ball.
One woman was seated on a straight-back Chippendale chair that had been moved across the carpet solely for the purpose of holding her body as she held sway over the situation. In other words, it would take no more than two seconds to play and win the game of “who’s the boss?” if anyone were to ask.
The woman was a deceptive seventy; the sort that looks fifty, laughs like forty and can’t believe she isn’t still thirty. A tiny woman, no more than three inches over five feet, she probably didn’t outweigh the chair she sat on as if it were a throne. Her perfectly coiffed light brown hair was piled high on her head above a long neck and a chin that was only slightly soft—three face-lifts, one eye job and a forehead lift just last year.
The manicured fingers of her right hand clasped a crystal sherry glass, half full. Her day dress was a soft blue silk paisley and she wore her skirt to the knee, because her legs were still slim, without a single telltale vein showing beneath her nude panty hose.
This woman, the clear matriarch of the Chandler family, spent a half hour each day with her legs inelegantly raised above her head in a yoga position in order to “reverse the damages of blood flow and gravity.” That, however, was a family secret revealed only to her two granddaughters, who had caught her in this ignoble position and threatened to tell their grandfather on her.
But enough of Almira Chandler, and on to the other two women.
The second, Mrs. Ballantine—and always Mrs. Ballantine, even after twelve years as the Chandler housekeeper—stood to one side of the trio, a part of the scene, but really not a part of the small group.
Nearly six feet tall, all of it straight as a poker, and with an air of command about her that would have made her the terror of the second grade if she hadn’t decided the classroom wasn’t for her, Mrs. Ballantine wore bright red lipstick, and was secretly proud of her coal-black hair. She had the pale complexion of a person who hadn’t been out in the sun since the Eisenhower administration.
At the moment, the formidable Mrs. Ballantine had a mouthful of straight pins.
And now to the last occupant of the room. This could only be Ms. Madeline Chandler, whose rooms these were, and who stood uncomfortably in front of the mirror, inspecting her reflection as the other two women watched.
The wedding gown she wore was nothing short of spectacular. It had rich, luxurious peau de soie. It had costly Alencon lace. It had cleverly positioned ribbons and silk flowers worked into the full, dropped-waist skirt, tucked into small “pockets” of material in the huge, off-the-shoulder “poof” sleeves. It had a long, flowing train both the flower girl and ring bearer could picnic on as the bride walked down the aisle.
Right now, the gown also had her, and Madeline Chandler was feeling rather trapped and smothered inside all of this beauty, inside all that it meant.
She thought about this for a moment, thought that her feelings were somehow wrong, and then worried that, for as trapped and smothered as she felt, she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Couldn’t really even care all that much about it.
And she should. Shouldn’t she?
“You look like a fairy princess. Except for the frown. Surely you aren’t practicing to be the Wicked Witch of the West. I mean, remember, Maddy, dear, she wore black. Not white. More like Mrs. Ballantine.” Almira Chandler, known as Allie to her grandchildren, looked to the housekeeper, shivered. “Yes, much more like our own dear Mrs. Ballantine, who is looking remarkably like a porcupine at the moment.”
“It’s not white, Allie. It’s ivory. With a hint of blush. Very ‘in’ this year, and all of that,” Maddy explained. She looked into the full-length mirror again, drawing in her breath on a deep sigh that lifted her shoulders, then let both her mouth and her shoulders sag on the exhale. “I don’t know, Allie,” she said, shaking her head. “What do you think? Is this really me?”
“Is it you standing there, or is the gown really you? Clarify, Maddy darling. Always clarify. Mrs. Ballantine? More sherry, if you please? Being an observer seems to be thirsty work.”
As Mrs. Ballantine plucked the glass from Almira’s hand and walked toward a table bearing several crystal decanters, Maddy plucked at the skirt of the gown that had cost as much as her grandmother’s first house, forty-five years earlier.
“The gown, I suppose,” Maddy corrected. “I mean, I like it. Really. But do I really need three petticoats? I look like a mushroom. I wish I was taller, like Jessie. And less round. Maybe once the alterations are complete…”
“And you have the headpiece on, and your makeup, and your hair out of that rather inappropriate ponytail, and Matthew is on your arm…”
Maddy inspected her reflection—the heavy, blue-black hair pulled back from her full, yet slightly sharp-chinned face, the huge green eyes that looked so shadowed, so sad—not bridelike at all.
She bit her lips between her teeth, trying to bring some color into them, tipped her head to one side as she gripped both sides of her rather surprising twenty-three-inch waist. The gown really was beautiful. She wasn’t so bad herself, except for that frown line between her eyes. She smiled, knowing it looked more like a grimace.
“Yes,” she said at last, turning in a half circle, to look at the back of the gown as it was reflected in the mirror. “That’s probably it. I’m missing the accessories.”
“How wonderful. I’ll be sure to tell Matthew,” Almira said, winking at the unsmiling Mrs. Ballantine. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have been reduced to a bridal accessory. Not that he isn’t, of course. Other than to answer the minister at the correct times, he’s nothing more than a convenient prop to hang the bride on the whole day. Poor boy.”
Mrs. Ballantine stepped forward, and motioned for Maddy to step up onto the stool she had earlier placed on the carpet. “Hemmm, hemm,” she mumbled, still making small shooing motions to Maddy.
Almira chuckled. “What was that, Mrs. Ballantine? Him? Them? Oh, oh. Hem. You want to pin the hem? Goodness, woman, why didn’t you just say so? You could have hurt yourself, you know.”
The pins were removed from the wide red mouth. “Ha,” Mrs. Ballantine barked out, showing her lack of amusement. Then she knelt on the carpet, put the pins back between her lips once more and got to work.
“I think Mrs. Ballantine is just so sweet, insisting on doing the alterations herself, not trusting the bridal salon to do them properly. Don’t you, dear?”
Maddy turned to answer her grandmother, which earned her a sharp tug on the skirt of her gown, which nearly toppled her off the stool. “Sorry, Mrs. Ballantine. I shouldn’t move, should I? And I am very grateful for all your help. We all are.”
The pins transferred from mouth to hem, Mrs. Ballantine crowed, “Fall apart without me, the whole bunch of you,” even as Almira now exchanged winks with Maddy’s reflection in the mirror. “Told the old man I’d watch over you, and watch over you I will, even if it kills me outright.” She glared at Almira for a moment, then added, “And it just might,” then stuck more pins between her lips.
“You know, Mrs. Ballantine,” Almira said, pausing to take another sip of sherry, “with all the long, fairly involved conversations my late husband and I had during his last illness five years ago, I truthfully cannot remember him mentioning your name a single time. How odd that he didn’t bother to tell me that he’d appointed
