Plus-One With A Vengeance : 26 / 29

[ An Altered Fates Story ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

“A little water clears us of this deed.”
— Lady MacBeth

---

 

Although Nessa amused herself by sending conflicting messages to her brother Robin about his after-dinner speech (yes speech / no speech / yes speech / no speech), she was intent on having all the elements of a traditional American wedding. She demanded the full article: nothing left out; no expense spared — after all, why wouldn't she? She wasn't footing the bill!

I mention her desire for completeness, because there is one ceremonial item in the repertoire that many weddings skip for reasons of delicacy.

That event is the garter toss.

Claus began to narrate this peculiar little sub-ceremony, but I only caught a word here and there. He threw out the words atavistic and throwback; he wrapped it all in anthropological terms, describing it as a remnant of a primitive ritual. Before Kitty shushed him, and enforced that shushing with a put-a-lid-on-it glance that only a wife can give her husband, I heard the words ribald and raucous.

In the absence of Claus' more capable analysis, I'll do my best to explain:

The garter toss begins with the virginal bride, dressed all in white: pristine, unsullied, like a field of snow. She is sat in a chair in full view of the company, who watch as the groom slips his hands under her dress. His fingers begin with her pretty little foot and ankle, and then they climb her smooth, perfect leg, higher and higher — encouraged by the hoots, catcalls, and cheers of the guests — until his fingertips encounter the lone garter.

He slowly slips it off her leg, sampling the sensation of touching her luscious leg all the way down. Once he slips the tiny bit of lingerie free from her ankle and foot, he stands and holds the item of intimate wear over his head: a prize for all to see. It's an obvious suggestion of the far greater intimacies the couple will enjoy later on. The groom is making a very public, visible, almost crude claim over his bride's nubile body.

Now that the garter has been seen by everyone, the pack of bachelors assemble: puffing and strutting, confident in their virility.

This toss has a very different character than the bouquet toss. Its literal arc is in strong contrast. While the bouquet has a solid, almost aerodynamic construction, The bridal garter is a pretty, flimsy bit of fluff, fitted out with frills and lace. It's difficult to throw something so light and airy. For that reason, Tag, like many grooms before him, resorted to the expedient of launching the garter over his shoulder, stretching it out and firing it, like a large rubber band.

While the bachelors wait, they don't jostle and jockey for position, the way the women did. The women were anxious and hopeful; some were quite determined.

The men, on the other hand, are casual. They feign nonchalance. They stand in a disordered clump, as if they were waiting for a bus, or standing in line for the bathroom.

But the moment the garter is shot into their midst, everything changes. The young bucks act, they move: single-minded. Their reflexes snap instinctively, like dogs competing for a scrap of meat. There's a quick, low-key scuffle, and almost immediately, one man emerges triumphant, holding the garter high.

Then a question emerges: Where is the woman who caught the bouquet? She's off somewhere in the back, basking in her luck and in the envy of her fellow debutants. Stirred from her reverie, she is called back onto the scene. She's surprised. The call is unexpected. You can see from her face and demeanor that she's puzzled. Why is her presence required? In her mind, catching the bouquet was the beginning and end of it. However, the bouquet comes with an obligation. An obligation which she may or may not be pleased to submit to.

The poor damsel, the catcher of the bouquet, is now sat in the same chair occupied a few moments earlier by the bride. Now *she* is the center of attention. The bouquet is taken from her — temporarily, and only because it would get in the way of what happens next. Now that her hands are free, the groom takes hold of one of the girl's hands, while the bride clasps the other. They hold her hands up, in the universal gesture of surrender. Don't shoot! I only caught the bouquet!

While the newlyweds casually restrain the girl, the man who caught the garter stands facing her. It doesn't matter who he is to the girl in the chair, or who she is to him. He could be her boyfriend. They could be perfect strangers to each other. If he'd been a bit faster and stronger and hadn't consumed so much alcohol, the man could have been Edison, who Kitty described as a pig. Luckily, it's someone far more agreeable. The man who caught the garter is one of Tag's groomsmen: a tall, fit, dangerously handsome fellow who'd be perfectly cast as a model or as an athlete. Perhaps he's both. He smiles his charming smile at the girl and gets on one knee. Looking her full in the face, he takes her right foot in his hand and slips the garter onto her ankle.

