The Wrong Bridesmaid
: Chapter 10

I stifle a yawn, but after a bachelor(ette) party and working at the bakery until three in the morning, I’m exhausted. I just hope I don’t look it, dressed in the gray-and-white checkered dress and pink heels with a matching pink belt that Cara sent home with me after the final fittings with Mrs. Hinsley. Though this dress is off the rack, Mrs. Hinsley did a few alterations to make it fit perfectly.

Thankfully, the Ford family paid for that service along with the dress itself because, for some reason, Cara insisted Rachel and I wear matching dresses for the rehearsal and then our actual bridesmaid dresses tomorrow for the wedding too.

That was a new one for me. But I’m also not going to argue with Cara . . . or a free dress that twirls like a ballerina onstage. And yes, of course I checked that, spinning in the living room and putting on a fashion show for Lester. He told me I looked like a “pretty bird,” which is high praise from him.

I run my hand along my thigh nervously, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. This dress seems out of place in my old Nissan, but Nessa serves me well and will get me to the Ford estate.

Once there, of course, Nessa will be the one out of place on their fancy driveway. I pat the dash, urging her, “Please don’t leak oil, ’kay, girl?”

Nessa shifts into the next gear seamlessly, and I take that as a good sign. Actually, there are a lot of good signs today. Driving out to the Ford estate, it’s a beautiful day. The sun is out, with just enough fluffy cotton-candy clouds to cut the heat a little bit, and a gentle breeze stirs the leaves on the trees and makes everything smell fresh and clean.

Almost everyone is out and about, enjoying the weather. As I pass the elementary school, I see one group of boys playing basketball on the court, while in the baseball field, there’s another group doing what looks like Little League practice.

I drive past Mom’s bakery and smile at the small line I see inside. Even if she’s got to be busting her hump, she’s handling business, and I’m sure she’s got the rest of her crew helping her out, running the register and more.

My smile dims some when I hit the center of downtown and see the city courthouse and a few protesters outside. It must be their break, because they’re sitting in folding lawn chairs, drinking Cokes, and their NO REZONING signs are leaning against a nearby tree. They’re not taking it easy, though. They’ve likely been out here all day, making sure everyone knows the risks of the rezoning proposal that will be discussed at the hearing next week.

As I pass by, I toot my horn and offer a thumbs-up of encouragement, which is returned with smiles and fists thrown in the air. Sure, I feel a little guilty going out to Bad Guy Central today, but that’s about Avery. Even the most militant of the protesters would understand that.

Arriving at the Ford estate, I gawk at the manicured lawn, which is literally a single shade of vibrant green. I don’t think even the Cold Springs High football stadium’s field is this consistently lush.

The house is impressive, too, and while I’ll admit it’s nowhere near as gob-smacking as that ninth-grade class trip to Washington, DC, to see the White House, it certainly feels like the giant home has similar aspirations. For a small-town mayor’s house, it’s definitely got the grandeur and the fanciness, right down to the big double front doors and the columns holding up the second-floor walkway.

Monogrammed signs direct me where to park, and I remind Nessa again of our deal about holding her oil while on the fancy concrete drive.

Tucking my key into my purse, I swallow my nerves and approach the front doors. I feel small, insignificant, and part of me wonders whether I should have brought my ID along just in case they ask. Or maybe a twenty to tip the bouncer?

Before I can turn around, an older man opens the door. Immaculately dressed in pressed black tropical-weight slacks and a white dress shirt, his lack of tie, even though his collar is buttoned, tells me that he’s definitely not one of the Fords.

“Hello,” I greet him, trying to sound relaxed. “I’m—”

“Miss Hazel Sullivan,” the man says, surprising me. “A pleasure. I’m Leo.”

I laugh in shock, cocking my head. “How’d you know?”

For some reason, my thought is to wonder whether Wyatt told him. But that ridiculousness is dashed when he whispers, as though confiding to me, “Ms. DeMornay gave me pictures of the wedding party. She even gave me a picture of Winston, as if I wouldn’t know who he is.”

The man laughs and I instantly like him. There’s something warm and real about his dark eyes. Maybe it’s the web of crinkles on the edges of those eyes, ones that come from lots of similar expressions of mirth.

“Well, I appreciate it,” I tell him. “I was waiting for someone to unleash the hounds and run me off the property.”

