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From the moment the guest of honor had time-trawled from the chic-designer-laid buffet to the long service table with its various bottles of white wine, I scrutinized her response in a furtive kind of way. Did it disappoint me? You bet it did. That’s because my mother-in-law generously lumbered over to Mrs. Vines’s sizeable hennared hips and remarked, “What a lovely gown you have on. It is so very ‘60’s,” only to receive a dour, misterioring glare and a one-word response, “Eloise,” before Mrs. Vines took herself off to the ladies’ room to drown herself in her own sorrow and shame that she could not wear her beloved Pamela Anderson.
“What’s wrong with your mother-in-law,” I whispered to my husband, Dan, who was now sitting in the back corner of the banquet room, nursing a beer and an extended stay in the lavatory.
“She thinks every female needs have ‘a look this year’ and that she has the exact look she covets.” He waved a hand down the table. “Take a look. She’s a fashion victim.”
I glanced around the room at the tables that dotted the vast expanse of carpet. I did notice that I was the only person in the room wearing a pair of white jeans, but they were cute and distressed. Plus, I had my favorite pair of Doc Martens boots on. I liked my outfit and I felt good about my jeans and my boots. Everyone else, it seemed, had donned ensembles that could be categorized as “store bought or self-styled.”
I turned back to my husband, the man I had married less than a year past. He had a point; I shrugged. “So, are we going to tell her it is time to come home?”
“Nope, she’s busy interviewing for a new assistant. There’s no way I’m going to be the one to tell her that it’s time to leave.”
“Does she know how much we paid for the evening?”
“You betcha. That’s why she keeps asking for wine.” With that he leaned over and kissed my cheek and then extracted himself from the low-slung banquet chairs and disappeared into the suite’s kitchen.
I settled back into my cozy chair for the presentation that Mrs. Vines and her team had selected to bestow upon her executive staff.
A diminutive older woman wearing a frilly pink suit stepped up on the dais and clasped her hands in front of her with her palms facing out. She began to speak, although her voice was drowned out by the ticking of a grandfather clock.
We were all amazed by that clock, which was near the cutting board. If truth be told (and I better tell it), it was a prop designed by Mr. Vines to be a clock, only it didn’t work. Behind the glass were concentric circles on which were pinned a bunch of clocks that ticked at different rates. And even though it was turned off, its sound was deafening. We guests began to wonder when the real show would begin.
This wasn’t a show at all, but the aftermath of a particularly interesting meeting – this one represented cocktails and hors d’oeuvres between the meeting itself and the powerpoint presentation, which would be followed by a buffet.
Mr. and Mrs. Vines were hosting (heavily sponsoring) a meeting of their executive assistants who worked in the satellite offices. It was going to be held in a luxury hotel in a resort where they lived it up and left the gloom and gray of the North and Central Atlantic for a month of meetings and presentations.
Mr. Vines, their boss, was chairing the meeting. He was not only managing the portfolio for their fund but he also managed their personal money as well as their budgets. Like I said, he was an entrepreneur. A very successful one, but an entrepreneur none the less.
He was standing at the end of a long table, his back to the lion’s head, and I could hear each word he uttered over the conch shells that were shattered during the cocktail hour.
Mrs. Vines spoke up for the second time during that meeting.
“Thank you, Francesca, you may stop speaking now.”
“But Fred, I only said…,”
“I know what you said, my dear.”
“So why did you stop her?” I whispered to Dan.
“She said the meeting would be over soon.” He grabbed my arm as the clock began to sound again. It was a loud tick-tock-tick-tock that was followed by a loud gong.
Around the table the meeting participants were getting up. There were handshakes and kisses and a few hugs. The group dispersed into the hall and down to the restaurant. Dan grabbed our chairs and I grabbed our things.
I felt a shark’s breath close to my ear and I heard the prissy voice of Mrs. Vines say, “Mrs. Carter, go get them champagne glasses like I requested before and they will come back to discuss the new social media venture I described.
I turned around, smiling. “Thank you, Mrs. Vines.”
“Do not thank me, Mrs. Carter. I knew you were the woman to do that.”
I went to get the drinks as I heard the soft but insistent voice of Mrs. Vines say, “You should not comment on my daughter’s attire to an attorney during the meeting. Marie is my daughter too, you know.”
“I was only saying…” Andrew, her attorney replied, only his words were not heard by me.
I paused under the ornate carving of a lion’s head and knocked on the door to the suite.
“Come in,” Dan said. “They’re having a conference call with all the vp’s so it will be a while before the …”
“Champagne is served.” I set down two flutes followed by a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.
“Isn’t that a little early?” Dan stayed seated.
There was a lot of bang, bump and clink as everyone came back to their seats. “Shh,” I said,” it’s still not time for the presentation.”
“There’s our entree,” Mrs. Vines’s voice rang out. “I ordered from the kitchen a nice swordfish filet with a kale and feta salad.”
“Well, let’s see if they can please Mr. Vines,” her husband muttered to wife.
Mrs. Vines handed out menus to Dan and to me. “I had to fix the entrée. They said the supplier delivered the wrong cut of meat.”
“What?” Dan said. “I thought you said it was skunked.”
“Dan, it is always interesting to see what this executive team will do when we are out of ear shot.”
We all settled down. I took the wine bottle and filled the wait staff’s glasses and then the rest of the table. I leaned over and whispered to Mrs. Vines, “Do you want me to pour you a glass, ma’am?”
“No thank you.” Her voice was strained as if bearing some strain herself.
Mrs. Vines’ daughter, Marie, sat next to me. “Can I get you anything?” I asked.
Marie looked embarrassed. “I guess not,” she said, looking down.
I excused myself from my spot next to Marie and went out to the kitchen. “Where do you want me to put the filet?” I asked, overhearing two ladies at another table and the head chef.
“No problem,” the lady said.
I spent a few minutes wandering around the back rooms of the kitchen, taking the time to look at the décor and the food. I also looked at the other two tables they were servicing. We were all at the same time.
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