“Bambi’s going to sit with me, aren’t you, Bambi, my love?” she said as she sashayed in—but of course the minute she took her place, Bambi scrabbled off her lap onto the floor. He did several circuits of the dining room, then came to sniff around the console table in an incriminating way, while I furiously muttered, “Bugger off, Bambi!” I’ve been so busy trying to get rid of him, I haven’t been able to concentrate on proceedings at all. But, thankfully, someone must have dropped a piece of lobster ravioli or something, because he’s scooted off to the other side of the room.
Right. Finally. I can observe my family at close quarters. Or at least, see enough to get the gist of what’s going on. If I tilt my head this way and that, and keep peeking through a useful moth hole I’ve discovered in the tapestry, I can see everyone’s face to some degree, at least in the mirror. （Except Romilly’s. But I don’t want to see Romilly’s face, so that’s fine.）
In between cursing Bambi, I’ve been trying to monitor the conversation at the table like an MI5 operative, but so far I’ve learned nothing. Everyone’s just been talking aimlessly about how great the cocktails were. Apart from Romilly, who’s been banging on about her daughters’ violin lessons with this über-teacher. As if anyone’s interested.
My eyes slide along to Krista’s sister. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her, and she’s quite something, all flicky auburn hair and tight turquoise dress and bare tanned shoulders. I swear she put on an extra wiggle when Joe politely held out her chair for her, and now she seems entranced by him. As I watch, he refills her water glass and she murmurs, “Thanks, Dr. Joe,” in a husky, sultry voice, then brings it to her lips without taking her eyes off his.
“？‘Joe’ is fine,” says Joe politely, whereupon Lacey bats her eyelashes at him.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! You’ll always be ‘Dr. Joe’ to me. You do know I’m already in love with you?” She laughs, tossing her hair back again.
She’s even sexier than Krista, with mesmerizing green eyes. Also, she’s younger than Krista, maybe mid-thirties. Although still older than Joe, I note to myself. （Not in a bitchy way. Just in an accurate way.）
“I’m a very honest person,” she adds to Joe. “I have to say things the way I see them. It’s Lacey’s way.” She twinkles at him. “And if you don’t like it, then don’t sign up for the program, excuse my French.”
“Right,” replies Joe, sounding a bit baffled. “Are you in exercise wear too?” he asks politely.
“No, but I’ve modeled for Krista’s company,” says Lacey. “I’m a contortionist in my spare time. She gets me walking on my hands, that kind of thing.”
“You’re a contortionist?”
“You should see her,” puts in Krista proudly. “Lacey can get her thighs right behind her ears, can’t you, Lace?”
“Oh yeah, easy.” Lacey nods complacently, and I swear all the men shuffle slightly in their chairs.
“Now, attention,” says Dad, tapping a fork on the rim of his wineglass. “Before we proceed, I just want to say how marvelous it is to have all of us here tonight, including you, Lacey.” He smiles kindly at her. “And Joe, of course, and Humph, although I don’t know where he’s got to…”
“Thank you, Tony,” says Lacey charmingly, lifting her wineglass toward him. “And thank you for welcoming me, everyone.”
“It’s not quite all of us, though, is it?” Bean’s voice bursts out of her in a tremor. “What about Effie?”
There’s a long, charged silence around the table. In the mirror, I can see that Gus has winced and put his hand to his brow. Romilly has turned to look at Bean in astonishment. Joe has frozen, his hand clenched rigidly around his glass, his dark gaze unreadable. Krista is smiling glacially as though no one has uttered a word. I can see Lacey’s eyes swiveling about the motionless scene as though in gleeful fascination.
I swallow several times, feeling hot all over, suddenly claustrophobic in my tiny hidden space.
“Effie,” says Dad at last, his voice light but strained. “Effie made her choice about tonight. And we must…respect that.” He draws breath and seems about to continue, but then another voice comes booming forth, breaking the tension:
“Greetings, all! Sorry I’m so late!”
It’s Humph, striding through the dining room. Great. My entire being recoils. All I need to make this evening even more super-fun is another ex-boyfriend appearing on the scene. Especially one with eyebrows like caterpillars and a laugh like—