Chapter 25: Barbecues of the Rich and Famous
The guests attending Adelaide’s $3000-a-plate Fourth of July charity extravaganza began to arrive at six. Limousines rolled into the semicircular drive and disgorged their passengers, Wren and Marisol Aldaba among them. They were directed along the path through the precisely manicured gardens and around the north wing of the mansion to the extravagant pavilions that awaited.
Hours remained until sunset, but the shadows were growing long. A gentle breeze had begun to blow, reducing the temperature under the pavilions to a comfortable level. Silent fans that occasionally puffed mists of chilled water, cooled the wealthy donors.
Adelaide McCann was not the kind of hostess who made a dramatic entrance only when the assembled guests could form an appreciative audience. Standing near the trellis that marked the entrance to the gardens, she greeted the guests as they arrived with handshakes, thanks for their attendance, a reminder of the worthiness of the cause to which they had donated, and instructions that they should enjoy everything to their hearts’ content.
“Wren! Marisol!” Adelaide opened her arms as they approached and wrapped the couple in a hug. “You both look fetching!” She looked appreciatively at Marisol, putting an arm around her former apprentice’s wife. “And you, Marisol, are absolutely gorgeous. While I’m sure it wasn’t the only reason, it’s easy to see why this one was so eager to put a ring on your finger.”
Wren watched her wife smile and return the side-hug, but the wrinkles around the sides of Marisol’s eyes spoke of her discomfort. It was not that her wife disliked Adelaide; it was that she barely knew the woman who had been such an integral part of Wren’s life. Saying that Adelaide was a dear old friend of the family did not do justice to the true role she had played in taking Wren as an apprentice in sorcery. And Wren’s decision to keep Marisol unaware of her double life meant that she would likely never know the extent of the bond between Wren and the older woman.
Someone shouted from behind. “Wren!”
Wren knew the voice and turned to face Amy, who threw her arms around Wren’s neck, squealing and hugging her giddily. Someone cleared their throat loudly and Wren disentangled herself from Amy’s constrictive hug. She stepped next to her wife and slid an arm around her waist. “Marisol, you remember Amy, don’t you?”
The look on Marisol’s face said that she did and was not pleased. She knew precisely the extent of the bond between her wife and this woman. Wren’s wife, otherwise secure in her marriage and not the jealous type when it came to Wren’s previous relationships, had delivered a pronouncement after having met Amy for the first time just before their wedding that began, “I do not like and do not trust that woman.”
Amy tried to initiate small talk but was called away by Miss Adelaide. Wren guided her wife into the growing crowd to make their escape.
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Wide pavilions, arranged in a horseshoe, embraced a soundstage. A small army of uniformed servers and bartenders manned their stations, ready to fill plates and glasses with the opulent bounty at hand. Barbecue of all kinds was the main attraction, but there existed no shortage of caviar, fresh lobster, or the assortment of other delicacies mandatory at a high-society soiree. Expensive champagne flowed like a sparkling river, which is not to say that single-malt scotch, high-grade bourbon, and sophisticated beverages of other varieties were in short supply.
Wren and Marisol strolled through several of the pavilions, inspecting the delectables available, taking in the opulence. They had attended several of Miss Adelaide’s fancy charity events in their nine years of their marriage and knew what to expect. Hobnobbing with the rich and famous was something they both found stressful. Wren felt that stress tonight. These women are wearing dresses that cost more than my car is worth. That bartender is pouring whiskey so fine you’d have to pay two-hundred dollars a glass in an upscale bar. How can people actually live like this? And how long before they realize we’re imposters, tourists in their world?
Marisol punched her arm. “You’re starting to stress-out. Cut it out, or you’ll have me doing it too.”
“Yeah, sorry.” Wren nodded towards one of the less crowded pavilions. “Why don’t we go over there and get something to eat?”
The pavilion they chose, while in no way downscale in comparison to the rest, featured homier, less exotic fare. They selected from among the barbecue stylings of Texas, St. Louis, and Kansas City and chose a place to sit. Servers took their drink orders and delivered the requested side dishes. They might be dining amid a gaggle of gazillionaires, but Wren felt better able to relax if she had a spare rib in one hand and a cold beer in the other.
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Not long after they had seated themselves, a stocky man in a tuxedo and tennis shoes moved toward their table, bearing a plate fully loaded with assorted cuts of pig and cow. “Hello,” he said. As he dropped into one of the chairs at their table, he asked, “May I join you?” Mouths full, they nodded, Marisol gesturing toward the chair he already occupied. One of the staff appeared, asking if he needed anything, and he handed over an empty beer bottle, requesting two more.
By the time he had finished the plate and his beers, both women were staring. At first it had been the strangeness of watching a man eat ribs while wearing a golf glove on his right hand. As he practically inhaled the meat from the ribs and the bones piled up, however, it became, for Wren anyway, a desperate curiosity to find out how many ribs the man could possibly eat. She exchanged a glance with her wife as the server brought two more racks of spareribs, and then two more. Each time the ribs were delivered, another server brought additional coleslaw, beans, rolls, and bottles of beer.