Leo shakes his head with a widening smile. “Please, come in. The ladies are upstairs in one of the guest rooms, getting ready.”

Leo escorts me through the house, which is very much a historical home. The rooms are majestic, with soaring ceilings, fancy furniture, and art that looks museum-worthy. Actually, that’s exactly what this feels like—a museum. I try to imagine being a kid here, running cars along the wooden floors, or doing messy crafts at the fancy dining table I see, and I can’t picture it. It makes me somewhat sad for Wyatt, Winston, and Wren. Almost.

But the narrow hallways are thickly carpeted, and my heels don’t make a sound as Leo leads me upstairs to a bedroom that’s bigger than my living room, dining room, and kitchen combined.

“Miss Sullivan,” Leo announces me even as Avery, Rachel, and Wren get up excitedly. Cara’s here too, her outfit flawlessly put together, but her face looking quite pinched. Vaguely, I wonder if I should suggest one of Tayvious’s Big Daddy footlongs to her. They’ve been known to clear up constipation in a matter of hours. Probably because of the amount of horseradish he puts on them.

But I don’t care about Cara or what’s made her look so stressed. My eyes are on my bestie, who looks absolutely beautiful in the white wraparound silk cocktail dress that hugs her figure while still being light and airy. It’s the opposite type of fit from my fuller circle skirt, making her look sleek and sexy in a sophisticated way. It’s perfect for today’s events, and I gawk. I’ve seen her top-secret wedding gown, but haven’t seen this before. “Avery, you look hot!” I gush, hugging her and then leading her in a spin so I can see the full effect. “Winston’s going to be stiffer than the front columns on this place when he sees you in this!” I mime Winston’s rock-hard dick falling out of his pants, using my forearm as the dick in question. “Thwak!” I say, adding a sound effect to the tasteless motion.

Avery blushes, but grins. “Thank you! I wanted something very different from my wedding dress so that Winston wouldn’t be underwhelmed tomorrow.”

I scoff, but I have to grin as Wren, behind her, rolls her eyes, twirling her finger around her ear to express her silent opinion on Avery’s concerns. “Honey, there is no way he could be underwhelmed. You could be wearing a potato sack, and he’d still think you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen,” I tell her honestly. “Actually, that might be a good thing, because this? Oh, honey, he’s going to want to skip tomorrow and drag you to bed tonight in this thing.” I swat her ass playfully.

“That would be highly inappropriate!” Cara blusters, her nostrils flaring. “And please get your hands off her. If you wrinkle her or get her dirty, I will be forced to kill you.”

I’m almost sure she’d try it at this point. Cara looks stern and no nonsense, even for her, today. “Chill, Cara,” I tell her as I move a few inches away from Avery. “I’m pretty sure that Avery is washable.”

“Perhaps,” a regal voice says from behind me, “but white is a dirt magnet that will show every speck and spot in the photos we’ll be taking later.”

I turn, seeing a face I’ve seen a few times in the newspapers, and of course around town whenever Bill Ford’s stumping for reelection. But we’ve never actually met before. “Pamela Ford,” she says.

She’s just as elegant as she looks on her husband’s campaign posters, but her smile’s warmer than I expected as she shakes my hand.

“Hazel Sullivan,” I greet her, and she nods. But an instant later, her eyes flash in recognition of my name, and I swear she’s about to say something when a much more familiar face sticks his head in the door.

“Girl, you’d best get over here and hug my neck or I’ll whip your behind.”

I’m laughing before Pamela Ford can turn around, sidestepping past her to get to the only man I love unconditionally. I lean over his walker to pull him in for a hug. “Grandpa Joe! Didn’t they tell you this is the ladies’ dressing room? You should be in the other room with the guys,” I tell him as I squeeze him carefully around the shoulders. “It’s been a dog’s age since I’ve seen you!”

“Well, that’s cuz of my kidneys,” Avery’s grandfather says, grinning. “Can’t hang out at a bar when three sips has me high-steppin’ to the whizzer! So I do what any self-respecting old man does, and do my drinkin’ at home! Hell, every once in a while, they give me one of them catheters, and I race my kidneys, seeing if I can drink faster than I can piss it out. That’s more entertaining than half the shit they put on the boob tube these days. Have you seen they got some show where they drop people off in the woods, naked as the day they’s born? Ridiculous! I mean, I wouldn’t mind checking a few of the ladies for ticks, but the fellas are on their own.”

