over and slipped it on Pippa's finger. It fit perfectly. “May I take that as a yes?”

Pippa hesitated a moment. She knew she would never find another Andre, which was probably a blessing. But Lance hadn't exactly filled the month since their reunion with physical ardor. Maybe he was taking libido-suppressing steroids. Maybe he considered her tainted goods and was working that out with his inner self. “Do you love me?” she had asked.

“With all my heart.” For the first time, he kissed her passionately.

Pippa closed her eyes, recalling that blissful moment. Lance
did
have it in him. “Then I accept. With all my heart.”

Lance had spent most of their engagement either in football camp or hiking in the Andes. Just as well: prenuptial chastity was a sacred oath of Henderson men. After he swore he was not involved with another woman, Pippa let the subject drop. Where on earth would she find a man who understood her, or her mother, so completely? Lance and she were like brother and sister. Every marriage manual in the world recommended choosing a mate from a similar socioeconomic background: so much less explaining to do.

As night became dawn, Lance's strange speech kept turning over and over in her mind. What had happened to his shoes? Was he a closet alcoholic? What if he got smashed again and couldn't function on their wedding night? So great was Pippa's desperation that she nearly called Andre in Prague. Fortunately reason prevailed. Any sane woman would feel terrified the night before her wedding. “Lance is a good man,” she told herself over and over. He would grow. They would grow together. She would return to school: Quarterback's Wife was not a serious career choice. For a Walker, anyway.

A fiddling at Pippa's door roused her from a dark trance. Kimberly, her dress barely on, stood in the hallway with a similarly
deshabille
groomsman. “Oh! I thought this was my room! Sorry!” They stumbled away.

Pippa was almost asleep when someone knocked softly but insistently on her door. A woman stood in the hallway. She wore a navy tweed suit, matching navy hat, and enough scarab jewelry to sink a pharaoh. In her hands was a large lacquer box. “Forgive me for the early hour,” she said, marching in. Her box hit the coffee table like a cinderblock. “Please. Open it.” Inside was a stash of gold coins. “One hundred Krugerrands. Each contains one troy ounce of pure gold. A wedding gift from my husband, Bingo Buntz the fourth, and myself.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Buntz.”

“It is absolutely imperative that we be invited to the reception at Fleur-de-Lis this evening.”

Pippa recalled seeing the name Buntz on one of Thayne's many lists. “Have you not received your invitation?”

“Young lady, are you aware that your mother has an A list and a B list for the reception? And that the B list is not the place for a woman of my social standing? Bingo and I have been pillars of the community for twenty-five years. We are scandalized by this slap in the face.”

“Have you spoken to Thayne about it?”

“Hardly, as she placed us there in the first place. Surely you know of someone who wouldn't mind a quieter celebration with fewer people. We're happy to trade places.”

“I'll do my best, Mrs. Buntz.”

“Thank you, dear. Bingo and I will see you at the wedding. You may send a groomsman to our seats with a proper invitation. I'll be wearing a pale blue hat with tropical feathers. And please get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

Pippa was disturbed no further until her nine o'clock wake-up call. It was Thayne, beside herself with anticipation. “Did you sleep well, honey? “

“Like a rock.”

“Will Kimberly be rounding up the girls to meet Mr. Simmons in the gym?”

“I doubt it. She had a late night.”

“Damn that Rosimund! Her chocolate buffet was a deliberate attempt at havoc.”

“I'm pretty sure the girls ate of their own free will, Mama. By the way, Mrs. Buntz just dropped by. She would like an A-list invitation.”

“Over my dead body. Bingo is a roue.” He had made his millions in waste recycling rather than fossil fuels, as if there were a difference.

“She gave me a hundred Krugerrands.”

Thayne did the math: forty-seven thousand bucks. “I'll think about it.”

“I wonder if Lance is awake.”

“I just saw him playing tennis with his mother. He looks fresh as a daisy. I told you he wouldn't remember a thing about last night. Do you think
all
the girls were up till dawn in that Halloween tent? I'll knock on their doors myself. They signed a contract and they are going to stick to it.”

Pippa went to the gym. Only Ginny was there, minus the wig, working out with Richard Simmons. Since she lived down the road from the hotel, Ginny was not sleeping there with everyone else. She had left the Henderson Ball shortly before Lance's speech to catch the third game of the NBA finals. “Good morning, sunshine! Ready to walk down the gangplank? “

Pippa switched on her treadmill. “I believe ‘aisle' is the word.”

“Where is everyone? They have some nerve criticizing me for ignoring my contract.”

Over the next thirty minutes the rest of the bridesmaids trudged in. Rosimund's chocolate buffet had done its damage, as everyone noticed when stepping on the scale. No one but Ginny felt better after an hour of aerobics. Moaning, the girls were marched into the steam room then weighed again. “What did you eat last night?” the distraught trainer cried. “Tell the truth.”

“Three slices of chocolate cake, one brownie, a hot fudge sundae, three chocolate macaroons, and some fudge pie,” Leah replied.

“What did you drink?”

“Anything I could pour into my glass.”

“Mon Dieu!
What about your diet?”

“I had a relapse, okay? Give me a break.”

Pippa found Rosimund's majordomo, Harry, waiting in the hallway outside her room. He wore the turquoise plaid cummerbund that Lance and Woody had purchased yesterday. In his hand was a small package. “From Lance,” Harry announced, weaving slightly on his feet. The poor man had now gone thirty-two hours without sleep. “With profound apologies for his behavior at the ball.”

Pippa took the box. “He couldn't deliver this himself?”

“It is considered bad luck for the groom to see his bride on the wedding day. Before the event, that is.”

“Oh. Right.” Pippa opened the box. Inside was a pair of yellow diamond earrings that matched her engagement ring. “Good grief!”

“May I tell him he is forgiven, madam?”

“Of course. Get some sleep, Harry. You did a fantastic job last night.”

Thayne smiled when Pippa showed her the earrings. “That is one hell of an apology. You should hope Lance gets plastered at least twice a year.”

“That's not even funny, Mama.”

They entered the elevator. “You must start remolding him as of tonight. Look what I've done with Robert. He was a hopeless mess when I married him.”

“What is he now?”

Thayne thought a moment. “A six-handicap golfer.”

The bridesmaids were waiting for them in a spacious terrace suite crammed with ornately wrapped boxes: Thayne thought a gift-opening party would provide a pleasant pastime for Pippa and her attendants on her wedding day. After setting up a video camera to record events for those who couldn't attend, like Rosimund, Thayne sat on a couch with her laptop, ready to record incoming gifts on a spreadsheet program that would also format the thank-you notes.

“Please monitor the hallway,” she told the armed guard who had been protecting the boxes all week. Once he left, she turned off the video camera. “Today is the moment of truth, girls. I hope you're up to the task you've been training for these past six months. If I may be frank, last night's rehearsal was ghastly. Your behavior at the Henderson Ball was an embarrassment.”