If she didn't know what was coming, it must be clear to her by now. She blushes like a stop light. She murmurs something no one can hear. She takes a deep breath and holds it.

She wiggles. She makes indistinct sounds of protest. Her dress is not as long as the bride's; in fact, it ends above her knees, and we can see the bachelor's fingertips encounter the soft, delicate skin of her inner thigh. Her legs twitch. Instinctively she wants to jerk the hem of her dress lower, but her hands are held by the newlywed couple.

She squeals. She stamps her free foot. She lets out a squeak and a high-pitched oh my!

All that time, the garter, fed by the bachelor's fingers, works its way higher and higher. The crowd laughs at her discomfort; they howl and hoot their encouragement and excitement.

Until finally... the girl's knees snap sharply together, arresting the garter's progress and trapping the man's left hand.

As discretely as he can, the man whispers to her, "You have to let my hand go," and she opens her soft fleshy prison ever so slightly, allowing him to extract his hand from her inner thighs.

But her trials are not yet ended. Guided by the best man's voice, the girl is told that she must allow the man to redeem the garter with a kiss — which she grants — and then back he goes, under her skirt once again, to fish for his garter.

She takes a deep breath and swallows hard. He traces the length of her leg, takes hold of the garter, and boldly lets his hand rest for a moment between her warm thighs. She gasps. She looks him in the face, and they stare at each other as slowly he draws the garter down to her ankle, pulls it over her shoe, and stands up, victorious once more, holding the garter over his head.

The girl, all nerves and blushes, grabs her bouquet once more and disappears into the crowd.

The ceremonial oddities and obligations all end exactly there. Now that the tension and the suggestive excitement are over, a clear breakpoint appears. Many guests, maybe as many as half, decide to roll up their tents and begin the journey home. They slip away, or tender their congratulations and goodbyes, leaving behind tables littered with dirty cake dishes and bunched-up napkins, surrounded by a disordered mess of chairs.

However, the reception doesn't end there. Three things are yet to come: dancing, drinking, and dessert.

As far as dancing: there was plenty of time, space, and music. Drinking? The open bar was still open and pouring freely. Regarding dessert: The catering staff had begun to assemble the dessert buffet, but at present had only laid out tiny dishes, forks, and baskets and bowls of fruit.

The best man had so far played the role of an excellent Master of Ceremonies. He'd put a brave, smiling face on all the frilly, girly, princess-like atmosphere and activities that filled the day so far. He had endured. He joked, he cajoled, he explained, he guided. He put his all into the role, and his performance pleased everyone. And yet, while he so excellently executed those duties, he'd been waiting and watching. Quite specifically, he'd been biding his time until the business with the garter was finished. THAT was his signal that girly things had ended. THAT was the green light he'd been watching for: The girly things had finished. It was time now for something manly.

He sidled up to the Friends table (and one or two others) and invited the men — and ONLY the men — to join him, the groom, and other virile bucks in the relative peace and tranquility of the terrace out back. No girls allowed. Giggles, squeals, high-pitched exclamations and cries were strictly banned.

The best man waggled a box of Montecristo cigars, in the manner of a tempter. "There are plenty more of these, and we've laid in a good supply of brandy out on the terrace," he informed them. "The girls have had their fun. Now we'll have a little Man Time."

Max, Robin, and Claus didn't need to hear anything more. As they stood, the best man leaned forward toward Oswald, who remained seated, not moving.

"I'm sorry I don't know your name, friend," he told him, extending his hand, "but I hope it's clear that you're welcome to come smoke and drink with us."

"I appreciate the offer," Oswald replied, shaking the proffered hand, "but I'm going to hang back here."

The best man nodded. "Suit yourself! Still, if you change your mind..." gesturing with his head in the direction of the terrace.

Before Max left with the boys, I put my hand on his arm. "Max?"

He stopped and smiled down at me.

"Max, before the night is over, will you dance with me? Just one dance?"

He sighed heavily and shook his head. "I've told you Lorelei, and I'm sorry, but I don't dance."

I was ready to beg. "But I haven't danced at all!" I pouted. "Not even once!"

Oswald, observing the impasse, offered his services. "I'll dance with you, Lorelei."

"There you go!" Max exclaimed, happy to be let off the hook.

