Free School of Fortune by Amanda Brown Page B

nonstop as Andre Rieu led the Johann Strauss Orchestra through a flurry of waltzes. Acres of sky-blue silk formed the canopy of the tent. Large fluffy clouds attached to invisible pulleys wafted overhead, occasionally showering those below with golden Stardust (edible, in case it hit the food). The air was fragrant with just enough lily of the valley, Rosimund’s favorite fragrance, to overwhelm Thayne’s signature perfume.
    Harry managed to seat everyone moments before the bridal party arrived. The spotlight found Rosimund, hard to miss since she was not only first in, but also wearing fiery red and a two-pound tiara. A shaft of light followed her to the microphone at the head table. As she welcomed her guests, waiters in pale yellow tuxedos commenced pouring Champagne.
    While the cooks in the service tent went even more ballistic at the delay, Rosimund read a five-page, single-spaced essay entitled “My Son Lance.” Her memoir shared significant moments such as his first solid food, his graduation at the top of his kindergarten class, his discovery of a football, his first barbecue, his eight trips to Europe with her, his fifteen full scholarships that they didn’t need, his first-round draft pick by the Cowboys. Rosimund closed with names she would prefer for her grandchildren: Henrianna and Hart. She raised her glass of now warm Veuve Clicquot. “Lance, I wish you as much joy with Pippa as you’ve had with me.”
    â€œHear, hear!” cried the guests.
    â€œThank you, Mother,” Lance dutifully replied. Under the table he squeezed Pippa’s hand. “She’s not too bad once you get to know her. You can leave that bottle right here,” he told the waiter refilling their glasses.
    Pippa didn’t want to say anything, but her fiance had had plenty to drink already. Worse, just before the rehearsal, Lance had presented all his groomsmen with Tiffany flasks containing 150-proof bourbon. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked.
    â€œCouldn’t be better. Why?”
    â€œYou don’t normally drink Champagne.” In such quantity.
    â€œAnd I probably won’t for another twenty years. Ah. You’re worried it will impair my performance.” He smiled as Pippa blushed. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I have yet to discover
anything
that impairs my performance.”
    From the other end of the table, sensing that her son was already telling Pippa things he would never tell her, Rosimund felt a stab of pain. She remedied the situation by asking Lance to dance with her.
    Watching her future husband and mother-in-law waltz around the parquet floor as artificial clouds dusted them with gold, Pippa felt suddenly weary. She was no psychoanalyst, but Lance did seem overly attached to his mother. She wondered if she would ever be able to turn that tide around.
Henrianna Henderson?
Out of the question.
    â€œMay I have this dance?”
    Anson Walker, Pippa’s beloved grandfather, took her hand. A legendary oilman and cattleman, Anson had decades of experience with petroleum, cows, and that other ruinous natural resource, Texan women. “You’re looking mighty serious tonight.”
    â€œIt’s all beginning to hit me, Grampy.”
    â€œPerfectly normal. Don’t worry about Rosimund. About now she’s feeling like General Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn.”
    Pippa smiled. “Are you calling me an Indian?”
    â€œNo, a little big horn.” Anson steered Pippa onto the dance floor. “Did your mother tell you she wore that same dress at her rehearsal dinner?”
    Pippa was surprised. “No.”
    â€œI wouldn’t think so. She was somewhat under the weather, too. Apparently the prospect of marrying my boy Robert was impossible to face without the help of two bottles of Champagne. You should have seen her on the dance floor. That poor girl was more liquid than solid. Grandma Walker almost