“Totally,” Steve agrees, sounding happily stoned.
“Yeah, shame my family is crawling all over it,” I reply. “Otherwise it would be lovely.”
Tactfully ignoring what I’ve just said, the Darlings begin unpacking tablecloths and vases. It seems outrageous to make the space appear festive, but once we’ve arranged everything, it does look like we’re going to have a party. Zelda would appreciate it. I dispatch Dora back to the big house for the speakers and send Steve to pick some wildflower posies for the empty vases. Wyatt opens bottles for a few minutes, and I fuss distractedly, though I can’t stop staring at the road, waiting for Marlon’s rented convertible to swing into the drive. Wyatt comes over and grabs my hands; I’ve been shredding a stray doily into little paper snowflakes.
“I know this is awful,” he says soothingly. “You, having to enact this…whatever it is. Pretend this game is real. Zelda’s put you in a shitty situation.”
“Yes, yes, she has.” I shake my hands, trying to dispel my physical tension. “Is it crazy that I feel something like stage fright? I’m really fucking anxious,” I admit.
“No. You’re performing, after all.”
I nod. “I think Marlon booked,” I say weakly.
“Really? He’s not here?” Wyatt stiffens and looks toward the window, as though Marlon will be in sight.
“Left this morning. I think he bailed.”
“Shit. That asshole!” Wyatt looks murderous. I could kiss him. I do.
“C’est la vie,” I say lightly. “We’ll just get through this afternoon.”
“I’m here, Ava. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
Dora and Steve come back with both sound equipment and floral arrangements moments later, and we bustle around, adding our finishing touches. A car pulls into the driveway as we’re testing out the music, and I swallow hard. Here we go.
“I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta go collect Nadine and Opal. And change my dress,” I add with a delicate sniff.
Wyatt nods. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
I pour myself a serious slug of wine and toss it back medicinally. Then I dash over toward the house to usher Nadine and Opal over, only to find that Opal is already tugging Nadine across the lawn. They look like two frail old ladies, not women from two different generations. Nadine has a contemptuous and stubborn expression on her face, but Opal won’t be deterred. She refuses to slow down as they make their way along the dirt path. I catch up to them and seize my mother’s other arm. She doesn’t acknowledge me.
“No wheelchair?” I ask, miffed.
“She wouldn’t get in, and I saw the car pull up. So we made a deal,” Opal says stiffly.
I don’t inquire about the details; I can guess that it involved bribery and threats. That is, after all, the method Nadine is most familiar with, whether she’s doling out or receiving. Opal is surprisingly spry as they trek along the trail. Another car pulls into the tasting room parking lot, and I dash for my room.
I start tearing off my dress as I climb the stairs, struggling with the zipper and finally just yanking the garment over my head in frustration. Then I crouch in front of my suitcase in my underwear, rifling through it for something quick and easy. There’s a pretty green dress that isn’t quite right for a funeral, but at least it doesn’t reek of wine-soaked sweat. As I pull it free, something blue falls to the floor.
I reach over and pick up my passport.
I freeze, staring down at it. Slowly, I open it and look at my own name inside. My passport, not Zelda’s. I toss it onto my bed and tug the dress on. I feel spinny, and it’s not because of the pills. Only I can’t think about this new development right now. Later. If I think about it right now, I won’t make it through this charade. I run back over to the tasting room as more cars turn into the driveway. Country people are punctual.
Inside, Nadine has been installed in a chair near the corner of the room. Wyatt is handing her a glass of wine. She sips it, pacified, though she doesn’t acknowledge Wyatt. Opal has settled in by the door, where she can play the matriarch and personally greet everyone who enters. I cross the room and grab Wyatt firmly by the arm, wondering at the impropriety of this gesture; many of the people who come today will know about his relationship with Zelda, and there’s something indecorous, if not downright trashy, about me reclaiming him, here and now. But I’m not sure I give a shit.
“I found my passport,” I hiss.
He looks at me in guppy-faced surprise. “But then…?” he says.
I shake my head cluelessly. I don’t know. Something feels wrong, and I have started trembling. People are filtering into the room, and soon there’s a small crowd milling awkwardly around, everyone speaking in hushed tones. A few people step out onto the deck, then immediately retreat inside, and I realize that the barn is fully visible from outside. I refill my glass and top Nadine’s off before greeting a few people I knew in high school. One of our high school teachers arrives, and when I overhear what she’s saying, I realize she’s confused me with Zelda; that is, she thinks that Zelda was the good student who submitted insightful papers on time, and she’s under the impression that I am the frequently stoned wild card who once gave a presentation on the invention of the dental dam. She looks at me nervously, as though I’m about to attempt a similar feat today. I don’t have the heart to interrupt her rhapsodies and inform her that I am, in fact, the model student who wrote such a comprehensive report on the more or less local treasure The Last of the Mohicans and that she has been defaming the dead with her offhand comments about “my” unseemly behavior.
I see Mr. Bartoletti across the room and scuttle away from him, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. Whatever else happens, we still owe him a large check.
A handful of people try to talk to my mother, either out of respect or because they don’t realize how demented she really is these days. While she was never the most gracious of socializers, it’s apparent that Nadine has achieved new levels of disregard, and even those who were used to her former bitchiness are taken aback by her lack of any response whatsoever. I should probably intercede, but I don’t want to. It occurs to me again that if Zelda’s not in France, she could show up here at any moment, and my hands shake, sloshing my wine.