"You don't mind?"

"No, of course I don't mind. I'm going to go have some fun with the boys. I want you to have fun, too. Knock yourself out."

The men made their way outside and around the back, toward the sea. Max joined the stream of bodies. I watched his broad shoulders receding. He didn't look back. I guess the men felt the need for a physical separation from all the female foolishness going on inside the building. In any case, they were gone.

While Oswald and I wended our way among the tables on our way to the dance floor, I told him that I admired the way he stood up for Amber, "It was nice, the way you were there for her."

"Well," he replied, "she's my cousin and she's my friend." He smiled. "I know she's a handful and a half for a lot of you, but as I said, she's my cousin and she's my friend."

I nodded.

"Loyalty is important," Oswald added. "At least to me."

Just before arriving at the dance floor, we found our way blocked by a multitude of hastily-abandoned chairs. The two of us pushed them back in place at their tables or at least pushed them out of our way. While we worked, I realized there was no one to hear, so I paused, resting my hand on the back of a chair, and asked him, "Oswald, do you know what Amber's plan is?"

"Plan?"

"I don't ask you to betray her trust, but did she come here, to the reception, with any specific... action in mind? Is she planning on confronting somebody? Max? Me?"

He studied my face for a moment before answering. "I don't think Amber has a plan, any more than she had a plan on Valentine's Day." He hesitated a moment, while I remembered Kitty's warning of a kamikaze mission. "Naturally, she didn't confide in me, but I believe..." he said, thinking it through, coming on it slowly "... that if she *did* have a plan, it wouldn't go beyond vini, vidi, vici — I came, I saw, I won? The way that Amber's mind works, I think she'd convince herself that simply showing up would be enough. But clearly she underestimated you. I think she expected to be a strong contrast to you. So strong, that Max would drop you and run to her."

"Do you really think so?" I didn't buy it.

"Yes, I do," he said. "I wish you wouldn't worry. Clearly she had no idea of the depth of feeling between you and Max." His owl-like eyes blinked. "I think by now, Amber knows she lost." He said this last with a kind smile, tinged with regret — regret for his cousin, his friend.

There was a noise behind me. When I turned, I saw there were still four chairs blocking the way to the dance floor — four chairs carelessly cast aside, their legs interlocked. A young man was removing them from the other side, from the direction of the dance floor.

Imagine my disgust when I realized that he was none other than Edison. His movements were brusque, almost violent. He pulled the chairs noisily, shaking them free, and dropping them once he'd extracted them. He'd already left two chairs on their sides, lying on the floor.

"Clearing the way for you, dollface," he said. "Just like Prince Charming, coming for the Sleeping Beauty."

"Uh, thanks," I responded weakly. "You really don't have to do that. We've got it." His face was flushed. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his tie, unknotted, was draped over his neck like a scarf. "You're drunk, aren't you," I observed.

"Ain't life grand?" he responded. "Free booze, for the win."

I tried to take a step back, but only bumped into Oswald and one of the chairs we'd moved. Oswald himself had nowhere to go.

Edison carelessly tossed the last two chairs out of the way, clearing the path between us. "Let's dance," he growled in a tone of command. He reached forward and grabbed me roughly by the wrist.

"Ow!" I exclaimed as he yanked me toward him. "I'm not dancing with you. I already have a dance partner."

Oswald stepped up next to me and tried to insinuate himself between me and Edison. "She's dancing with me," he told Edison firmly. He grasped Edison's hand. He meant to pull it off my arm, but he couldn't budge it. Edison was the stronger of the two men, and — being drunk — he didn't mind causing pain to either me or Oswald.

"Beat it, four eyes," Edison told him with a smirk.

"I told you: I'm dancing with Lorelei," Oswald insisted, stepping forward, standing on Edison's toes.

"I don't have time for this," Edison scoffed. After a quick glance around, he gave Oswald a shove that landed him on the floor between two tables.

"Hey! Help!" I protested, looking around me. After the recent exodus, maybe half the guests remained, scattered around the vast ballroom. No one was near. No one had seen. No one had heard. The music and the ambient noise covered my cries.

Edison, still with a tight hold on my wrist, tossed two chairs on top of Oswald, to make it harder for him to get up, and harder for him to be seen.

