Page 100 of The Best Men
“Wow. Do we have the timing or what?” Mark asks, eyeing the seafood salads that are landing at each place setting.
“We better have the timing tonight. Ticktock.”
Mark snorts and follows me through the open French doors. When we emerge onto the pool deck, we find the whole crew. Flip is chatting up Hannah’s college friend Yasmin, who must have arrived while we were gone. Hannah and Bridget—both in sundresses—sit side by side on the edge of the pool, watching Rosie splash around the shallow end. Mark’s parents look on, holding cans of soda.
Flip turns around, squinting at me. His expression sayswhere have you been?
“Is everything okay with the photographer?” Hannah asks, rising to come and speak with us.
The photographer?
A beat goes by before I remember my own lie. “All set!” I say quickly. “I’d misunderstood her. She’s asked someone to take her other job for tomorrow so she can be here in person. And then she and I got to chatting. You know. Shop talk . . .”
Mark gives me a stare that says maybe I should shut up now.
“So, where’s Madame et Monsieur?” That’s how Flip and I always refer to his parents.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Hannah says with a frown. “Was traffic on the causeway terrible? I don’t want to start dinner without them.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The caterer is getting cranky, though. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold them off. Will you say something soothing to them? Use that Asher charm for me?”
“Sure, princess,” I say, squeezing her arm. “But I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
“Why?” Hannah leans to the side to try for a better angle toward the driveway. “Did you hear a car?”
“No, but look.” I gently take her shoulders in hand and rotate her until she’s looking out at the bay again. An eighty-foot yacht cuts through the water en route to the mansion.
“What the ever-loving . . .?” Hannah breathes as the white vessel aligns with the dock. A sailor, wearing smart navy shorts and a button-down shirt, complete with a white captain’s hat, jumps down and secures the boat to the private dock.
“Flip’s parents don’t do traffic,” I explain. “They will pay any amount of money to be conveyed in style and comfort.”
The sailor, using practiced, quick motions, ties a fancy knot on the rope before another dude in the same getup lowers a metal ramp between the boat and the dock.
I’m kind of digging the sailor studs. I think I’ve seen a porno starring guys in those outfits . . . How would Mark look in those shorts? Or ripping off that shirt for me?
I sigh happily. My mind is a wonderful place sometimes.
Mere moments later, Madame Dubois is being helped off the boat by Sailor Stud Number One. And then Monsieur appears, shaking off Sailor Stud Number Two’s offer of assistance, and hops down under his own power.
“They sure know how to make an entrance,” Hannah says. “Holy moly. I knew they were well off, but this is extreme. Mark, am I underdressed? Wait—you’re not the right one to ask. Asher?” She looks down at her dress with a helpless expression.
“You look beautiful,” I assure her.
“Besides,” Mark hisses. “This isyourwedding, Hannah. You wear what you want.”
“He’s right,” I add. “Measuring up to Madame’s fashion standards is an impossible task. Flip’s strategy is just to nod and agree with her, and then do whatever the fuck he wants.”
But I don’t think Hannah heard me. She’s already wearing a sort of starstruck smile as she follows Flip toward her future in-laws.
* * *
After introductions have been made, the caterers swoop in to beckon us into the dining room, and ask for everyone’s drink order.
“I would like a kir,” Madame explains. “But the wine must be dry, not sweet. A Burgundy, perhaps.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the server says.
Mark asks for a beer, and Flip and I order caipirinhas.
“That is a vulgar drink,” Madame says, elbowing her son playfully.
