“Your aunt Karen too,” she says, ignoring me. “All set. No one needs rides; they’re driving in from Houston.”
I was definitely not going to offer a ride to the family members I haven’t spoken to in years.
“Did you talk to the florist about the flowers?” Mom asks.
“Yep.”
“She’s going to do centerpieces with pink roses?”
“She sure is.” I head to the stairs. “I should make myself scarce for this, right?”
“Goodness no! I told them you’d be joining us. Don’t embarrass me.”
“Way too late for that, wouldn’t you say?”
“I meant don’t embarrass me by going to hide in your room when I said you’d be joining us.”
“All right. It’s your funeral.”
“I’ve never understood that saying and I’d prefer that you not explain it to me.”
The doorbell rings. Mom fluffs her hair one more time and waves for me to answer it.
I walk over to the front door and pull it open.
I can see immediately that tea means wine.
Four ladies stand on the front porch, each armed with a bottle of wine. Two white, two red.
I try very hard not to imagine murdering them by grabbing a bottle and smashing it across their skulls, but it’s difficult when they bring their own murder weapon.
I smile instead and invite them in.
Three of them I know—Marian, a pleasant woman with （fake） bright red hair and a smile that freezes in place every time our eyes meet; Betsy, who has a helmet of curly gray hair and tells me exactly how many calories are in the brownies she brought （285 per square—“these are not diet brownies!”）; and Peggy, a very short woman who follows me into the kitchen, tells me which wineglasses to pull from the cabinet, and then washes them even though they look perfectly clean to me.
Janet’s new. She’d moved to town five years ago, so we never had the pleasure of meeting. She looks nervous as she shakes my hand. I can’t blame her.
Marian does actually make tea—very good tea—but it’s obvious that the wine is the main attraction here. She gives us all a mug, and then Peggy hands out the wine in the now extra-clean glasses.
I take a glass of wine when it’s offered to me but take only tiny sips, because I’m a lightweight. I don’t need to get day drunk with these ladies.
Mom is on the couch with her broken leg stretched out in front of her, and Peggy settles down on the other end. Janet and Betsy take the love seat, and I sit in a chair from the kitchen table with Marian.
Peggy frowns as she sips her wine. “I can’t remember—is Lucy short for Lucille?”
I shake my head.
“It’s just Lucy, then?”
“Yes.”
Peggy raises her eyebrows like she disagrees with my parents’ naming choices. I glance at Mom, but she’s smiling pleasantly. I grab a 285-calorie brownie from the coffee table and take a bite. It’s a damn good brownie.
“These are amazing,” I say. Betsy beams.
Marian looks at Mom. “How are plans for the birthday party going?”
Mom sighs dramatically. “Oh, it’s fine, I guess. Mom’s no help, though. She just keeps asking what kind of cocktails we’ll be having.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Janet says, and drains her wine. Betsy refills it for her.
“It’s been quite an ordeal calling everyone in the family and getting them here on such short notice,” Mom continues. “I’m wondering if this whole shindig was a bad idea.”
“Of course it wasn’t!” Janet says. “It will be lovely to have your whole family in one place again.”
“You’re helping your mom, aren’t you?” Peggy asks me accusingly.
“Lucy’s been very helpful,” Mom says quickly. “But she couldn’t help with the calls. Some of my family would be very startled if Lucy called them up suddenly.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say dryly.
Janet looks horrified. Betsy shifts, clearly uncomfortable. Peggy appears delighted.
“Oh stop.” Mom takes a long sip of her wine. “We’re all thinking it, so we might as well say it.”
“Why not?” I grab another brownie.
“Those are two hundred and eighty-five calories,” Betsy says.
“I know.”
“I just thought you might have forgotten.”
I take a bite. “I didn’t.”
“Are you one of those women who can eat anything they want and not gain weight?” Marian asks. She looks extremely offended by this. More offended than when my mom not-so-subtly brought up my being a suspected murderer.