"Come on," he commanded, dragging me like a rag doll onto the dance floor. He pulled me close, his hips pressing into mine, and grinding against me, led me around the dance floor. He danced badly. Worse than badly. He didn't know how to dance at all, and he was too drunk to care. This wasn't about dancing. He moved me around the periphery, placing us as far from Oswald as possible. Then he turned my back to that scene, so I couldn't look for Oswald or see whether anyone was helping him.

"You're so incredibly rude!" I told him. "Let me go!"

His face was so close to mine that I couldn't help but breathe his alcohol-laden breath. "I'm rude?" he challenged, "I'm rude? You're calling me rude? Oh, that's rich!"

"Yes, you're a bully and you're rude. You've hurt Oswald, and ow! you're hurting me!"

"You love it," he scoffed. "And if you don't, you should. It serves you right. I should spank your delicious, naked ass. Now there's a picture! Let me tell you, Lorelei: *You* are the rude one. Yes, you. And you know it. — The way you treated me at the mall? You remember, don't you?"

"I didn't do anything to you at the mall! That was all you! You were the rude one — there as well!"

"You teased me," he continued, accusing me, breathing his words into my face, pressing his body tight against mine, squeezing me hard, hurting my wrist and my waist. "You led me on."

"I did not!"

"You sat down opposite me and opened your legs to me, nice and wide. You showed me everything. THAT was a clear invitation, and you knew it."

"It was not! There was no invitation! It was an accident! It was a moment of inattention."

"Even when you closed your legs, you pointed your shoes directly at me."

"What? Pointed my shoes? What does that mean?"

He gave me an irritated look. "Body language. Just like your mamma taught you. I'm sure she did the same thing." He nodded. "Like daughter, like mother. Looking at you, I'm sure your mother must have been hot to trot. Maybe she still is. Is she?"

"You're disgusting."

"But you know what? I forgive you. I have a big heart, and I'm here to help you. Maybe I'm even here to save you."

He jerked me around the floor a bit more. "You two had a fight," he stated. "You and that snooty, stuck-up Max Errison."

"We didn't fight."

"Yes, you did."

"No, we didn't."

"Then why isn't he dancing with you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't owe him any answer, and besides, it was complicated. Wasn't it? In any case, Edison took my silence as confirmation and encouragement. "Look, dancing with me — like this — it's going to make him jealous. Did you think that dancing with that tubby little owl-eyed guy was going to work? Max wouldn't care an inch. He wouldn't even notice. He'd only laugh." He shook his head, smiling at his own thoughts. He took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing his cheek into mine. I struggled helplessly, unable to free myself. Edison breathed heavily into my neck, telling me, "Dancing with me — that might make him a little jealous. But you know what will REALLY make him jealous. You know. You know what will really get him hot for you?" I could feel him licking his lips. "Knowing that you gave yourself to another man, right here, right now. THAT will light your man on fire."

"No!" I exclaimed. "That is not going to happen!"

"I know a room," he said, "I scouted it out. The bride's changing room. That's where we'll go, and we'll do what you invited me to do to you back there at the mall. Who knows? We might even get caught! Wouldn't that be hot? You, naked, bent over... me standing behind you, doing you hard. Make a great picture."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Yes, you are. I understand — you extended me an invitation, back at the mall, but then you were too frightened to live up to it. You're still a little timid, but you'll get over it. You made me an offer then, and now you're going to make good on it."

"God damn it!" I shouted. He was squeezing me so tightly I didn't have enough breath to be loud. So I kicked him. He swore and shook me. I kicked him again. He began dragging me off the dance floor. He lifted me up and carried me like a department-store manikin. I kicked, I struggled, I tried to scream. Why didn't anyone see? Why didn't anyone stop him? I worked my mouth, trying to bite his nose, his cheeks, anything. But he held me in a way and twisted his head in a way that made all my attempts useless.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. Max's voice cut in. "Edison, let her go."

"I'm dancing with her," Edison replied. "Can't you see? She's dancing with me."

"No, she's not. Take a big step back, Edison. Take a big step back, away from her. Now."

Edison relaxed. He let out a heavy breath redolent of wine. He released his hold on me and he stepped back, away from me. I rubbed my wrist. It was red. Clearly, a bruise would come.

