The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,514

Michael kissing her again, kissing her eyes and her cheeks. He was murmuring all those silly wonderful things to her that husbands ought to murmur to brides, that she was beautiful, that he adored her, that he’d never been happier, that if this wasn’t the most perfect day of his life, he couldn’t imagine what it possibly was. And the greatest part was not what he said, but how happy he was himself.

She sank back and against his shoulder, smiling, her eyes closed, thinking quietly and deliberately of all the landmark moments, her graduation from Berkeley, the first day she’d entered the wards as an intern, the first day she’d walked into an Operating Room, the first time she’d heard the words at the end of the operation, Well done, Dr. Mayfair, you can close.

“Yes, the happiest day,” she whispered. “And it’s only just begun.”

Hundreds milled over the grass, under the great white tents which had been erected to cover the garden, the pool, and the back lawn before the garçonnière. The outdoor buffet tables, draped in white linen, sagged beneath their weight of sumptuous southern dishes—crawfish étouffée, shrimp Creole, pasta jambalaya, baked oysters, blackened fish, and even the humble and beloved red beans and rice. Liveried waiters poured the champagne into the tulip glasses; bartenders fixed cocktails to order at the well-stocked bars in the parlor, the dining room, and beside the pool. Fancily dressed children of all sizes played tag among the adults, hiding behind the potted palms which had been stationed through the ground floor, or rushed in gangs up and down the stairway shrieking—to the utter mortification of various parents—that they had just seen “the ghost!”

The Dixieland band played furiously and joyously under its white canopy before the front fence, the music swallowed from time to time by the noisy animated conversation.

For hours Michael and Rowan, their backs to the long mirror at the First Street end of the parlor, received one visiting Mayfair after another, shaking hands, extending thanks, listening patiently to lineages and the tracing of connections and interconnections.

Many of Michael’s old high-school chums had come, thanks to the diligent efforts of Rita Mae Lonigan, and they formed their own noisy and cheerful constituency, telling old football stories, very nearby. Rita had even located a couple of long-lost cousins, a nice old woman named Amanda Curry whom Michael remembered fondly, and a Franklin Curry who had gone to school with Michael’s father.

If there was anyone here enjoying all this more than Rowan, it was Michael, and he was far less reserved than she. Beatrice came to hug him exuberantly at least twice in every half hour, always wringing a few embarrassed tears from him, and he was clearly touched by the affection with which Lily and Gifford took Aunt Vivian under their wing.

But it was a time of high emotions for all. Mayfairs from various other cities embraced cousins they hadn’t seen in years, vowing to return to New Orleans more often. Some made arrangements to stay over a week or two with this or that branch of the family. Flashbulbs went off continuously; big black hulking video cameras slowly poked their way through the glittering press.

At last the receiving was over; and Rowan was free to roam from one little group to another, and to feel the success of the gathering, and approve the performance of the caterers and the band, as she felt bound to do.

The day’s heat had lifted completely, thanks to a gentle breeze. Some guests were, taking an early leave; the pool was full of half-naked little creatures, screaming and splashing each other, some swimming in underpants only, and a few drunken adults who had jumped in fully clothed.

More food was being heaped into the heated carafes. More cases of champagne were opened. The hard-core five hundred or so Mayfairs, whom Rowan had already come to know personally, were milling about quite at home, sitting on the staircase to talk, or wandering around in the bedrooms admiring the marvelous changes, or hovering about the huge and gaudy display of expensive gifts.

Everywhere people admired the restoration: the soft peach color of the parlor walls, and the beige silk draperies; the dark somber green of the library, and the glowing white woodwork throughout. They gazed at the old portraits, cleaned and reframed and carefully hung throughout the hallway and the lower rooms. They gathered to worship at the picture of Deborah, hanging now above the library fireplace. It was Lily and