Page 52 of Fathers of the Bride

“Everything needs to be farm to table, sustainable, and waste-free. We’ll be donating any leftovers to a women’s shelter.”

“Ugh. Young people and their causes.”

“How do you know it’s not my idea? I could care about the planet.”

“You could. But you don’t. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow with prices. Plan on drinking early.”

He clicked off, and then it took another twenty minutes before I got home. I think the entire trip was four miles. Maybe five.

I was planning to go back out in a few hours, so I left the car in the short driveway. As I was climbing out, Lucas ran over.

“O-M-G, have I got news for you.”

Presumably it was about his love life, so I skipped asking what it was and instead asked, “Did you want to come in?”

“Of course, I want to come in. We’re going to have to chew this over.”

He followed me into the house. I set my copy of the loan docs onto the buffet in the dining room, and asked Lucas, “Can I get you an iced tea or some lemonade?”

“Is there vodka in the lemonade?”

“Lucas, it’s barely noon.”

“Fine, I’ll have iced tea. When did you become Carrie Nation?”

“Oh, darling, if you want people to believe you’re under a hundred you probably shouldn’t make obscure references to the temperance movement.”

“You never know,” he said. “I’ve dated some very attractive history majors.”

I sighed and said, “Your love life makes me miss daytime soaps.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound nice.” He frowned at me, and asked, “Don’t you want to hear my news?”

“Let me get the iced tea,” I said, as I slipped into the kitchen. Though we’d redone the house twice since we bought it, I’d managed to resist open-concept. For me, the kitchen had always been a refuge. Knocking down walls and lumping it in with the living room would have ruined that. After I poured Lucas’ iced tea, I took a deep cleansing breath—all right, I took seven or eight—and went back out to the dining room.

Lucas was staring at the print over the buffet: “At the Moulin Rouge” by Toulouse-Lautrec. We’d seen it on a visit to Chicago and Andy had to have it. I liked it because it depicted people sitting around a table talking intently—which is just what I’d hoped for in my dining room.

“I’ve never understood why you don’t have real art. You have enough money.”

“Not the kind you need for an original Lautrec. Besides, I always told my viewers they should buy museum prints. That way they could inexpensively fill their lives with great art. I’d be a hypocrite.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a hypocrite. Everyone seems to be doing it these days.” He took his iced tea from me and said, “So… there’s going to be an engagement party.”

“Yes, the in-laws are throwing it. You’re still following Raj on Instagram?”

“And Pudge. And Lissa.”

“How did you—never mind.”

“The engagement party looks like it’s going to be a circus. Literally.”

“Well, I know there are a lot of people coming. More than we’re having—”

“People? There’s going to be an elephant.”

“Not a real elephant?”

“An imaginary elephant is hardly a fun idea at a party.”