Now that Edison had let me go, I could see Max, standing next to me, his eyes fixed on Edison. I looked at Max's hands. They were loose, not fists, but Max was ready to fight.

Edison held his hands up in surrender. "Hey, man — hey, Max — Peace. Okay? Peace, Max. Peace. No harm, no foul, right?"

"Just keep walking away," Max told him. "And don't come back. Lorelei's with me."

"Hey, I was only trying to help out. I saw she had nobody to dance with... so I offered... that's all."

"She's dancing with me," Max told him. Edison smiled lamely, drunkenly.

Just then, an embarrassed and slightly battered Oswald appeared, accompanied by two slender men dressed in dark livery. "He's the one," Oswald told them, pointing at Edison.

"I'm going to ask you to come with us, sir," one of them said. "It's time for you to leave."

"No problemo," Edison assured them. "I'm cool. I'm a lover, not a fighter, alright? I came in peace, I'll go in peace."

"Less talking, more walking," the other security man told him, and the two men escorted Edison out of sight and off the grounds.

Max hugged me. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"A little," I told him. "He definitely hurt Oswald."

We turned to look, but Oswald had slipped away. "He might have gone to get some first aid," I guessed. "Edison knocked him down and threw chairs on top of him."

"What an asshole," Max said, frowning. "I was going to get him outside and—"

"I'm fine," I assured him. "A little bruised, but fine."

Clearly agitated, Max turned to look toward the exit, but Edison was gone.

"Wow," I said, taking Max's chin in my hand and turning his face to look at me. I reached up and rested my arms on Max's shoulders. "Max! My hero! You came to my rescue." I realized I was trembling. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins. Now that it was too late for me to do anything to Edison, I was on fire. I was activated.

"How could I not?" he replied, putting his hands on my waist.

"How could you not what?" I asked. Distracted by my shaking, I'd lost the thread of the conversation.

"Come to your rescue, silly," he laughed. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just the adrenaline. Making me shaky."

"Okay," he acknowledged, looking at me closely to be sure I was alright. "Do you want to sit down?"

"No, I told you — I'm fine. You know, I never thought I'd be glad to hear that macho bullshit line, you know? Less talking, more walking. In the moment, though, I loved it."

Max gave a quiet chuckle and gently he pulled me close. The two of us began to shuffle in a clumsy approximation of a dance.

"I shouldn't have left you," he murmured.

"Don't be silly," I replied.

"I should have danced with you when you asked me," he softly told me, in a tone of apology.

Then, there was a shift in the atmosphere. Behind us, the music changed. I don't know what was playing before, but one song ended and another began. Before my mind could process it, before I could give a title to the song, Max kissed me. It was a gentle kiss at first, nothing more than his lips touching mine, oh so lightly. Then another, and another until we kissed each other with a kiss that didn't end. And that song, the song what was playing, is that what inspired Max to kiss me, in front of everyone? It began quietly but then it grew, glowing with power and love, just as Max and I were, consumed and consuming. That song was the most romantic song on earth — for me, at least. From that moment and ever after.

I closed my eyes and dissolved into the moment. Somehow I knew Max's eyes were closed as well. How can a kiss expand and transform the world? How can a mere touching of lips turn into a moment of cosmic consciousness shared by two?

I don't know how a kiss can come to feel this way, but that simple embrace swept away the room, the place, the people, the floor, the ceiling, and even the sky. There was nothing to feel or see or hear but Max and me. We were alone, we two — there was no one else on earth. Suspended in space, floating, lit only by tiny stars twinkling and flickering far off against the black, infinite darkness. My mind was empty. My soul was clean and new. I felt Max's breath in my lungs and knew mine was in his. Max was my air, my oxygen, and I was his. We opened our mouths and let our tongues play, running over each other. It was nothing but joy.

Gradually our oblivion began to fade, and as our personal reality faded, it was replaced by the realization that there was actual objective silence all around us, except for the music. We broke off our kiss, only to find that all eyes were upon us.

Claus' voice broke the silence. Like a ribald, raucous game-show host, he'd commandeered the microphone, addressing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, I wish we had a spotlight on that couple. Wasn't that beautiful? I think we just saw a child conceived, right here, today, right now, on that dance floor. Come on now, that was some kiss, wasn't it?"

"Oh, Christ," Max muttered, as the guests applauded and laughed. He felt as embarrassed as I did.

