As he sailed out the back door, he noticed that the bird feeder was empty. It was hung on clothesline rope from a large oak limb over the brick-walled service area where the five cars were parked. The birds didn't really need seed in the spring and summer, but Mrs. Hay liked to see them constantly flying in for a feed, so he was careful to make sure it was well stocked in all seasons.
Anthony chose the Bentley for the drive into the city. At exactly ten-oh-five he drove out of the service entrance of Casa Capricorn and into the drive next to it. He circled the row of magnificent Kousa dogwoods, the late-blooming kind that stayed in flower all the way into July, and stopped by the brick mansion's front door.
Minutes later, he had Pru and Mrs. Hay settled in the car, and they were headed toward 25A and the Grand Central Parkway Mrs. Hay spoke up from the backseat.
"Anthony, the Denihan wedding." She picked up from where she'd left off yesterday, comparing all the weddings of their large acquaintance.
"Yes, Mrs. Hay." Anthony glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see Pru blowing on her engagement ring, polishing it on her sleeve even though he'd just cleaned it for her again this morning. Three carats, classic Tiffany solitaire. He kept telling her not to take it off and leave it on every sink everywhere she washed her hands. He knew she couldn't live on her own without him to care for her. She didn't know how to do a thing.
"Louis did the Denihan wedding, of course. What did you think of it?"
He was expected to answer even though they'd been over the Denihan wedding numerous times before. "Very pretty, but half the guests were overcome," he reminded her.
In fact, St. Thomas had been so glutted with lilies that people had coughed and sneezed throughout. Not only that, Mary Denihan had not allowed a single arrangement to be moved from the church to the reception, so that Louis had to repeat the fragrance debacle at the Pierre, where people sneezed all through dinner as well. The famous florist-to-the-stars had ended up acquiring every single Casablanca lily in the city for the event. That was the kind of thing Louis's clients liked him to do. Anthony would not mention it, however, for it would only fuel the competitive fires in Lucinda Hay's ever-spreading bosom. Lucinda Hay wanted Pru married well, and she wanted an over-the-top wedding. She was getting both.
"I'm glad we didn't do lilies, aren't you, Pru?" Mrs. Hay said loftily.
"I've always hated lilies, makes me think of funerals," Pru replied, just a touch sulky. She'd always had a crush on Teddy Denihan, a far more dashing boy than lackluster Thomas Fenton.
"But you
liked
the Angels' wedding, Anthony?"
"The violets were lovely." All two thousand bunches of them, all flown in from Africa. No more need be said.
"Yes, we thought so, too," Mrs. Hay said.
Anthony knew a great deal about weddings, funerals, engagement parties, et cetera, because his services were often requested for events requiring strict attention to detail in the moving around, announcing, and making comfortable of important guests. Claire Angel, now Collins, and all her twelve bridesmaids, who'd been dressed like something out of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
with crowns of fresh violets and gowns of tulle layered over lace over an array of sorbet-colored satins, had not stopped with the four-letter words and the inelegant cursing from the moment she'd gotten engaged. Her verbiage had been a scandal.
Anthony couldn't imagine how the young gentleman could put up with her prewedding, much less the rest of his blinking life. Bad behavior in a bride was unconscionable, Anthony thought. Still, the flowers had been delightful. Louis had found wild-flowers out of season, and the guests had raved.
He glanced at Pru in the mirror. She'd turned out a beauty, after all, but was now chewing savagely on the side of her thumb. Recently she'd started mangling her cuticles so badly that the skin was ripped to shreds and her fingers bled. He knew she was nervous as a cat about getting hitched forever to boring Thomas. He caught her eye and she looked quickly away.
"I don't know what's the matter with Wendy. I've called her a dozen times this morning and she just isn't picking up/' she said irritably.
"Don't worry. We'll see her at the fitting." Mrs. Hay had a certain tone for talking to her daughter. A combination of soothing and wheedling that always set Pru off.
"I have concerns. I want to talk to her now!"
Pru had to be managed. Lucinda managed her.
"Now, Pru, you know we'll get through this. Right here is fine, Anthony," she told him, as if he didn't know where to stop for Tang Ling's.
Anthony did not park in front of the Tang Ling store to wait for the Hay women to emerge. Instead, he drove the Bentley down Park Avenue and around to the St. Regis Hotel. As soon as he slowed to a stop, the doorman leaned in the car's open passenger window.
"Oh, Anthony, there you are. Ready for the big day?"
"Hello, George. We're working on it." Anthony knew some of the staff at the St. Regis because Mr. Hay and Terence drank at the bar there. Over the years he'd sat in this position chatting with this and other doormen for many happy hours. "You're not going to have any problem with the cars on Saturday now, are you?" he asked.
"None at all." George was an old-timer on the post. He gave the driver a knowing smile. "Are they taking rooms here or dressing at the apartment?"
"The apartment, but we'll leave the car here during the ceremony. They'll need me there, of course. As soon as they exchange vows, I'll run up to get it. Should be about noon, maybe twelve-thirty. You mind if I leave it here now for a few?"
"No problem." George was never unhappy with the maroon Bentley at his curb.
Anthony closed the window, dropped his gloves and chauffeur's hat on the front seat. Then he got out, sniffing disdainfully at the bloomed-out spring flowers in the window boxes. He'd have to have a word with Mrs. Hay about it.
"How long will you be, then?" George asked.
Anthony checked his watch. It was eleven-nineteen. "Ten, maybe twelve minutes."
"Good-oh."
Anthony patted the car as if parting from an old friend. He walked briskly to Fifth Avenue and down the few blocks to St. Patrick's Cathedral. There, he skipped up the steps to the side door on Fifty-first Street. The door was locked, and he wondered if security had been beefed up since the attack on the cardinal during a Mass a few months ago.
"The front entrance is open," a thin priest standing nearby chatting with an old lady called out, and waved him toward Fifth.
"Thank you, Father." Anthony about-faced and marched down the block, frowning at the hordes of office workers gathered on the front steps. The sun always brought people out of the buildings all around. They came to the cathedral for special occasions and also just to have their lunch on the warm steps in an open space. Tourists were also out in droves. Anthony clicked his tongue at the sound of so many foreign languages. The crowd boded ill for Saturday. This was what happened when a choice was made for the wrong reasons.
He ducked inside the huge doors and let himself enjoy for a few seconds the lovely coolness of stone and the comfort of flickering candles. Then he was overcome again with irritation at the tourists. On Saturday there would be no abatement of them. What if they wandered in and out during the Mass, during the exchange of vows? And here the wedding party of two hundred would look small and insignificant.
If it had been Anthony's wedding, he would have chosen a smaller church where the guests could feel comfortable, not ogled at, and where it was totally private and safe. But the Hays wanted to make a splash, have the best of everything. The best groom. Idiots. He shook his head at the great size of the place, at the women answering questions at the information tables up front, at the TV monitors mounted on the pillars for congregants in the back pews. Anything could happen in a place like this. He shivered and lit a candle, saying a quick prayer for his own salvation.