We heard the back door open and Rebecca call out. “Is there anything for lunch? I’m starving.”
Ghost let out a bark, followed by Rebecca screeching, and I was tempted to head out the front door and pretend I hadn’t heard her.
“Just a few more hours, Mellie,” Jack said as he pushed me in the direction of the kitchen. “You can do it.”
When he headed in the opposite direction, I said, “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to run interference?”
“I wish I could. But I’ve got to hang the twinkling lights. And milk the cow, feed the hogs, mow the back nine . . .”
He continued until the shutting of the front door silenced him before I could.
CHAPTER 32
Despite last-minute glitches—a broken ice machine, a plastic T. rex belatedly discovered post-flush in the downstairs toilet, and a brief appearance by two rough-looking “associates” of Marc’s who’d driven Marc in a black Navigator with tinted windows and then carried him and the wheelchair to the back garden—the shower was in full swing by five thirty. The guests seemed to be enjoying themselves, the steady hum of conversation filling the garden and mixing with the strains of music filtering from the hidden speakers. My dad was doing a wonderful job of mixing ABBA with other music from the seventies and eighties, along with the various nursery songs sprinkled in at Rebecca’s request.
The juxtaposition of the constantly running lingerie fashion show behind the DJ table against the nursery music had an admittedly artistic yet bizarre vibe, and it was probably one of the main reasons for the quick depletion of our champagne supply. Either that or the need for guests to soften the sight of the guest of honor herself, wearing a sparkling tiara on top of her blond head and a voluminous red silk peignoir set with a white fur stole around her bare shoulders. It wouldn’t have been so awful except that Pucci wore a matching outfit. Rebecca had plopped the poor dog in the lap of Marc, who sat in his wheelchair next to her throne, unable to move away, which might have been the source of his malevolent stares directed at Jack and me.
I stood nearby talking to Lindsey’s and Alston’s parents when Jack walked up to Marc.
“Having a good time, Matt? Anything I can get you? I don’t know if the caterer brought any humble pie, but I can ask if you like.”
“Go to hell, Jack. You’ve lost again, but you don’t know it yet, do you? As usual, you’re oblivious. And I’m not talking about that stupid contract, either. Screw the contract. I’ve got bigger and better things I’m working on.”
There was a long silence, and I strained my neck to hear what Jack said.
“Did you know that stealing art from a museum is a federal crime? I imagine it’s hard to run when you’re in a wheelchair.”
“What?”
Marc’s shout of outrage turned heads, but Jack ignored him, instead joining our conversation circle, where we continued our chat about our girls and the SATs and lacrosse. I was just beginning to relax and enjoy the party when I found myself actively listening to the sound playing over the speakers.
Alston’s mother, Cecily, started laughing. “Oh, my goodness. What is that?”
“?‘O Superman,’?” Veronica said, her smile strained.
“Yeah. That’s it.” Michael shoved his hands into his pants pockets.
“I’ve never heard of it. Is that supposed to be music?” Cecily asked.
“It’s, um, performance art,” I said. “I don’t remember putting that in the playlist. Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to speak with my dad about what music to play for present opening.” I looked at my watch. “Which should commence in approximately twenty-three minutes and”—I lifted my other hand, in which I held another watch, with a second hand—“fourteen seconds.”
I hurried across to where my father stood behind his DJ table, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and a flower lei that he’d procured on his own. I didn’t ask if he’d chosen a DJ name, because I was afraid to hear the answer.
“Hey, Dad, you doing okay?”
He gave me a peace sign in response.
“Wrong era, but I’ll go with it. Can I get you more water?”
“Your mother just brought me cold seltzer with lemon, so I’m good—but thanks. And, yes, I’m aware that I need to change the playlist for the gift portion of the party. The three alarm clocks you’ve set up in my booth will let me know in plenty of time.” He smiled, but it didn’t seem as sincere as it should have.
“Quick question: Where did you get that last song from? I don’t remember having that CD in my collection.”
“The Laurie Anderson song? That came from the collection of CDs Nola brought to me. Lots of cool stuff in there. Why?”
“What collection?” And then I remembered the box Alston had mistakenly brought from her house. The box of things her father had packed up to get rid of in preparation for their move. I looked at my father, feeling a little light-headed. “Was it in a case?”
He looked down at a pile of CDs. “Not that one—no. There are actually quite a few without cases. You shouldn’t store them that way, you know. They scratch easily.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks.” I began to walk away, then turned abruptly. “Can I have that, please?”
“I promise I won’t play it again.”
“No, it’s not that. I just . . . I need to show it to Thomas.” There. I’d said it. I’d given voice to a nagging thought that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard I tried to push it down.
“If you insist.” He carefully picked up the disc with his thumb and middle finger and placed it in an empty case. “Here you go. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to have it back when you’re done with it. I want to listen to the whole album. It’s a bit strange, but fascinating in a train-wreck kind of way.”