"At least he didn't say who we are," I pointed out.

Right on cue, Claus added, "That's our own Max Errison and the lovely Lorelei Gight, everyone! Let's have another big round of applause, and maybe they'll kiss again."

"You may now kiss the bride, am I right?" Robin chortled. He and Lana were nearby.

"My God!" Lana exclaimed, "*I* got pregnant, watching you two kiss like that!"

Claus said something that I didn't get, and he pushed up the volume of the music, just a little. Max and I buried our faces in each other's shoulders and rocked, hiding in each other, shuffling slowly as the song surrounded us.

Then it hit me.

"Oh, my God, Max," I laughed, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him. "Do you know what this is?"

"The song?"

"Yes, do you know what this is?"

He listened for a moment, then said, "Yeah, it's, uh, After The Love Is Gone by Earth, Wind & Fire."

"No, no — not the title. This! This song is our—"

"Oh, no, don't say it!" He groaned, but in spite of himself he was smiling at the same time.

"It's our song, Max! This is our song!"

"Even if it's about a failed relationship?" he teased, echoing my words from earlier.

"Max, this song is dripping with romance." I echoed Amber's words.

"Just like you and me," he quipped, "Two drips, dripping with romance."

"That sounds kind of dirty," I quipped.

The two of us fell to laughing so hard we bent over double.

Then — as I straightened up, I saw a face in the crowd. Her expression struck me like an arrow through my heart. The look on her face was tragedy, sadness, loss — the face of a person who saw everything they cared about, everything in their world, gathered in a bonfire, burnt to ash, then swept clear away in a flash flood; lost irretrievably, never to be seen again.

It was Amber's face. Her expression — in one word — was stricken. I saw her pain, her dismay, written plainly in large letters. It hurt me to see her hurt that way, in spite of what a terror she'd been.

I stopped laughing and caught my breath.

Robin gave Max a playful swat on the arm and said, "I guess it was worth ditching the Montecristos, wasn't it?"

Max nodded.

I asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Aunt Melissa came running out onto the terrace." Robin explained. "She was in a wild state, and she told us you needed help. So we left behind two expensive cigars and two snifters of brandy so we could come running to your rescue." He smiled, shrugged, and added, "Not that *I* did anything, but..."

"You could go back and see if there are more... Montecristos?" I offered.

"Really?" Max asked. "Do you mean it? Is that okay? Honestly, I'm afraid to leave you alone now."

Robin joked, "Yes, this mansion is turning out to be a terrible neighborhood!"

"Edison's gone," I assured them. "I have nothing to worry about. Anyway, I'd like to take a spin in the dining room. It will give me a chance to walk off this adrenaline. I want to shake it off in a less public setting. Plus, there's flower arrangements and fruit... I'd like to see it."

Lana asked, "Do you think they've put out the dessert buffet yet?"

Robin shook my head. "I doubt it. I'd give it fifteen minutes. They might even kick you out if they aren't ready."

The boys returned to the terrace to hunt up more smokes and brandy. Lana went off to mingle. I directed my steps to the dining room. Honestly, I didn't care much about the flowers or fruit — or even the dessert buffet. I wanted to be alone to let the adrenaline leave my system. I also needed to get a sense of the injuries Edison inflicted. I wasn't going to undress; I wanted some solitude so I could prod my sides and arms a little.

I wandered out of the ballroom, through the small doorway into the dining room. I say "small" even though it was ten or twelve feet high, and wide enough for two large people to walk abreast. It was only small compared to the other doors leading off the ballroom. This was the door from which Nessa and Tag first appeared. The dining room was also where the wedding cake was hidden until it was needed. The remnants of the cake sat in a corner of the ballroom, waiting to be cleared away.

Here in the dining room, long tables had been placed and covered with thick white cotton tablecloths, embellished with table runners. Bowls and baskets of bright, polished fruits added some decorative color. Next to the tables were elaborate flower arrangements resting in cast-iron stands.

I expected the room to be empty, but there were five members of the catering staff in their white aprons, arranging tiny plates and forks.

"Dessert buffet isn't ready yet," one of them sang out.

"I'm not looking for that," I confessed. "I just wanted a little quiet moment. I didn't think you'd be in here."

