“Yes, that’s all very nice, Kennedy. But is there anything you would like to tell us? An announcement, perhaps, that it would behoove you to share?”
Kennedy blinks like a blond Kewpie doll. “Nothing comes to mind, no.”
Mitzy throws down her linen napkin and narrows her eyes at her daughter, like a sharp-clawed hawk. “I was at the Prince benefit, young lady. I saw Brent whisk you away after David’s tawdry proposal. So, what I’d like to know—what I believe all of us here are entitled to know—is what exactly is going on between the two of you?”
The cross-examination force is strong in Kennedy’s family. Mitzy Randolph would’ve made a kick-ass attorney.
“Brent and I are . . . friends.”
And fuck me, the benefits are fantastic.
Mitzy huffs. “Don’t be coy, Kennedy—you’re not good at it.”
And I get why Kennedy’s reluctant to share with her mother. It’s like that scene from the original cartoon movie Cinderella. When Cinderella makes her own pink dress from scratch, and her bitchy stepsisters tear it to pieces. For as long as I’ve known her, there’s not a single aspect of Kennedy’s life that Mitzy wasn’t waiting to rip to shreds.
But this’ll be different. Kennedy has me now.
I throw my own napkin down, reach over the table, and take Kennedy’s hand. “The truth, Mrs. Randolph, is Kennedy and I are dating. We’re seeing how things go . . . enjoying each other’s company. Beyond that, it is really none of your business.”
Kennedy is looking at me like I’m the prince that just woke her with a kiss, found her glass slipper, took her on a flying carpet ride, and defeated the evil witch.
And we get lost for a moment—just looking at each other.
Until my mother squeals loud enough to shatter the crystal glasses on the table. She claps her hands together. “You were right, Mitzy! You were so very right!”
“I told you, Kitty. Just like we planned!”
Kennedy frowns. “What do you mean, like you planned?”
And like the villain from a Batman comic, Mitzy reveals her devious scheme.
“You’re thirty-two years old, Kennedy; you obviously weren’t going to get yourself married. Kitty and I knew that, once we orchestrated your and Brent’s reunion, things would progress. And look how perfect it’s all turned out.”
“You didn’t orchestrate anything, Mother. Brent and I saw each other again at the party. We were assigned to try the same case.”
Mitzy lifts her penciled eyebrows. “And who brought you home—making it possible for you to be at the party and try your little case?”
Kennedy’s jaw hits the floor.
“You said Father was sick! You said he needed tests!”
“A means to an end, darling.”
Her indignant brown eyes zoom to her father. “You had an oxygen tank when I visited! And the”—her hand flutters in front of her face—“the nose thing!”
“That was your Aunt Edna’s oxygen,” her mother volunteers unhelpfully.
Her father has the decency to look ashamed—but only a little. “I just want you to be happy, princess.”
That’s when my mother reenters the conversation. “You know what I can’t decide, Mitzy?”
“What’s that, Kitty?”
“Summer or fall? June is classic, but the threat of thunderstorms will hang over the entire affair. And pish-posh to that ‘rain is good luck on a wedding day’ silliness. There’s nothing lucky about mud and soggy gowns.”
“It will depend on the location,” Mitzi says. “Location is everything. We won’t have it in the city. Perhaps Palm Beach?”
“Mother . . .” Kennedy growls.
“Though the humidity in Palm Beach is atrocious. But definitely outdoors. White tents, green hills, sunset . . .”
Kennedy stands up. “Mother—”
“And white flowers!” Mitzy says. “But no lilies—they remind me of a funeral.”
Kennedy stamps her foot. “Mother!”
Mitzy makes a sound like a disgruntled hen. “Kennedy, really! What’s gotten into you? Is this any way for a bride to behave?”
“You’re not doing this! You don’t get to be in charge!”
“Lower your voice. All that yelling will make you break a blood vessel—and your complexion really can’t afford that.”
“We will make our own decisions, and you will have no say in the matter, Mother! If we want to get married in Tahiti, we will!”
Mitzy gives Kennedy an indifferent wave. “Yes, yes, that’s fine dear.” Then she turns toward my mother and asks her who designed Ivanka Trump’s wedding gown.
“In fact,” Kennedy hisses to no one, “that’s just what we’ll do. We’ll get married in Tahiti!” She bangs the table. “In a bar!”
“Is that a proposal? This is so sudden.” I squint as if I’m thinking it over, then nod. “I accept.”
“Naked!” Kennedy yells at her mother, wagging her finger. “And we won’t take any pictures!”
“If we’re going to be naked, we really should take a few pictures.” I insist. “Or a video.”
But our mothers just keep on chirping. Kennedy and I might as well not even be here anymore—which is the best fucking idea I’ve heard all night.
I stand up and grab her hand. “Come on.”
She doesn’t come willingly at first, so I tug her along.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she complains, gesturing back toward the parents, who don’t even notice we’ve left the room. They’re having too serious a discussion.