Cal was very carefully looking at the far side of the room.
“Oh.” Mom took a strategic sip of champagne. “Of course, Sherice really should be a bridesmaid. Since she’s Lars’s wife.” She raised her gaze to Docia’s. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I know her feelings were a little hurt when she wasn’t asked.”
Janie Dupree suddenly materialized at Docia’s elbow. For a moment, Pete wondered if she’d been there all along. Nope, he would have noticed.
“The bridesmaids’ dresses have all been ordered, Mrs. Toleffson.” Janie smiled apologetically. “We have our final fittings this week.”
Mom’s lips stretched in what might have been considered a smile, if one’s smile standards were modest. “Of course. I’m sure they have. It’s too much trouble. Forget I said anything. It’s just a shame Sherice wasn’t included.”
“Mom, I doubt Sherice cares one way or the other.” Cal’s grin had become a thin line. “It’s not like the two of us are all that close.”
Mom put her glass down. “Cal, it’s not a matter of how close the two of you are. Sherice is a member of our family.”
“I don’t think Sherice feels that way.” Cal’s voice was tight.
Docia placed her hand on Cal’s arm, pulling him around to look at her. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Don’t. Please.”
Pete glanced down to find Janie Dupree staring at him with laser eyes. He knew that look.
Do something. She’s your mother.
Pete took a swallow of champagne, practicing his Bogart impression.
Sorry, sweetheart. I stick my neck out for nobody.
You couldn’t stop Mom when she was in one of these moods.
When he looked back at Janie Dupree, she’d moved a lot closer to Otto Friedrich.
Docia bit her lip. “Mama, could you come over here, please?”
Reba floated across the floor from where she’d been dazzling some anonymous high roller, probably a Kent family relation. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Could we add another bridesmaid, please? Cal’s sister-in-law?” Docia’s voice had a faint tremor.
Reba stared at her blankly, then looked back at Mom. Pete felt as if he’d stumbled into Duel of the Titans.
Mom gave Reba another counterfeit smile, backed by her Medusa look, the one that turned you to granite if you met it directly.
Reba blinked first. “Why, I suppose we could try. I’ll call the shop and see if they have another dress. I’ll need her size, of course.”
“Size 4,” Mom said promptly.
“Oh.” Reba blew out a breath. “Well, then, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Sherice will be here tomorrow afternoon with Lars.” Mom picked up her glass again and took another sip of champagne. “She can do the fitting then.”
Reba’s jaw firmed. “Lovely. I’ll try to get it overnighted from Houston.”
Mom smiled at Cal, resting a limp hand on his arm. “There now. I knew we could get everything worked out. Isn’t it time for dinner?”
“Certainly.” Reba’s voice had a definite whip crack quality all of a sudden. “Let’s eat. And let’s have a lot more champagne while we’re at it.”
Chapter Four
The next afternoon, Pete stood in his kitchen, staring down at the greyhound huddled in the beige, molded-plastic crate at his feet. He was supposed to leave the dog’s crate out in the apartment so she could hide inside it if she wanted to. Apparently, she wanted to. She hadn’t ventured out since he’d opened the wire mesh crate door.
He slid his hand into his pocket automatically, running his fingers over his cell. He could check his voice mail—wouldn’t take more than five minutes. Or he could grab his laptop out of his suitcase and check his e-mail. Just a few seconds.
No phones, Pete. No laptop. No business.
Pete sighed, extending his hand to the dog again so that she could sniff it. She trembled as he stroked her shoulders. “Look, Pookie, it’s not that bad out here, okay?” he soothed. “No rabbits to chase. No cages. Nobody yelling at you. Cal’s a great guy. You’ve landed in clover, Pookie old girl.”
The greyhound didn’t budge.
Pookie. Holy crap.
“Okay, let’s face it, pup, the name has to go. For your dignity and mine.”
Pete stared down at her, trying to be creative. His last girlfriend had been named Misty, but he didn’t want the dog to start out jinxed. Mrs. Hebert, who lived next door when he was a kid, had had a cocker spaniel named Lillian, not that Pete had particularly pleasant memories of either Lillian or Mrs. Hebert. His mind was suddenly awash with male dog names: Butch, Bowser, Max, Killer.
The greyhound raised her large, moist, black eyes to gaze at him.
“Olive,” Pete blurted.
The dog cocked her head slightly, considering.
“C’mon, Olive. Works for me.” Pete grinned at her. He might have imagined it, but she didn’t seem to be trembling quite as much anymore.
