Chapter Five
I was not a femme, really, more of a jeans and T-shirt girl deep down, but I knew how to play any room.
There was no dress code for teachers at the college, but I always wore nice pants and a blouse because it helped me to at least look like I was in charge even if I didn’t always feel that way.
I had a small collection of dresses from going to the theater or the symphony with Veronica, and even a super-fancy little number from when we attended a black-tie fundraiser ball together.
I wasn’t exactly skinny and firm, but I could walk in heels, I could do a good job of makeup, and I could do my hair, all to the point where Veronica would look at me with that small, smug smile on her face and say I would be the hottest girl in the room.
I felt that was a major exaggeration, but I knew I could play the part.
I clenched my purse tighter and tried not to swear.
My dress was dark green with spaghetti straps, a form-fitting bodice, and a mid-length skirt.
I liked it and it made me feel younger than I was without being totally inappropriate, always a bonus.
One way or another, it would not look good with a knit cardigan.
“I’ll be fine. It’s like eighty degrees out. ”
“But it won’t be when we’re inside.”
“She looks nice, Helen. Leave her alone.” Dad jingled his keys impatiently. “Let’s get going or we’re going to be late.”
It had been nice to see Kevin and his family in the morning, but trying to have any sort of adult conversation around six kids under twelve was nearly impossible.
I’d been glad when they went home until Mom brought out pictures from her and Dad’s trip to London.
That took up most of the afternoon, and now here we were.
I’d intended to drive myself, but we all packed into Dad’s Nissan and headed to church.
I had to steel myself several blocks away.
I had managed to avoid going to Sunday morning services for several years, and I really did not like that I was being forced into any sort of event there.
Still, when we turned the last corner, it loomed in front of me, a behemoth of brick and stained glass that dwarfed everything near it.
First Presbyterian Church, which might as well have dropped the “First” part because it was the only Presbyterian church in town, played a huge part in my childhood, between attending services, youth group, choir, and, of course, my mother working there.
It was also the source of much trauma. I set my jaw, took a deep breath, and followed my parents in as stoically as possible.
The narthex was huge, full of uncomfortable-looking furniture and artifacts dating back to the establishment of the church.
The sanctuary itself was grandiose, far too big for the current congregation, and done in pristine white with maroon cushions on the pews.
Four stained glass windows along each side of the room told the story of the life of Christ. I spent many, many Sundays staring at those windows, memorizing their intricacies, wondering how something so beautiful could be in a place so horrible.
I’d also counted and re-counted the massive rows of shiny brass organ pipes along the back of the chancel more times than I could remember.
This evening, the entire front was awash with blue and white flowers.
Three guesses as to the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses.
We were seated about halfway back on the left side of the church. The only other times we’d sat anywhere other than the fifth row on the right were weddings and the occasional funeral. I liked this much better since I really wanted to remain as anonymous as possible.
The wedding itself wasn’t bad, if totally excessive.
There were eight bridesmaids and eight groomsmen, two flower girls, and a ring bearer that rolled around on his back during the service.
To my surprise, Pastor Hardeman was not the officiant; it was the new assistant pastor whom I’d never met.
He seemed benign, which was a relief. We had even been late enough that I didn’t have to do more than give half-waves to a few people I knew.
The reception was held at the town country club, another massive building flanked by a golf course, tennis courts, and a rose garden.
When we entered the ballroom, Dad made a beeline for the open bar, and I followed him agreeably.
He was a mess of textbook social anxiety, and he had a tendency to drink quite a bit at public events then find a quiet corner in which to hide while my mother ran the social circuit.
The first twenty minutes or so were acceptable.
I spoke with a few people I knew from high school, mostly the usual what-have-you-done-with-the-past-thirty-years questions since I wasn’t actually friends with any of them.
Literally everyone I spoke with had returned to town after college, and I watched them glaze over when I spoke.
I’d just finished the same conversation with Bill Myers from Spanish club when all hell broke loose.