I laugh, partially at his crude conversation and partially at the way Cara is grasping at invisible pearls around her neck with every word Grandpa Joe says.

Avery comes over to assist her grandfather to a chair. As always, she takes care of Grandpa Joe, but there’s a big part of me that thinks he takes care of her too. In his own way, he looks out for her, and having a responsibility like Joe has run off many a lesser man Avery tried to date.

The fact that Winston not only stuck around but gets along with Joe so well is testament to how far Avery’s fiancé has come. Because Joe definitely will test your fortitude.

“Now, as for the stags,” Grandpa Joe says as he settles comfortably into a huge wingback leather chair, “why would I want to be in there with the lot of them? Swinging dicks here and there, talking about golf scores and yachts. Or whatever richy-rich folks jibber jabber about. I’d much rather be in here with the beautiful ladies. This is where you hear the good stuff anyway.” He wiggles his bushy white brows at me. “Carry on with the chitchat like I ain’t even here.”

Pamela Ford looks surprised but, at the same time, charmed.

I shake my head. “You are incorrigible, old man.”

“That’d only be true if I wanted to change,” Grandpa Joe says with a grin. “No time for that nonsense at my age.”

“Are you saying you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Wren asks.

Grandpa Joe shrugs, folding his gnarled, arthritic, and knotted fingers together. “I’m saying if a dog is perfectly content lying on the porch in the sunshine, eating a good meal, and enjoying the company of a kind woman now and again, there ain’t no need for him to learn nothing new.”

Avery gasps. “Grandpa Joe, you can’t be talking about women like that.”

Grandpa Joe rolls his eyes, shushing her. “Little girl, you might be all grown up, but you ain’t gonna tell me what I can and can’t say. One of the benefits of being old is that I don’t have to use what little filter God gave me. I can get away with anything. Watch this . . .”

He smiles, and the charming young man he used to be flashes for a moment. “Ma’am, could you c’mere, please?”

He waves at Cara, and though she looks at the tablet in her hands longingly, she does hustle over to Joe’s side. “Yes?”

“After all this hustle and bustle is over with, do you think maybe an old fella could walk you home?”

Cara’s eyes go wide, and her overly pink mouth circles into an O. “What?”

“Grandpa!” Avery scolds her grandfather even though she’s grinning. “Do not piss off the wedding planner before the wedding!”

But he’s not done. Instead, Grandpa Joe’s smile becomes even more salacious. “Don’t you worry about this gadget, doll.” He pats his walker affectionately. “My legs work just fine, and the rest of me’s just fine too.” He pumps his arms, wiggling his hips to hump the air. “I promise you that life has taught me one very good skill . . . patience.”

He licks his pale lips and winks at Cara, and I have to admit that might be going too far.

Avery’s also reached her limit. “I’m going to die of mortification right here and now. I am so sorry, Cara. Please ignore my apparently horny grandfather.” She points a perfectly french-manicured nail at Joe. “And you . . . we’re having a conversation with Dr. Yung next week about how you’re losing your marbles.”

Cara sighs dramatically, pushing her hair behind her ear. She is in no mood for Joe’s teasing and flirting, that’s for sure. “We really need to get serious here. As for you,” she snaps at Joe, “don’t interfere with this wedding. I’ve worked too hard to let the likes of you mess it up now.”

We all look at each other in surprise at her sharp tone. Cara is going cutthroat, take-no-prisoners style. She’s definitely got a big job on her plate—or tablet, I suppose—but is being nice to the bride’s family that much to ask? Joe’s a big goofball, and is known to say some crazy things for sure, but he was obviously kidding, considering that he walks with either a cane or a full-on walker, complete with tennis balls on the feet, and it’s going to damn near kill him to walk Avery down the aisle. But it’s important to them both, considering that they are all the family they have.

Avery turns pink, and I can see she’s not happy. You can snap at her all you want, Cara. But go for Grandpa Joe? Oh, you done went too far, and you’re likely to catch my bestie’s hands. She’s not nearly as good at making bad choices as I am, but she’s protective of Grandpa Joe in a honey-badger, vicious sort of way. So I step forward, sacrificing myself so that Avery can save face with her new in-laws. If anyone needs to piss off the wedding planner, it’s me. I’ve got no problem pissing people off.

