Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

"Always pretend to have multiple orgasms, even if you don't have any. Their sensitive egos need it."

"That fits us all." Heather Dresser declared.

Everyone laughed, but no one was accused, and no one came forward to claim it.

"Well?" Whitney asked the group. her hands on her hips after nearly a minute of silence. "If your husband doesn't satisfy you and you were ashamed to have written it, why did you?"

"Go on to the next one. Whitney," Bunny ordered.

"No. Someone is breaking the rules. It's not fair. Let me see that," she demanded, seizing the slip from me. She studied it. All right, We'll leave this out on the table by the door. Everyone look at it and put down the name of the person you think matches the handwriting and drop it in the bowl. We'll announce the vote before we leave. Last chance not to be embarrassed," she warned,

"I would rather no one be embarrassed. Whitney," I said firmly. "This is supposed to be a nice time for me and for all the guests."

"She's right. Whitney," Marion Florette agreed. "Besides. I'm hungry. Isn't it time to eat?"

A wave of agreement followed. Whitney threw me a glare of anger and disappointment, but quickly changed it to a syrupy smile and relented,

"You'll each just have to introduce yourselves to Willow the old-fashioned way, then." she said. "Let's move into the garden for our brunch and, following that, we'll have the opening of gifts in the parlor. I have the patio set up for a Viennese dessert feast afterward, and let's not have anyone pretend to be loyal to her diet.

"Why don't you hold on to the rest of those slips. Willow?" she told me sotto voce. "Some of them probably do have good advice written on them."

I put the bowl aside and stood up.

"You should probably save them for someone who will actually need them." I told her.

I saw the way Mother swelled with satisfaction and pride.

Whitney gave me a hollow, thin laugh, and turned to see to the brunch. The guests who hadn't spoken converged on Mother and me, eager to introduce themselves and, to my mind, to speak with Mother almost as much as they spoke to me.

One of the women introduced herself as Arlette Mitchell and told me sh

e was Holden's mother.

"'What a coincidence that you have the same college classes as my son. He's told me all about you." "Oh?"

She leaned in so those nearby couldn't hear. "He fell into a nearly fatal depression when he realized you were already engaged to be married. He would die if he knew I'd told you," she added.

I wanted to ask. "So why did you?" but I swallowed the words,

"He's very shy. I told him he just has to keep looking until he finds someone just like you. I didn't get to marry the man I adored when I was Holden's age. You know what they say, you fall in love over and over with the same man, the man who first captured your heart.

But I suppose that's all nonsense," she said quickly. "Just romantic nonsense. I wish you the best." She left to speak to someone else on the way into the brunch.

The brunch itself was wonderful and in my mind probably rivaled the wedding feast itself. There were lobster, shrimp, and fish dishes, a variety of meats and poultry, each at a table with someone there to slice and serve. The platters of vegetables were beautifully displayed, many covered in sauces that made it impossible to know what they were until you asked. The champagne continued to flow as well as wine.

Mother and I sat with Bunny and the Carriage sisters, who provided an ongoing commentary about each and every guest at the shower. In minutes we knew whose marria.ae was in trouble, who had problems with her children or siblings, whose husband was in some financial trouble., and who was richer than she was a year ago.

Before we were herded into the parlor for the opening of my gifts. Manon Florette approached me.

"You see from that little bridal-shower game how catty most of them can be. You need allies here. Willow. You need friends like us. I'll call you and let you know when we're meeting again," she added before I could respond one way or another.

From the way Mother looked at me. I thought she might have overheard, but she said nothing. I was happy at how busy she was, at how many women, for one reason or another, wanted to speak with her. Whether she liked it or not, she was famous to them. They seemed to bathe in her notoriety. She was surprised at how many invitations she received. As Thatcher had predicted, we were suddenly "the flavor of the month."

The stack of gifts in the parlor looked big enough to require a decent-sized pickup truck to deliver. While we were having brunch, Whitney had assigned a servant to pile them neatly, the larger gifts on the bottom, so that it looked like a pyramid. The shower guests all sat in a circle and waited for me to unwrap each before they chanted their oohs and aahs.

There were silver and gold candleholders, jewelry boxes. And expensive vases. The girls from Manon's Club d'Amour gave me all sorts of lingerie-- even leather! --which brought lots of laughter and comment. Opening each gift and hearing commentary about it was tiring. I was happy when I was finished. Whitney told me it would all be delivered to the house.

"I imagine you will want it delivered to the main house," she said. "since it's only a matter of days now until my parents move out and you and your mother and brother move in. I understand Thatcher is going to stay rather than move out and then back in again."