"Oh, that's fine," the woman told me. "We'll be gone in a minute. When it's time for the desserts—" she looked at her watch "—in about fifteen minutes, it will all come out at once. We'll swoop in like an army."

I nodded. A sixth woman in a white apron carried in a pair of white porcelain gravy boats, each filled with a red syrup.

"What is that?" I couldn't help but ask.

"It's Red Berry Coulis," was the answer. "It's made from raspberries, red currants, and sugar. It goes great on cheesecake and ice cream, among other things. You should try it. Later, of course. Don't stick your finger in there," she added, joking.

The workers made their last adjustments to the napkins and serving implements, and left me alone. "Fifteen minutes," the woman reminded me before disappearing into the kitchen.

Now that I was finally alone, I took some experimental breaths and touched my ribs and sides. For sure, I was going to have some bruises. On my hips, too. My right wrist was pretty red, but it was too early to see a bruise. I sighed. What a thing to happen! I wondered where Oswald had gone, and how badly he'd been hurt. At that thought, I stirred myself, and decided to go find him. I still felt a little high and strangely clear-headed from the adrenaline, but the shakiness had passed, and I was ready to check on the poor guy. He'd tried to stand up for me, and he did get Edison thrown out. If Max hadn't "ditched his Montecristo" and returned, Oswald would have been the one to save me. I needed to thank him and make sure he was alright.

I'd only taken one step toward the door when Amber came in. Her face brought to mind Horatio's line in Hamlet: "more in sorrow than in anger" — but unlike Hamlet's Ghost, Amber had both. Her face bore a hunted, harried look. At the same time, she burned with anger and resentment.

Her mood was a strong contrast to her appearance: as Tamara had observed, Amber has a killer body, and her rust-colored dress clung to her curves and exalted them. She had a fine pair of legs, and her hair seemed more than ever like a mane. I could understand how Max could fall for her — physically, at least.

When she entered the room, her right heel twisted and her hip whacked one of the tables. The blow caused an apple to roll free from one of the baskets. She snatched it up angrily, holding it up, squeezing it, white-knuckled. She fixed me with her eyes, and held the apple in our line of sight. I had the feeling she was imagining that the apple was my face, or head, or neck, and she was crushing the hell out of it.

"You," she uttered, and the word rippled across the room. She gripped the apple fiercely. Her nails pierced its skin.

"All the men in the world," she growled, "Of all the men in the world, you had to steal mine."

"I didn't steal him," I countered. "You abandoned him."

"Liar!" she said. "I took a step back to make him want me, to make him choose me, to make him come to me, and you stepped into that gap, like a thief. Like a common thief. Like that bird that takes another bird's nest."

I knew she was referring to the cuckoo, but I wasn't going to say the word. It might set her off.

I shook my head. "Look," I told her, "I'm sorry you're hurt, but this is life." I shrugged. "You need to move on. Max got over you; you need to get over Max. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my table."

"I love him!" she exclaimed through gritted teeth.

"No," I answered. "You're obsessed with him. It's not the same thing at all."

"You don't know! You know nothing, you little imbecile! I was turning him into a good man, a man worth having, and you took advantage of my work!"

"He was already a good man, a man worth having, long before he met you."

She shook her head.

Again I repeated, "I'm done here. I'm going back to my table."

"No," she hissed. Her eyes roved maniacally around the room. I think she was looking for something to hit me with. She still clutched the apple, her knuckles white. "Not yet. Not until I give you a little payback." She nodded. "A little something, for you and Max to remember."

I took a big step back, away from her, and tried to be ready. If this was going to be a physical fight, I was going to give it everything I had. Edison physically outmatched me, but I figured Amber and I were about on par. If she started something, I sure as hell intended to give her as bad as I got.

She laughed. As if she read my mind, she said, "Do you really think I want to fight you? I could break you like a dry twig. Stupid girl. I don't need to fight you to make you look foolish."

Then, without looking down, without any preamble, without giving the slightest twitch of warning, she grabbed one of the white gravy boats and threw the red syrup at me. It struck me from my knees to my belly button. While she laughed, I looked down at myself. There was a huge red stain on my lovely dress. But actually — it wasn't my dress at all. I'd borrowed it from Tamara. Would that stain come out?

