Vinegar Girl (Hogarth Shakespeare) - Anne Tyler Page 0,62
herd of rhinos, and both coffee tables were the size of double beds. “Kate’s father has been telling us what an eventful day you’ve had, Pyoder,” Aunt Thelma said.
“Was very eventful,” Pyotr said.
“He’s been quite talkative, for him. We’ve all learned the most amazing amount about mice.”
She opened the French doors to the patio. It was a long while yet till sunset, but paper lanterns glowed in the trees and netted candles flickered palely on all the tables. When Kate and Pyotr stepped out onto the flagstones, the guests turned as a group, which made it seem as if there were considerably more of them than there really were. Kate felt the force of their attention like a wind that suddenly smacked her in the face. She stopped short, holding her tote low in front of her to hide the mayonnaise stain. “Here they are!” Aunt Thelma caroled, and she flung out one arm majestically. “Introducing…Mr. and Mrs. Cherbakov and Cherbakova! Or however they do it.”
There was a general “Ah!” and a smattering of applause, most people just patting the insides of their wrists with their fingertips in order to accommodate their wineglasses. Kate’s girlhood friend Alice had put on a little weight since Kate had last seen her, and her husband held a baby perched in the crook of his arm. Uncle Theron was wearing a defiantly unchurchy outfit of khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, but all the other men wore suits, and the women were in spring dresses that showed their winter-white arms and legs.
Dr. Battista was clapping the loudest. He had set his glass on a table to free his hands, and his face was shining with emotion. Bunny, at the far end of the patio, wasn’t clapping at all. She clenched a Pepsi can in her fist and glared at Pyotr and Kate belligerently.
“All right, everybody, we’re switching to champagne,” Uncle Barclay called. He arrived in front of Pyotr and Kate with two foam-topped flutes. “Drink up; it’s the good stuff,” he told them.
“Thanks,” Kate said, accepting hers, and Pyotr said, “Thank you, Uncle Bark.”
“Looks like you just got out of bed, Pyoder,” Uncle Barclay said with a sly chuckle.
“This is the latest fashion,” Kate told him. She’d be damned if she would offer any more apologies. “He bought it at Comme des Garçons.”
“Beg your pardon?”
She took a hefty sip of champagne.
“Could you and Pyoder stand closer together?” her father asked her. He was holding his cell phone in both hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t get any pictures of the wedding. I know I had a lot on my mind, but…Maybe your uncle could restage the ceremony for us.”
“No,” Kate told him flatly.
“No? Oh, well,” he said, squinting down at his phone. “Whatever you say, darling. This is such a joyous day! And you are the one we have to thank, pointing us toward the Mintz boy. I never would have suspected him.”
He was snapping more photographs as he spoke; he’d begun to look less incompetent at it. But there was no hope that the results would be any better, because Kate had her nose buried in her glass and Pyotr was turning away to snag a canapé from the tray Aunt Thelma was offering. “Maybe I take two,” he was saying. “I have not had breakfast or lunch.”
“Oh, you poor thing! Take three,” Aunt Thelma said. “Louis? Caviar?”
“No, never mind that. Barclay, could you snap a picture of me with the bride and groom?”
“Be glad to,” Uncle Barclay said, at the same time that Aunt Thelma told him, “First you have to see to everybody’s champagne. Kate’s already drinking hers, and we haven’t even had the toast yet.”
Kate lowered her glass guiltily, although really it was Uncle Barclay’s fault. He was the one who had told her to drink up.
Her father said, “The thing that gets me is, I still don’t understand why this happened. This thing with the animal people, I mean. My mice lead enviable lives! More healthful than many humans’ lives, in fact. I’ve always had a very good relationship with my mice.”
“Well, better with them than with no one, I suppose,” Aunt Thelma said, and she sailed off with her tray.
Aunt Thelma’s son, Richard, was making his way toward them with his wife, a pale, icy blonde with poreless skin and pearly pink lips. Kate tugged at her father’s sleeve and whispered, “Quick: what’s Richard’s wife’s name?”
“You’re asking me?”
“It starts with an L. Leila? Leah?”
“Cuz!” Richard said jovially. He wasn’t