I rested my hand low on Zelda's bare back. "I noticed."
My mother bustled over, her high heels now swapped out for flip-flops with watermelon slices printed on the straps and the skirt of her long dress bunched up and knotted at her knees. "We've been looking for you all night," she cried. "Why did you leave the reception? The after-party is starting soon. You have to stay for that!"
Before I could dispute any of these claims, Zelda jumped in with, "I wanted to see more of the grounds. We won't miss the after-party."
I groaned at that but only Zelda noticed, responding with a light pat to my chest intended to shut me up.
"I've been thinking about our discussion last night," my father said to Zelda.
"Which discussion was that?" I asked.
Zelda's lips pulled up into a smile. "We had a chat on the walk back from the restaurant."
"You have some smart ideas." My father gave her a wink before running an appraising glance over at me. "Zelda thinks I can spend two full days each week out of the office. Maybe three come the new year."
I bobbed my head in the best show of blindsided agreement I could manage. "That's right."
"And without fielding frantic calls from my clients or finding them on the doorstep, wondering why some suit in the city"—that was me, I was the suit in the city, the villain in this story, apparently—"will only communicate with them through email and internet portals, like some corporation."
"Of course," Zelda replied, appropriately aghast at the idea of anyone putting up with acorporation.
My father considered this, taking a sip from each flute of champagne. Then he lifted his shoulders, saying, "Let's do it."
"About time," my mother muttered.
He held out his hand, first to Zelda, then me. "I trust you kids to get it right."
Before I could ruin this unprecedented moment of peaceful professional coexistence with some kind of asshole comment about always getting it right, Zelda replied, "We will. This means as much to us as it does to you."
Tears gathered in my mother's eyes. She hooked her arm in my father's, saying, "Two of my babies are happy tonight, Carlo."
"What happened to Linden?" he asked, frowning down at her.
"Nothinghappenedto him," my mother replied. "That's the problem."
"I don't understand anything you're saying." He drained one flute, then the other. "What's the issue with nothing happening to him?"
"It's not one we can solve tonight." My mother cast a feral gaze back at the tent. "Although—"
Zelda hid a laugh behind her hand.
"What were you saying about the after-party?" I asked because the last thing my brother needed was a Diana-sanctioned night with a bridesmaid. It wasn't like he didn't see plenty of action from his lumberjack beard alone but a fix-up would ruin any and all of his plans to get wet in Bristol's waters. "Where is that? What's the plan? Magnolia mentioned something about chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches and I hope to hell she wasn't lying."
I held Zelda close to my chest as my mother lapsed into a thorough explanation of the next leg of this event. There was to be food and drink, music and games. My sister had a special dress for this, something called a romper. And yes, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.
Then, my mother stepped toward us and brushed Zelda's hair back over her ear. "I love your stripe of indigo," she said. "It suits you."
"You're sweet. Thank you for saying that," Zelda replied. "We'll be along to the party soon."
Since they adored her and hung on every word she said, my parents accepted this and turned back toward the tent. If I'd said it, they would've dragged me along by the collar.
Once we were alone again, I asked, "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Many, many things," she said, laughing. "Can't walk in heels at all. Can't pick out a ripe melon. Can't mix a cocktail. Shall I continue?"
"You can but I still won't believe it."
She squeezed my arm. "You're adorable. Even when you work real hard at making people think you're not."
