“How do, Miss Fannie. So nice of you to invite me.”
Ibby turned to find Annabelle Friedrichs and her mother, Honey, dressed in matching pink taffeta frocks. Mr. Friedrichs wasn’t with them.
Annabelle cordially stuck out her hand and forced a smile. “Thank you for having me, Ibby.”
Ibby shook her hand and was busy watching Annabelle sashay off into the crowd when she heard Winnie’s voice.
“Miss Fannie, may I introduce my parents, Myrtis and Winkie Waguespack, and my three brothers, Wiley, Whitfield, and Werner.”
“Fannie.” Myrtis Waguespack shook Fannie’s hand, then turned to Ibby and smiled ever so sweetly. “Why, Ibby Bell, don’t you look a picture! Such a pretty yellow dress. Bless your heart, where did you find such a thing?”
Myrtis Waguespack’s remark seemed less like a compliment than a veiled insult. Ibby could tell by the look on Fannie’s face that she was not pleased by it either.
“Doll made it for her,” Fannie replied.
“My, aren’t we lucky to have somebody like Doll to do our sewing for us,” Myrtis Waguespack said.
Fannie returned the favor by eyeing Myrtis’s green-and-blue-plaid dress, which made her round torso look like an overstuffed chair. “Isn’t that one of your mother’s dresses? Yes—I believe I remember seeing her in it at Ida Brewbacker’s funeral a couple of years ago.”
Myrtis Waguespack smiled, but her eyes were simmering. “Why no, you must be mistaken, Fannie dear. I had it made for Winnie’s party, but thank you for noticing.”
Wiley Waguespack stepped forward and nudged his mother out of the way. “Ibby, nice to see you again.”
Ibby’s eyes met Wiley’s as she shook his hand. She had danced with him at Winnie’s party last week. His cheeks carried the familiar Waguespack ruddiness, which was not very attractive on Winnie but was boyishly charming on her brother. Ibby couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“I think that’s the last of the guests. Let’s go join the party,” Fannie said.
Ibby lingered by the front door.
“Ibby dear, are you expecting someone else?” Fannie asked.
Ibby was still harboring the notion that her mother might show up. It was foolish, she knew.
She gave a small shake of her head. “No, Fannie. There’s no one else.”
Fannie went in to join the party, but Ibby hesitated, gazing through the glass in the front door as she pulled off her white gloves and tossed them onto the table in the front hall.
Doll came over with a tray. “What you doing standing here in the hall all alone?”
“No reason.” Ibby shrugged, taking one last glance at the door.
“Miss Ibby, you waiting for your mama to show up?” Doll asked. “Get that thought right on out of your head and get on in there and chase after that boy you got your eye on.” She nudged Ibby with her elbow.
“What boy?” Ibby said.
“You know darn well which one. I seen the way you looked at that Wiley fella when he came in. Now go on.”
Ibby noticed Sister Gertrude standing next to the bar sipping on an old-fashioned and talking animatedly with Fannie. She never did understand how the two could be friends. She wandered into the dining room and dipped a fried oyster into the bowl of cocktail sauce. She spotted Wiley Waguespack chatting with one of her classmates, Marcelle de Marigny, across the table. Ibby couldn’t hear what Marcelle was saying, but the ruddiness in Wiley’s cheeks had deepened. He glanced up for a moment but took no notice of Ibby.
Winnie came up and stood beside Ibby. “I see Marcelle is putting the moves on my brother.”
“He’s so handsome,” Ibby remarked.
“Well, you might as well forget about my brother.”
“Why, is he seeing someone?”
Winnie looked at her with exasperation. “Wiley told me he thought you were cute, but it would never work out.”
“Why not?”
“Because my brothers are only allowed to date good Catholic girls, that’s why.”
Ibby dropped the oyster back onto the platter, not caring if anyone noticed. “Will you excuse me?”
Ibby was trying hard to quell the urge to slap Winnie Waguespack as she wandered through the crowd. She spotted Emile Rainold entertaining a short bald man in conversation. Mr. Rainold was perspiring profusely, occasionally wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Across the way, Honey Friedrichs was flirting with their next-door neighbor Mr. Jeffreys. Ibby noticed Mr. Jeffreys’s diminutive wife, Inez, standing on the other side of the dining room, watching her husband’s antics.
Ibby headed over to the bar.
“What’ll it be, Miss Ibby?” Crow was perspiring as well. He patted his cheek with a cloth. “Champagne? Maybe a Sazerac?”
“Just a Shirley Temple.”
People in New Orleans were used to drinking more than communion wine by the time they were teenagers, but Ibby didn’t much care for alcohol. As she turned to go, she bumped into T-Bone, spilling her drink all over his starched white shirt.