Or she wasn’t until Pete’s cell jangled with the
Bad Boys
ringtone. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled, scratching her ears again as she shuddered. He flipped the phone open.
“Hey, bro.” Cal was grinning again. Pete could tell. “How’s Pookie?”
“Her name is Olive and she’s terrified but coping. What’s up?”
“Olive.” Cal paused, considering. “Sounds okay. I forgot to tell you, we’ve got a tux fitting in fifteen minutes. Down at Siemen’s Men’s Wear on Spicewood.”
Pete frowned. “I thought you said I needed to spend the day getting Olive acclimated to civilian life.”
“Well, somebody does. Docia said she’d dog-sit for you. She’s downstairs in the bookstore right now.”
Olive trembled slightly under his fingertips, turning large kalamata eyes in his direction. Pete sighed. “How about if I bring her along? She could stay in her crate.”
Cal sounded dubious. “Okay, I guess. Siemen probably won’t like it, but he’s making out like a bandit on the tux rentals so he hasn’t got much room to complain. See you there.”
Pete folded his cell and dropped it back in his pocket, then reached down to stroke the dog again. “Easy there, Olive, time to meet the outside world.”
Ten minutes later, Pete hoisted the crate and Olive through the door of Siemen’s Men’s Wear, ignoring the surprised look he got from a sales clerk. “Toleffson wedding,” he grunted.
“Through there.” The clerk winked at him. Pete had a feeling the Toleffson wedding was a topic of considerable interest in Konigsburg.
The dressing room was full of half-dressed men and one harassed-looking tailor. Wonder Dentist was pulling off his tuxedo pants in the corner, the tails of his pleated shirt hanging down stiffly below his rear. The other groomsman, Horace Rankin, Cal’s partner, was pulling on his shirt. Horace was somewhere on the far side of sixty, but his upper body still looked surprisingly muscular. Pete wondered if that was the result of hauling around dogs in crates all day.
Horace nodded toward Olive’s crate. “Who’s in the box?”
“Olive.” Pete put the crate down in the corner and opened its wire mesh door again. Olive extended her nose into the room and then quickly withdrew.
Horace stared, then blew an impatient breath through his walrus mustache. “Toleffson, you goddamned bleeding heart, don’t tell me you’re adopting another one.”
Cal grinned at him. “She’s a nice dog, Horace. Pete, grab your pants. Over there.”
Pete raised an eyebrow. Cal was wearing boxers and nothing else. He looked like an affable grizzly. “Are you telling me they actually have tuxes that fit us? I thought the Toleffson physique defied formal dress.”
“Us and Lars, as soon as he gets here. Reba had to call every store in San Antonio and Austin, but she finally rustled up three matching tuxes in size elephantine.” Cal started buttoning a tuxedo shirt across his chest.
Pete picked up a pair of pants and pulled them on. The waistband actually reached his waist and the pants broke nicely over the tops of his running shoes when he put them back on. Amazing.
“All three of you are this big?” Wonder cocked an eyebrow as he pulled his regular pants back on. “Holy crap, I thought Calthorpe here was some kind of mutant.”
Pete shrugged. “Viking throwbacks.”
Horace folded his tuxedo jacket and pants into a box, humphing. “Looks okay to me, Siemen. Or as near okay as one of these monkey suits can get. Can I just take it now or do I need to pick it up later?”
The tailor waved an impatient hand. “Sure, sure, take it now. All of you take ’em with you. Less to worry about.”
Horace and Wonder left, carrying boxes under their arms, leaving Cal and Pete in different states of undress and Siemen trying to adjust seams and general fit.
The tux shirt was a little tight across Pete’s chest, but then he’d never yet seen a rental tux that could comfortably accommodate somebody six-feet-four-inches tall who weighed upward of one-ninety.
Cal was trying to tie a bow tie under his beard with considerable difficulty. “Let me do it.” Pete pulled the tie up and tried to remember how to tie it backward.
Cal raised his chin higher so that Pete could loop the tie under his collar. “Did you bring a coat for the rehearsal dinner? Mom won’t be happy with anything less than sport jackets.”
Pete kept his eyes on the tie, stepping back to study the effect. “All I brought was a blazer. You told me I was on vacation. I left my working clothes back in Iowa.”
Cal began inserting studs into his shirt front. “Fine by me. So what’s up with Mom and Sherice?”
Pete pulled on his tuxedo jacket, squinting at himself in the mirror. “Your guess is as good as mine, Calthorpe.” He shot his shirt cuffs below the edge of the sleeves, showing a nice quarter-inch of white.
