Free The Body in the Gazebo by Katherine Hall Page

your face, just the rest of the world’s.”
    The men stood up. Dan pulled out his mother’s chair, first picking up the napkin the waiter had refolded and handing it to her.
    Yes, a girl could get used to all this, but it could also get to be a little weird. “Weird” didn’t even begin to cover it. She knew the champagne was muddling her thoughts. There were a lot to muddle.
    Outside, the view looked as if the South Carolina Tourist Board had ordered it up. The sea and sky had been painted with one brush, a brush dipped in shimmering aquamarine. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Instead it seemed they’d all descended in a blinding white layer on the smooth curve of the beach at the foot of the lawn that stretched out from the resort’s veranda, which was adorned with a long, beckoning row of rocking chairs. Pix thought about the dreary landscape she’d left, when? Just yesterday? Driving past palms and flowering shrubs from the airport, she had relaxed for the first time since the doctor had called with the news about her mother. The Harbour Town Lighthouse, striped like a fat candy cane, looked like a child’s sweet. The Cohens had booked it for a sunset reception for the last night. Friends and family were driving from Charleston and other places to officially toast the betrothed couple. Pix was sure the view would be spectacular. The weather was cooperating and the forecast promised not a drop of rain. She sighed when she thought about all the preparations that were going into this wedding celebration. Maybe Samantha would elope.
    The Millers had arrived before the Cohens, and Pix had stretched out on the chaise on their own private patio while everyone else had hit the beach. She wished Faith could see the room—a bed that must be larger than a king with a tentlike canopy and plenty of comfy, overstuffed armchairs piled with bright pillows. The bath was the size of one of her kid’s bedrooms, complete with a rain forest shower and a whirlpool, both of which she intended to try as often as possible. But first she had closed her eyes just for a minute. . . .
    There had been a scramble to get dressed and down to dinner. All her dread at meeting her future in-laws had returned and fortunately Samantha had stopped by, since Pix had completely forgotten to change her flats for heels.
    Miles away from last night and at the brunch table, Pix absentmindedly drained the rest of her mimosa.
    “Surely you aren’t going to ignore the chef’s famous sticky buns, Pix? You’re in pecan country now,” said Mrs. Cohen. No, it was “Cissy.” They were all on a first-name basis as soon as they’d greeted each other. Apparently “Sister” was a common nickname in households like Mrs. Cohen’s where she’d been the only girl growing up with two brothers. And her given name was Cynthia. It certainly wasn’t any more unusual than “Pix.” She had been tiny at birth, and Pix’s father had referred to his new baby girl as his little pixie, a name promptly adopted by everyone and soon shortened to Pix. It no longer applied by the time she was two, and by the time she was fifteen and grazing the six-foot mark, it was ludicrous, but it had stuck. Given that Ursula had named her daughter Myrtle after both a favorite aunt and the ground cover with tiny purple blossoms, Pix had opted for the lesser of two evils, jealous of the Debbies and Margies in her class.
    “Another mimosa to go with the bun?” asked Dr. Cohen, ever solicitous. His bedside manner was faultless. Pix put her hand firmly over her glass at the thought. At all her thoughts.
    “No, thank you, Steve, I’ll pass,” she said, aware that she was speaking very distinctly. Loopy, yes, she was loopy and it was starting to give her the giggles.
    Stephen Cohen, M.D. Her son’s father-in-law-to-be. She glanced at her watch. She should have left the message on Faith’s cell instead of the parsonage phone.
    Stephen Cohen.
    Steve. Her Steve.
    M ost