Mom appeared out of nowhere, her arm coming around my back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me. “It’s Charlotte Sandridge.”
“What?”
“No, don’t look. She’s coming this way.”
“Mother, let go of me. I’m not going to look.”
Before letting go, she ducked so close that our faces were almost touching. “I told her you were a pediatrician.”
“Excuse me?”
“Shh. There’s no time. Charlotte!” Mom created a remarkably seamless transition. Her hand finally left my arm, although I was fairly sure it’d left a mark. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Robert works with David Snyder. Samantha! The last time we saw you, you must have been this tall.” She motioned to her hip. “You were able to get away from work?”
I tried not to look at my mother. “I was. How are you, Mrs. Sandridge?”
“I’m very well, thanks. Gerald is somewhere, getting a drink maybe. I’m sure he’ll be so excited to see you.” I doubted it, but I smiled nicely and sipped at my wine.
As luck would have it, ten minutes later, I was seated behind a plate from the buffet line, directly across the table from the infamous Gerald Sandridge.
My father, who likely understood that no good could come of this arrangement, sat at the end of the table, shoveling pasta into his mouth and washing it down with liberal amounts of gin and tonic.
My mother sat next to me, twirling noodles gently and looking between Gerald and me as we made uncomfortable small talk about the ceremony and the food.
It didn’t help that Gerald was every inch as socially inept as I’d secretly suspected after watching his six-day stint on Championship Trivia.
He wasn’t bad-looking, but without the hairspray and makeup, he was a page from straight-guy business boring, his wavy dark hair combed awkwardly, his suit navy blue with a striped tie.
His eyes were fairly nice and light blue, but they avoided my glance at just about any cost. I still did not remember him from swimming lessons, but I assumed he didn’t make eye contact when we were five, either.
I was ready to bring up the TV show for lack of a better topic when Charlotte Sandridge turned straight toward me. “So your mother mentioned that you’re a pediatrician. Are you in private practice?”
There was a silence at the table. My father cringed and stared pointedly across the room, as if he might get an invitation to relocate to a table devoid of enormous festering lies. My mother smiled with teeth and stepped on my toe under the table.
I probably should have just gone with the story, but I knew there was no way I could pull it off. I generally avoided both doctors and kids. Beyond that, it pissed me off mightily that once again, I was just not good enough for my mother. “Actually, you must have misunderstood. I’m a writer.”
There was a small snapping noise somewhere to my left. I wondered if my mother had cracked a filling or broken her fork. Gerald sort of cocked his head as if I’d finally said something interesting, but Mrs. Sandridge looked confused. “Medical articles?”
“No, mostly—”
“She also teaches college.” My mother’s voice was unnaturally loud, certainly in hopes of covering any G- or L-words that might have been ready to leave my mouth. “Literature, journalism.”
Mrs. Sandridge looked between my mother and me, her brow furrowed. “So you’re a professor, not a doctor?”
I nodded and finished my wine in one swallow. “Sure.”
My father snatched his glass and reached for mine. “Would you like another drink? I’ll get you another drink.”
“That’s odd,” Mrs. Sandridge said. “I was sure she said you were a pediatrician.”
“Perhaps she was talking about my brother, who is an electrician,” I suggested. “It can be understandably confusing.”
Gerald giggled and turned quickly to his meal. My mother had become a furious shade of red and looked like she wanted to slaughter me with her butter knife.
Mrs. Sandridge forged on mercilessly. “But you said you wrote?”
“She’s been published, yes,” Mom said. “Oh, look, I think they’re going to cut the cake.”
Mrs. Sandridge was still looking at me for an answer, so I gave it to her. “I’ve had thirty-two books published, mostly thrillers with queer main characters, but also a handful of lesbian romances.”
Nobody said a word. My mother was wound so tightly next to me that I was sure she was about to implode, but all at once, it was as if the entire topic had never existed. Everyone mushed food around on their plates and looked hopefully toward the head table.
“Here you go, honey.” My father set an ample glass of wine in front of me. “I think they’re about to cut the cake.”