MJ felt her face fall. “Honey, I’m done hoping.”
“Hah!” Gracie gave a hearty laugh. “That has never—and will never —happen to you! Hope is your middle name!”
“Mom! Hey, Mom!”
They turned as Benny rushed over, sliding on the sleek bottoms of his dress shoes, his hair a mess, his glasses askew, his iPhone out and filming.
“Best moment of the wedding so far?” Benny asked, lifting the phone to Gracie’s face. “We’re going to edit a video survey.”
Gracie laughed and stepped forward to answer, so MJ used the moment to step away, blowing a kiss. “I’m going to save—er, talk to my father. Come interview us later, Benny!”
She crossed the room and caught Red’s eye, not surprised when he stood fast, as if desperate for an excuse to escape Bertie Kessler. She was atalker.
“There’s my girl,” he said, extending a hand and giving a desperate look. “Did you come to dance with me?”
Bertie was up instantly. “Dancing is good, Red,” she said. “I dance and do Zumba every week. You would love Zumba.”
“Is that a type of pasta? ’Cause I love pasta.”
“Clearly.” Bertie lifted a drawn-on brow, which wrinkled her forehead. No surprise, she was eighty-five or eighty-six, MJ couldn’t remember, but she did look and act much younger. “I’m going to spend the holidays getting Red to exercise,” she announced.
MJ managed not to choke. “Well, he’ll be busy as Santa Claus. It’s his high season on the sleigh.”
“We’ll walk, stretch, and do a little chair yoga, Red,” she continued, undaunted. “And if you need a Mrs. Claus, I bet I could find an outfit.”
Oh, boy. “You’re staying for a while then?” MJ asked the other woman.
“At least until the new year,” she said, chumming up next to Red. “You know, I’m considered an unofficial personal trainer at the assisted-living home where I live—in the unassisted and independent wing, of course.”
“Of course,” MJ said.
“And I’m going to work my magic on this man who just nearly died.”
“I didn’t nearly die!” Red exclaimed. “It was heartburn.”
“An early warning sign.”
“Of impending doom,” he deadpanned, looking at MJ.
The song switched to something slower, the first strains of Eric Clapton singing “You Look Wonderful Tonight,” and MJ took the cue.
“Come on, Dad. It’s not a wedding if we don’t dance together. Mind if I steal him, Bertie?”
“Not at all. I’m here for weeks.”
“God save me,” her father muttered as they walked away.
“Dad, she’s just trying to help.”
“Help? She wants to build muscles I already donated to science.”
Chuckling, MJ turned him and took his hand, assuming a dance position. “It couldn’t hurt to get a few pounds off you, Dad.”
He rolled his eyes. “Some people would call that elder abuse. And the woman could stand to eat a pretzel, you know. I’ve seen turkey carcasses with more meat on their bones.”
But his eyes were bright and he was laughing, so MJ did, too.
“Are you enjoying the wedding, MJ?” he asked. “It really turned out nice.”