Finally, after five and a half racks of spareribs, eight or ten slices of brisket, numerous beers, and an unknown volume of coleslaw, the man leaned back and semi-successfully stifled a deep belch. “Excuse me,” he said, noticing the women’s stares for the first time since he had begun digging into the barbecue.
“You could be the only person here who might come close to getting their money’s worth tonight,” Marisol joked.
Wren smiled warmly and stroked her wife’s forearm. She had been about to say something ridiculous, but she had been spared. How does my wonderful wife always know just what to say?
The man laughed and licked the fingers of his left hand. He laughed again when he licked one of the gloved fingertips of his right hand, noticed the glove, and used a napkin to remove what evidence of the barbecue he could from it. He turned to the couple and said, “Hi, I’m Kirby.”
After introductions had been made, Marisol said, “So, Kirby, forgive me for saying so—I don’t know exactly how to put this—but is this your typical scene?” She used her eyes to indicate the gala fundraiser cum barbecue cookout unfolding around them.
“Nah! I could never afford this. I’m just a schoolteacher.” He crossed his arms and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His speech, while not slurred, was somewhat sloppy and overwrought.“The lady putting this on has, uh, taken a liking to me—or maybe I should say ‘taken me under her wing’—and she gave me an invite.” The numerous beers had to have been taking their toll. “Even got me this tuxedo.”
Wren could tell from the set of her wife’s mouth and the playfulness in her eyes that Marisol was having fun with the guy, “Are you her lover? Her newest boy-toy?”
Wren and Kirby shared a hearty laugh in which Marisol soon joined. “Oh, no! I don’t think she’s got much use for me in that regard,” he said. “Any more than either of you would. But to each their own.” With this last, he raised his bottle of beer and they echoed him, raising their own glasses in a toast.
The servers kept them well stocked with their preferred beverages and the trio made small talk for the better part of an hour. Wren noticed the man’s eyes begin to spend longer and longer intervals staring at her wife’s bosom, so beautifully presented by the dress she wore. Several times she even found his eyes lingering on her own smaller, better-covered breasts. A hypothesis occurred to her, based on her observation of his prodigious consumption of food and beer and his growing fixation on their anatomy. It was not the kind of thing she could ask him in front of Marisol, but she became increasingly convinced she was right.
Kirby stood up. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me. I need to, uh, you know.”
“Take a whiz?” Wren suggested.
“Shake the dew off the lily?” offered Marisol.
He saluted them. “Yes, ma’ams—to both of those things.” As he turned to go, he nearly ran into a plump woman with large, round glasses. “Pardon me, neighbor,” he told her, exaggerating his Texas drawl. “Hey, wait, you actually are my neighbor. How are you, Marci? Having a good time at this shindig?”
Marci raised her normally quiet voice to be heard above the noise. “Why, if it isn’t the courageous Mr. Kirby!”
Wren watched him look at her. Marci was pleasantly plump, and the blue evening dress she wore complimented her curves. It worked wonders for her décolletage. Kirby seemed unable to pull his eyes away from the deep valley between Marci’s breasts.
“Ahem. My eyes are up here, Mr. Kirby.” She admonished him, but not unkindly.
Embarrassed, he looked away. “Hey, Marci, may I introduce my two new friends, Wren and...”
“Marisol,” Marisol provided.
Marci looked at Wren in delight. “Wren, dear, how are you?”
The two women hugged, then Marci hugged Marisol. “Marisol, are you keeping this one,” Marci indicated Wren, “on the straight and narrow?”
Marisol grinned and said, “You know I’m keeping an eye on my girl.”
It’s her superpower! Wren again marveled at her wife’s ability to say just the right thing, an ability that she wished she possessed.
Kirby, however, seemed to possess no such ability. “I’ve still got to take a leak,” he said. “Anybody know where the facilities are?”
“I was getting curious about that myself,” said Marisol.
Marci gave them directions and the restroom-oriented pair wandered down the path together, leaving Wren with her former teacher.
“This guy Kirby is all right?”
The older woman turned to face her. “He doesn’t look like much, but he’s risked his life to save Addie and, this morning, to save Amy. Without him, two of the people I love the most would be dead. That makes him very much all right in my book.”
Wren rubbed Marci’s shoulder affectionately. “That’s good enough for me. Who did the healing on him today, you?”
Marci shook her head. “No, that was Amy. How did you know he’d been healed?”
“I just watched him put away as much food as I’ve seen anyone put away, drink a ludicrous number of beers, and he’s becoming increasingly obsessed with every bit of female flesh he sees—including mine. It wasn’t a difficult conclusion to reach.” Wren chuckled. “I hope he’s spending the night with someone who’ll help him enjoy the rest of his increased appetites.”
Marci let go of Wren’s hand and pushed up her glasses with an index finger. “I’m sure he’ll find someone.”