Say Yes to the Death Read Online Free

stand.
    When I heard her sigh, I looked at my feet to avoid what I was sure would be a first-­class glare. Pale blue water seemed to ebb and flow beneath my shoes. Though the clear acrylic floor sat at least six inches above the water line, I could still feel water sloshing. Maybe it was all in my head, but it had a most unfortunate result.
    I leaned toward my mother and whispered, “I have to go.”
    â€œGo where?”
    â€œTo the bathroom,” I said. I could feel the Spanx compressing my poor bladder. I suddenly wished I hadn’t drunk half a gallon of green tea with lunch.
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes now.”
    â€œNo.” She grabbed my arm and held me still. Did she think I was purposefully trying to skip out on the ceremony? Or was she afraid I’d get into trouble if I didn’t have proper adult supervision?
    â€œDo you want me to pee in my pants?” I asked and crossed my legs. “You’re free to chaperone if that’d make you happy.”
    For a moment she seemed to consider the option. Then she sighed and let me go. “I don’t want to risk losing our seats,” she said. “Just be quick about it, please.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I told her. Quick was my intention.
    Although I’d attended a few outdoor events in the past with Mother and/or Brian where the hosts had fancy portable potties stationed outdoors (they had sinks for hand washing, which was probably as fancy as portable potties got), I couldn’t imagine Senator Ryan making a former president and his wife duck into plastic water closets to do their business. Yes, I’d seen the pair seated a few rows ahead of my mother. And, nope, I didn’t spot a single Porta Potty anywhere around.
    So I meandered back toward the faux Mediterranean manse, figuring a house that size had to have a bathroom or ten. I made a beeline for a cadre of folks in black vests and bow ties hurriedly setting up for the sit-­down dinner, figuring one of them could point me in the right direction.
    â€œCould you tell me where I’d find a powder room?” I tried to ask one and then another, but they scurried about like ants on a mission. Either they didn’t know where the restrooms were or else they’d been told not to interact with the guests.
    I dared to step inside the open doors leading into the kitchen, which not surprisingly looked like a granite and stainless steel vision from Architectural Digest. Voices shouted instructions, pots and pans clattered, people raced about, and steam rose from various burners on industrial-­grade stoves.
    One voice in particular sent a chill up my spine.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been?” I heard it snap.
    Oh, no , I thought and swallowed hard, stopping in my tracks.
    I would have recognized that derisive drawl anywhere even if it wasn’t yelling, “Andy’s got no boobs! Andy’s a boy!” But I quickly realized the shouts weren’t aimed at me. Instead the angry tone appeared to be directed at a woman in owlish glasses who stood near two young cater-­waiters balancing a board between them that carried a seven—­yes, I counted seven—­layer wedding cake. The way the two guys were wincing, it must have weighed a hundred pounds.
    â€œWhat in God’s name took you so long, Millie? Did you walk all the way here from your shop on Mockingbird with the cake strapped to your back? You’re an hour late!” Olivia La Belle, the bully from my prep school days, berated the baker, who I knew was Millicent Draper of Millie’s Cakes. Mother had used her for all my birthday cakes starting from Year One, and I’d adored her. She’d forever be the Cake Lady to me. Yes, Millie was older and snowcapped—­with a blob of ivory fondant stuck to her tortoiseshell glasses and a terrified expression on her face—­but she still looked much as I remembered.
    Unfortunately, the same could be