But before I can put her in her place, Cara thankfully moves on, clapping her hands lightly. “Okay, ladies, line up for inspection.”

Mrs. Ford leans over to us, and quietly asks, “Is she always like this?”

Avery hums back, “Mm-hmm.”

Mrs. Ford looks unimpressed. “Guess that’s why Jed said she’s the best?” she whispers back questioningly.

Cara whips her head toward us, her eyes blazing. “Quiet! No chitchat!”

Dayum, I thought Cara was a bit controlling before. Now? She’s turned it up to eleven.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant DeMornay!” I snap back, my jaw clenched and communicating that my next snap might just be her neck. Cara glares back at me, but since we’re all gathered together, she doesn’t press the issue.

Instead she looks us over, going down the checklist on her tablet . . .

“Hair?” Cara looks up, scanning each of our heads. I apparently pass muster, but she stops in front of Wren, shaking her head. “Bit of spray there.”

Wren starts to step out of line, but an assistant appears out of nowhere and sprays where Cara indicated. The same basic thing happens for makeup checks, teeth-brushing and lipstick-on-teeth checks, dress checks, shoes checks, lotion checks, and so on. She even gives Joe a once-over, though it’s cursory at best.

“Last but not least,” Cara says after she’s satisfied, “who needs to visit the ladies’ room before I go check on the men?”

Avery raises her hand like a kid in school. Cara looks annoyed, as if peeing is somehow unnatural or wrong or, in the least, an unnecessary annoyance.

“You have ten minutes and then meet me downstairs. Please make sure your dress isn’t stuck in your underwear afterward.”

“Considering what I’m wearing, I don’t think anything could get stuck without me knowing. I’d feel the breeze on my ass,” Avery mumbles under her breath as Cara disappears out the door, her assistant quick stepping along behind her.

I snort, shaking my head. “You think she’s going to pull that act with the guys?”

“Considering my brother,” Wren says, “I’d pay big money to see her try.”

Mrs. Ford laughs lightly, as though Wren is joking. I don’t think she is. I’m just not sure which brother she’s talking about. Although part of me suspects she means Wyatt . . . who I’m still trying not to think about after this morning.

Avery disappears into the adjoining bathroom and then steps back out. “I checked in the mirror to make sure my dress is okay, but can someone else check too? Cara has me all paranoid about flashing my undies to the whole world now.”

Avery twirls, and we reassure her that she looks perfect.

“Okay,” she says with a deep breath, “let’s do this.”

Mrs. Ford opens the door a crack. “Are we good to come out?”

Leo answers, “Yes, Ms. Cara said for you to wait at the bottom of the stairs. Except for Wren, who is to go ahead out back to meet with her brothers.”

We dutifully trudge down the stairs, Leo helping Grandpa Joe, and Wren disappears. Soon, Cara’s assistant, whose name I didn’t get, waves us forward. She leads us to a formal living room with a long set of windows that overlook the garden. The transformation has already begun, and we gather at the window to check it out.

“Oh my gosh! It looks amazing!” Avery whispers, even as workers go hurrying past with their armloads of materials for setting up. Inwardly, I envy them. They might be working hard, but they look comfortable in their jeans and T-shirts.

But the garden does look good. Off to the far right, we can see the white tents in place, the flaps secured back as vendors carry decorations inside. In the middle of the garden, the rows of white chairs are set up and the archway is up but minus the flowers.

“Can we skip tomorrow and just do this now?” Avery says suddenly. “It looks so beautiful and we’re all here. Winston is all I need.”

“Just one more day, dear,” Mrs. Ford says. “Besides, if we do that, we’re really, really going to have to have a good story for the caterers and other guests.”

“I guess.”

The guys are taking their places beneath the archway in front of the officiant, who looks a bit pale, making me wonder what Cara said to him. Winston is in the middle, with Wyatt and Wren by his side. She looks a bit out of place wearing a dress, but I know tomorrow she’s going to be rocking her suit and looking right at home.

I look over to replace Avery’s eyes focused on Winston and getting glittery with tears.

“Oh! Don’t cry,” I whisper to her. “You’re going to melt if you do!”

