Tracy Kiely - Murder on the Bride’s Side

Colin stood up. “I’ll play bartender if you can refrain from swearing for ten minutes,” he said to Bridget. “Remember, my mother is a retired schoolteacher from Illinois.”

“Your mother is not here,” Bridget retorted.

“Think of it as practice for tomorrow,” said Colin.

“Your mother loves me!”

Colin paused behind her chair. “That she does,” he said, placing a kiss on top of her head, then ambling toward the drink cart.

Bridget smiled up at him before turning back to Harry. “What did Roni do this time?”

Harry closed his eyes and rested his head against the cushioned patio chair. “She’s trying her damnedest to convince Dad to sell the Garden. Apparently, he’s received an offer.”

Bridget’s eyes opened wide. “Sell the Garden? Can he do that?”

“In a word, yes,” Harry said, taking a beer from Colin. He took a long swig. “And it looks like he just might, too.”

“Jesus!” whispered Bridget.

“Bridget!” admonished Colin, as he handed her a glass of white wine. “You’re not even trying!”

Bridget took the glass from Colin without looking at him. Her eyes still trained on Harry, she took a quick sip. “Sorry, but this is huge! Does Elsie know?”

“Oh, yes. For a moment, I thought she was going to lunge across the table at Roni. Of course, if she had, I sure as hell wouldn’t have stopped her.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Dad shut down the conversation and we were reduced to shooting evil looks at Roni’s beautiful empty head.”

“I still don’t understand what he sees in her,” Bridget continued, playing with the delicate stem of the wineglass.

“Well, he’d been alone for so long,” said Harry slowly. “I think he saw what he wanted to see.” Harry was silent. Harry’s mother, Ann, had died when he was just a boy. That would have been painful for anyone, but for Harry it was made all the worse because of his own illness. At age six, Harry had been diagnosed with leukemia. His mother, a devout Catholic, had prayed and prayed that he would get better. And he did. Two years later, when Ann was diagnosed with breast cancer, Harry had prayed just as his mother had. But in spite of his fervent prayers, she died. Harry was left feeling that he hadn’t prayed hard enough to save her.

Harry took another long pull from his beer and stood up. “Right. Well, I’m off to bed.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, sweetie. Peter,” he said, extending his hand, “I guess I’ll see you later, since we’re bunking together. It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Peter replied.

“Good night, Colin. Good luck tomorrow,” Harry said, shaking his hand as well. Turning to Bridget, he pulled her into a tight hug. “All the best tomorrow, Bridgie. And you swear all you want,” he said, releasing her and turning for the house. “After all, I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on it.”

Bridget flopped back into her chair and looked at me. “He doesn’t look good,” she said. “He seems tired.”

“Well, dinner was a tense affair,” I said. “After Roni’s little announcement, conversation came to a standstill.”

“God, she is so vile,” grumbled Bridget. “I really don’t get what Uncle Avery sees in her. I mean, other than the fact that she has... ” Bridget cupped her hands in front of her chest to indicate Roni’s most notable characteristic.

Peter’s dark brows pulled together in confusion. “Roni has arthritis?”

Colin burst out laughing as Bridget threw a cushion at Peter.

“You didn’t think that I was going to walk into that one, did you?” He laughed as the green cushion sailed over his head. “Besides, I have eyes only for Elizabeth,” he continued with mock adoration.

I picked up another cushion and threatened him with it. “You’re full of malarkey is what you are,” I said. “Hell, I’m a dedicated heterosexual and even I have a hard time not staring at them.”

“Please don’t ever tell me that again,” Peter said, wincing.

Bridget interrupted. “Well, big boobs or no, she’s a b... witch,” she quickly amended, directing a syrupy smile at Colin. He raised his beer bottle in tacit acknowledgment. She continued. “If she succeeds in convincing Uncle Avery to sell the Garden, it will tear this family apart. My great-grandfather started that business!”

“I know, honey,” said Colin. “But what can we do? It’s really not our decision.”

“Maybe we could poison her food,” Bridget mused.

“Who are you planning on poisoning?” inquired a deep voice behind us.

Turning, we saw Graham, his black brows pulled together quizzically. Blythe stood beside him. She peered at Bridget over her half-moon glasses, her expression bland. Some mothers might be alarmed to hear their daughters casually contemplating a murder. Those mothers did not have Bridget for a daughter. Blythe had learned years ago not to let Bridget’s flair for the dramatics affect her blood pressure.

“I was talking about Roni,” said Bridget. “Is it really true that she’s pressuring Uncle Avery to sell the Garden?”

Graham sighed and nodded his head. “It’s true,” he said quietly, with a backward look at the house. “Although everyone in there is trying their best not to talk about it, it’s clearly on everyone’s mind.”

“She is such a bitch sometimes!” exclaimed Bridget.

“I give up,” moaned Colin, throwing up his hands in mock frustration.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, “you know I’m right.”

“Bridget.” Blythe sighed with a shake of her head. “Do you have to be so contrary? It’s very unattractive.”

A sudden gleam lit Bridget’s eyes. “Excuse me,” she said formally, with a quick look in my direction, “but I did not know I contradicted anyone by calling Roni a bitch.”

“Hey! Nice one!” I said appreciatively.

“Right?” She grinned at me in response. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it!” Brushing her bangs off her forehead, she added, “But in all seriousness, can’t we do anything about her?”

“Not tonight, dear,” Blythe said firmly, pushing her glasses up a notch. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, such as tomorrow. And speaking of tomorrow, please be patient with Ashley. I know she’s trying, but she is family.”

Ashley is Bridget’s five-year-old cousin. Born to Blythe’s sister, Karen, and her husband, Lewis, later in their lives, she was hailed by them as a miracle. It was a sentiment that was becoming less and less shared, however, as Karen and Lewis pandered to Ashley’s every whim, with the result that she was well on her way to becoming an obnoxiously spoiled little girl. In the name of family harmony, Blythe had pleaded, cajoled, and finally bullied Bridget into asking the little girl to serve as flower girl.

Bridget rolled her eyes now at the mention of the girl’s name. “Mother! Please. Ashley is beyond trying. She demanded—demanded!—that her basket only contain pink roses because ‘all other flowers make her sneeze.’ ”

“On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse,” I said to no one in particular.

Bridget’s head swiveled in my direction. “Movie?”

“Book.”

“Good to know.” Turning back to Blythe, Bridget folded her arms across her chest. “Simply put, Mother, Ashley is nothing short of a monster.”

“She’s not a monster. For heaven’s sake, she’s only five.”

“Leona Helmsley was five once, too.”

“Bridget! This is exactly what I’m talking about. Please, just try and be patient with her. After all, it’s not exactly her fault. If anything, she’s Karen and Lewis’s creation.”