“With that in mind, what else would you like to apologize for?”
“The menu?”
I nod wisely. “You failed to recognize that chefs, as a collective, have notoriously short tempers and access to very sharp knives. Had you succeeded in altering that menu, I’d be very concerned for your welfare, Elliot.”
He looks down at the sea below, then back up at me, his expression a cross between incredulity and desperation.
“What else would you like to apologize for?”
“The . . . cake topper?”
“Are you asking me?”
“The cake topper. I’m sorry. I broke the cake topper on purpose.”
“I know. I’ll send you the bill to replace it. You may have to sell a kidney to afford it, but we’ll work out those details later. And how will the rest of the weekend go from here?” I ask.
“I won’t be a problem.”
“I hope that’s true. This place is crawling with McRaes. And, if I’m honest, I’m, by far, the most reasonable of the whole bunch. My brother-in-law, Dean? The big guy who looks chronically ready to knock heads together? That’s because he is. My brother, Gabriel, thinks torture is funny. Bronwyn doesn’t tolerate bullies. My parents . . . the less said there, the better. And my wife knows five ways to render you incapable of fathering children with that cane of hers.”
“You won’t have to worry. I won’t cause any more problems.”
I grasp his forearm and use the knife to slice through the tie. It flutters to the sea below. Then I clamp the hilt between my teeth and yank Elliot up and back onto the steps where he sprawls, clinging and puking.
I’ve barely re-sheathed the knife when a middle-aged woman with a basket over her arm makes her way down the stairs. Her dark brows come together with concern.
I smile in reassurance. “Ha paura delle altezze.” He’s afraid of heights.
She shakes her head with a chuckle, likely as amused by my atrocious accent as she is by Elliot’s clinging to the steps. When she continues on her way, I squeeze his shoulder. “Up and at ’em.”
He staggers to his feet, and I run a full visual inspection. He’s a bit dusty and windblown, and crying, of course, but he doesn’t have a mark on him. I did promise Franki I’d do my best to be pleasant.
“If you need to clean up and take a minute to calm down before dinner, I’ll make your excuses. Be there in time for the toasts.”
He nods.
“And, when you go home to England, get some therapy, buddy. You are fucked up.”
4
Belong Together
Henry
Therehearsaldinnerwillnot begin on time, exactly according to plan.
Franki gnaws on her thumbnail, her back to me as she stands sentry between me and the dining room, her gauzy red dress riffling in the wind.
What wind? The one I created by moving an industrial fan just outside the open terrazzo doors.
The place cards, heavy cream and embossed with gold, once sat on an elegant round table near that door. But that pesky wind blew the hell out of that table. Some of the cards are gone forever, sacrificed to the breeze.
The rest are slowly becoming a waterlogged mess from the massive floral arrangement I tipped onto the floor.
I crouch and lift the vase, placing the blooms back inside and returning it to the table. Spencer’s once-meticulous seating plan flutters on the floor like a hundred soggy elegant paper moths.
I could have trusted my conversation on the cliffside to be the end of Elliot’s troublemaking, but experience tells me these lessons stick better with follow-up. And seating him with Phyllis would be inviting a confrontation.