The assistant jumps into action, dabbing at Avery’s eyes and telling her to look up and think about flamingos wearing leg warmers. Maybe not my choice, or anyone’s really, as Mrs. Ford asks, “Flamingos? In leg warmers?”

“It’s a proven fact, thinking about random idiosyncrasies short-circuits your brain, and focusing on making sense of that turns off emotional responses,” the assistant says.

“Is that true?” Rachel wonders aloud.

I nudge Rachel, indicating for her to look at Avery, who does somehow seem better. “It’s working, so I’m not gonna argue with it.”

We smile at each other and let Avery compose herself in peace. In the garden Cara seems to be content with the setup, because she points to us like a symphony conductor.

“Here we go!” the assistant says, opening the back doors.

Cara, who is standing halfway between the door and the altar with a megaphone, kicks into narrator mode. “Okay, here’s how this is going to go: everyone is seated, the groom processional begins, you three walk out in order.” She points to Wren, then Wyatt, then Winston, all three of whom nod.

“Good. Mother of the groom and father of the groom walk out.” Mrs. Ford steps through the doorway and Bill Ford joins her, escorting her to the altar. Winston and his father shake hands, he kisses his mother’s cheek, and then they sit down.

“Perfect. Then my bridesmaids walk this way.”

I wait for Rachel to go, ready to follow in her footsteps as maid of honor. But she freezes, so I nudge her. “Psst! Go, before she pulls out a Taser!”

Rachel bites her lip and looks at Avery in a panic. “Avery, I have an awful, horrible, no-good request that I’m begging of you.”

“What?” Avery asks, her own panic returning as the assistant looks like she’s about to faint at this disruption.

“Remember the favor you owe me? The really big one that we vowed to never, ever discuss again?”

Avery nods slowly.

Rachel takes a deep breath. “Let me walk with Wyatt.” Rachel looks over her shoulder, toward the archway, and then back to Avery. “I think I’ve got a chance. He just needs a bit more time with me.”

In my head, I’m laughing my ass off. Rachel thinks she has a chance with Wyatt?

Good luck, girl. He damn near never took his eyes off me last night, walked me to my car, and nearly kissed me at the bakery. And any man who’ll put on an apron and do bad “makin’ bacon” jokes at two in the morning isn’t available.

But no one knows that. I haven’t even had a chance to tell Avery, considering she has much bigger things on her mind today.

But also . . . last night ended poorly, and I’m not exactly looking forward to awkwardly hooking elbows with Wyatt while he gives me the cold shoulder the way he did last night as he finished up our baking. I mean, my baking.

“Rachel, I . . . uh . . . that’s not . . .” Avery stammers, looking to me for help. I don’t know what to say, though. This isn’t my place.

Finally the assistant hisses, “I don’t care who it is, but one of you needs to walk out there right now. She’s coming.”

We look back to see Cara stomping this way, megaphone in hand.

I make the call, hoping it’s the right one. “It’s fine, Avery. I don’t care. I’m honored to be by your side today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our lives as friends. It’s not about where we stand, it’s about who we are to each other.”

Avery tears up again, and the assistant growls a curse under her breath, grabbing another tissue. But Rachel’s almost giddy. “Thanks, Hazel. Thanks, Avery.”

Without another word, the assistant shoves me out the door. I stumble, nearly tripping over my own feet, but recover as quickly as I can and begin high kneeing it toward the archway. I feel like I’m back in my soccer days, except that I’m in a dress and heels.

Cara lifts her megaphone, calling out, “No, no, no. That’s the wrong bridesmaid! Go back. Everyone go back and start over.”

I make my way to Cara as fast as I can, still feeling like I’m in some sort of bad TV commercial. “It’s okay. Rachel and I are switching places. It’s fine. Keep going.”

Cara sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes to the sky. I think she mumbles something about being done with crazy brides, but if she’s talking about Avery, she’s the least crazy bride ever. “Fine, fine. Keep going, everyone stay in place where you are. Next!”

I drop into a walk, as behind me, I trust that Rachel is following along with this new plan. At least, I don’t hear any more screaming as I approach the arch, and Wren gives me an amused but questioning look.

“Okay,” Cara says once Rachel’s at the archway, “the music will change to the bride’s processional, everyone stands up, Grandpa to the right of the door, and . . . cue Avery.”