Astonished, dismayed, I looked up at Amber, who, grinning, had the second gravy boat in her hands. She tossed a second dose of the Red Berry Coulis at me. Now I was dripping — not with romance — but with red, sticky syrup.

"Oh, Amber," I sighed, more in pity than anything else, although I was distressed about the dress.

"Oh! Look what you did to yourself, you clumsy cow!" she crowed. It took me a moment before I realized she was echoing Kass' words from Valentine's Day.

Damn it! I thought, looking down at the thick, sweet, fruity liquid as it bled down the front of me. Automatically, I had my arms spread away from my body, to keep them from the mess. I was wide open. If she's following Kass' playbook, her next move is—

Yes, her next move was a gut punch. I had enough time to tense my abs before Amber's uppercut connected, but it stunned me. I stumbled back a few steps, bent over, gasping, and looked into Amber's face. Her expression brought Oswald's words to mind: I think by now, she knows she lost.

Did she? Did Amber know she'd lost?

Maybe she did. Now that she'd thrown some messy crap on me, and now that she'd socked me in the gut, her anger seemed to dissipate, at least a little. Her voice, when she spoke to me, was calmer. I can't say it was kind, but at least it didn't seethe with emotion.

She put her clean hand on my arm and told me, "Breathe into it. You'll be alright. Breathe into it." I say she used her clean hand, because — bent over as I was — I could see her other hand... was it bleeding? No. It was the red berry syrup dripping from her fist. She'd dipped her hand in the sauce, so to speak, when she punched me.

Oswald appeared at the door. Seeing me bent over, a red, dripping stain on the front of me, and Amber's fist, also dripping red, he assumed the worst. He thought Amber had stabbed me. All the red dripping sauce looked like my blood: on my dress, and on Amber's guilty hand.

Horrified, Oswald cried out, "Oh, Amber! What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything, you moron!" she shouted. "I haven't done anything!" Her anger quickly re-ignited. "Fat load of help you were! Why did you even come?"

With that, she hefted the apple she'd been squeezing as a proxy for my throat, and fired it at Oswald. It bounced off his forehead with a loud thwock! and poor Oswald fell backward like a tree, landing for a second time on that elegant floor.

Amber and I both ran toward him, me slightly hobbled by her punch, and when we reached the doorway, I saw Tamara bearing down on us like an Abrams tank, with Kass flying in her slipstream, fists clenched, jaw set. As it turned out, they were following Oswald, and had seen him fall. Then they saw the blood-like syrup, and made the same mistake that Oswald had. Their eyes flashed fire and they came on faster.

Before Tamara and Kass reached us, though, the slender men in dark livery intercepted them. "Hold on, ladies," one of them said. "We've got this." The other approached me, Amber, and Oswald, trying to get a grip on the situation.

"Are you sure?" Tamara challenged. "This woman is bleeding out! This is attempted murder! That woman--" pointing to Amber "--is a would-be assassin, and that woman--" pointing to me "--//is bleeding out///! She needs medical attention, and she--" pointing again at Amber "--should be in handcuffs, at the very least! Is there a doctor in this place? That girl is bleeding out!"

Amber was shocked and frightened by the accusation, even though she knew it wasn't true.

"It's just red syrup," I protested, gasping for breath. "I'm not hurt! She didn't hurt me. It's only berry syrup from the dessert buffet, Taste it." And then I fell over. I don't know why. Maybe the adrenaline wore off and took all my energy with it. Maybe I was faint. Maybe it was all just too damn much — I don't know. What I *do* know is that my legs gave way, and after I hit the floor, there came a flurry of people.

As I lay there, I saw the catering staff, friends, Kitty, and Melissa looking down at me, faces filled with concern. EMTs was called for Oswald, even though he quickly regained consciousness and protested that he was fine.

Amber was escorted to another room.

"Do you want to press charges?" the security man asked me. "The police are on their way. This looks like a clear case of assault."

"No," I told him. "It will only make matters worse. You have to ask Oswald what he thinks, but as far as I'm concerned, it's better forgotten."

"We'll take her particulars and escort her off the property, then," he told me, and went off to make it happen.

I sought out Tamara's face and told her, "Sorry about the dress."

"Oh, doll!" She laughed. "I have a truckload of spares! We'll fix you up with a new one in two shakes! Girl, we'll have you up and dancing again in no time! The night is still young!"