“So what would your guess be, Peter?”
He sighed. “You know Mom. Keep the family together, no matter how obnoxious the individual members might be. That means Erik and Sherice and even Aunt Roslyn, far as I know.”
“Erik and Sherice have Aunt Roslyn beat by a mile, if we’re talking obnoxious.” Cal fiddled with his cuff links. “How serious is she about getting them both into the wedding?”
Pete frowned as he tied his own tie. “About as serious as usual. She won’t come out and order you to do it, but she’ll make your life miserable until you do.”
“Terrific. I think Reba managed to work Sherice into the line-up, but I’ll be damned if I let Erik into the wedding.”
Pete shrugged. “Up to you, Calthorpe. Just put your head down and ignore her, then.”
Cal studied himself in the mirror, straightening his collar around the bow tie. “Do you ever see him?”
“Erik? Not for a couple of years.” Pete half-turned away from him, pulling out his cuff links a little more decisively than he’d intended. One of them bounced onto the floor. “He moved to Marshalltown, then someplace in Illinois. I guess Mom and Dad have kept tabs on him. From what I hear, he’s cleaned up his act. Mom said he got a degree from some community college someplace, but I don’t know what he’s doing now.”
“I don’t have a single good memory of him, bro. Not one.” Cal’s eyes were bleak.
Pete’s stomach tightened. “Well, we got through it, growing up with King Kong. Think of it as a learning experience.”
“You took the worst of it.” Cal began to pull the shirt from his shoulders, reaching for a hanger. “Keeping him off Lars and me.”
Pete pulled his T-shirt back over his head. “He wasn’t some kind of psycho serial killer, Calthorpe. He was just a bully. And like most bullies, once we were big enough to fight back he lost interest.”
“Maybe. I’m still not inclined to say welcome back, big brother.” Cal sat on a creaking chair in the corner and pulled off his dress shoes.
Pete took a deep breath and blew it out. Stress reduction time. “Then don’t. Dad’ll be here in a couple of days. He’ll get Mom to back off. Or I can talk to her. Maybe I’ll do that.” Right. A conversation he was really looking forward to.
Cal shook his head. “You don’t have to look out for me, Pete. I’m not ten anymore.”
Pete’s jaw tightened. “I know that, but maybe I could—”
“Let it go.” Cal’s voice was flat. “If I need to talk to her, I will.”
Siemen entered the room again. “Jacket will be ready tomorrow, Cal.” He picked up Pete’s shirt and jacket from the chair, then waited for his pants.
Cal knelt beside Olive’s crate, reaching in to scratch her ears until Siemen left again. “You feeling okay, bro?”
“Hey, I’m fine. I’m here to relax, remember? Vacation time in Texas?”
Cal gave him a slightly rueful smile. “I don’t know how much of a vacation this is—taking care of all this wedding stuff and riding herd on Mom.” Olive whimpered as he took his fingers away. Dr. Doolittle on steroids. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, Pete.”
Pete nodded slowly. “Yeah, bro, so am I.” He was amazed to realize he wasn’t lying—much.
Janie arrived at Reba’s headquarters at the Woodrose Inn right after lunch. Reba had taken over the whole place, sleeping in one of the big bedrooms upstairs and using the other rooms to store all the various bits of wedding paraphernalia she was accumulating.
The bridesmaids’ dresses were draped over the chairs in the Woodrose’s parlor. “Aren’t they lovely?” Reba cooed. “Just perfect. I’m so glad I found them. Docia needs to come out here and look at them, but of course she’ll love them too.”
Janie wondered if there was an opposite of Bridezilla. Whatever it was, Docia was it. Janie wasn’t sure Docia had any idea what her bridesmaids’ dresses looked like. On the other hand, Reba might be moving into Momzilla territory, assuming such territory existed. This was Reba’s wedding in every way except the actual marriage part.
The dresses shimmered in the early afternoon sunshine—soft champagne satin with toast-colored sashes below the strapless tops and bands of matching color around the hems. Janie thought they were the most gorgeous things she’d ever seen.
“Where’s the other dress?” she asked as she spread one satin skirt across the chair back.
“You mean for the sister-in-law?” Reba’s smile curdled slightly. “Fortunately, Claudine was able to find another dress in the right size. Unfortunately, the dress was in Chicago. It’s being flown in. At least the sister-in-law can pair up with her husband the groomsman, so we’re even. That’s one less thing to worry about.”