The first notes of the song Avery and Winston chose begin, a recording today, but tomorrow, it will be a cello-performed instrumental of “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” It was one of the few things Avery put her foot down about. It was Grandpa Joe’s and her grandmother’s favorite song when Elvis did it, and her parents loved the UB40 version at their reception.

As the classic instrumental Elvis version starts playing, Avery steps through the doorway, takes Grandpa Joe’s elbow, and begins her walk.

“Perfect. Slow steps, don’t rush it. He’ll be there waiting whenever you get there,” Cara calls, and I swear I can see Grandpa Joe muttering something under his breath. I can guess it has something to do with the fact he can’t rush it anyway, and he doesn’t need his hearing aid for this damn thing.

Either way, once we’re all under the archway, my eyes drift to Wyatt. I replace him looking at me, his blue eyes hard as marbles and swirling with thoughts I can’t decipher.

I try to focus on what Cara is saying, knowing she’s going to want perfection and probably give a multiple-choice test after this practice before she’s satisfied. But now that I know he’s looking at me, I can feel the weight of Wyatt’s gaze. It somehow makes me both hot and cold, irritated and relieved.

Whatever last night was, Wyatt isn’t giving me the cold shoulder anymore. His eyes are virtually screaming at me with unsaid things.

We go through the rehearsal, skipping certain parts out of tradition, such as the actual vows themselves and the final kiss. Still, Winston and Avery’s joy, though premature, is real as they go back down the aisle arm in arm, rings on their fingers, only to be collected by Cara’s assistant for tomorrow.

Now it’s our turn. Wyatt steps forward and Rachel nearly runs into him in her excitement to get close to him. “Hello again,” she gushes. “Imagine meeting you here. Do these often?”

Wyatt smiles politely at her, but as soon as Rachel looks forward, his eyes replace me again. Still he says nothing, and he and Rachel depart. I meet Wren in the middle and she holds out her elbow, which I take, and together we walk down the aisle.

“You and Wyatt okay?” she whispers under the instrumental sounds of “All The Stars.” That was apparently Winston’s choice.

Me? I would have chosen “Come and Get Your Love,” but I guess that’s too funky and sexual for Cara DeMornay.

“Yeah, fine,” I whisper back to Wren. “Why?”

“Because he was giving you the look, and he was your driver last night,” Wren points out. “And he didn’t get back until after I was asleep.”

“It’s fine,” I whisper. “Just . . . not now.”

Back by the house doors, we congregate as Cara directs the Fords and Grandpa Joe on how to exit the ceremony space. Once the whole wedding party is together, Cara finally unclenches herself a millimeter. “That was good. As long as everything goes exactly as it did today, everything will be perfect. There can be no changes. Understand?”

She looks at me and Rachel accusingly, and I resist the urge to ask whether that means I should still sprint across half the garden, instead flashing a thumbs-up. “We’re all good. Promise.”

Cara nods. “Good. Questions, anyone?”

There’s a murmur of noes, and I’m sure everyone’s ready for this part to be over with. Seriously, it’s not the halftime show at the Super Bowl.

“Then please see your way into the dining room, where Mr. and Mrs. Ford have graciously offered to host you for dinner. After that, go home, dance the night away, or whatever,” Cara says, relaxing some more and showing that, yes, she actually is a human being under the bitchiness. “Hell, play musical chairs and charades for all I care. There are only two rules . . . one, no getting drunk the night before the wedding. Nobody is pulling a My Fair Lady and coming in singing ‘I’m gettin’ married in the mornin’.’ And two, go to bed at a reasonable hour. None of you are going to get a wink of sleep anyway, worrying about things I’ve already handled, but at least pretend like you’re going to rest so the makeup artists don’t have to cover your undereye circles. Understood?”

We all murmur again, agreeing this time. Although I’m sure I’m flat out lying, because I need to help Mom at the bakery again. I’m probably going to be flying high at the wedding with the assistance of caffeine and sugar, to be honest.

Declarations made, Cara and her assistant head toward the tent, megaphone at the ready and Boss Mode already reengaged. I feel bad for the vendors out there who are finishing their setup and hope Mom, or one of her assistants, isn’t one of them.

Mrs. Ford, though, takes over with a much gentler hand. “Won’t you all come in and sit down? I’m sure Maria is ready for us, and I for one could use some iced tea.”