"You promised," I said, fixing Dad with a stern glare.
"I suppose it's all right for someone else to be poisoned instead of me," Dad said, indignantly. "I suppose I should have let Pugh eat some of it and waited to see if he keeled over."
From the way the rector was eyeing the ham croquettes, I expected he was about to volunteer to put his life on the line again for the good of the party.
"I suppose that's why Mrs. Brewster asked us to guard the food," he said, brightly.
"Guard, not devour," I said. The two nibblers made a quick retreat. I concentrated on figuring out which neighbor would either have some shrimp around or be able to get some in time to replace what they'd eaten before Mrs. Brewster noticed.
I shouldn't have bothered. With the exception of a few dozen oldsters like Dad and the Pughs, who left early, most of the crowd wasn't seriously interested in food. In fact, most of Samantha's friends focused on getting drunk as rapidly as possible and crawling off somewhere private with the most presentable person of the opposite sex they could get their hands on. Not only did I have to dodge the ever-present Scotty, but apparently not all of Samantha's male friends went for the bleached blond anorexic type. By the time the third keg was being opened, I dodged a particularly persistent (and intoxicated) suitor by literally crawling out a bathroom window.
As I turned up the driveway toward home, I heard a shout.
"Meg! Wait up!" It was Michael. I waited for him to catch up with me.
"I'm surprised," he said. "Not even midnight and you're home from the party. I thought you were supposed to be a night owl."
"Oh, not you, too. Officially I'm still a little under the weather from the poisoning. Unofficially, Samantha's friends can be a real drag. Where's Spike? Lost again?"
"At home, as far as I know. I dropped by on the chance either you or your mother would be here. She said you had found the jacquard and I should come by to pick it up. What is jacquard, and what am I supposed to do with it when I've got it? I presume it's something to do with the shop?"
"Jacquard? Oh, I suppose she means those five bolts of blue fabric you and Dad retrieved from Pam's. I think I shoved them in my closet; hang on and I'll haul them down. Mother must still be out at her cousins'," I added, seeing that the house was dark.
"I can do the hauling if you show me where they are," Michael offered.
"Ordinarily, my stubborn independent nature would compel me to insist on doing it myself. But after a week like this one, I'll even let people open doors for me."
"I gather the other bridesmaids are fully recovered from the shower, then?" Michael asked, as we climbed the stairs.
"Mostly recovered," I said. "Of course, most of them aren't worrying about saving any energy for the second party tomorrow night, Mother's tea on Sunday, and whatever nonsense we're going to have to go through with the fittings tomorrow," I added.
As we walked into my room, Michael and I were both startled to see the closet door fly open. Scotty jumped out, holding half a dozen bedraggled roses and wearing nothing but a tipsy grin.
"Meg, baby," he cried, opening his arms wide. Then he saw Michael. The smile faded slowly, and after a few moments, it occurred to him to use the roses in place of a fig leaf.
"I could leave if you like," Michael said, with one eyebrow raised.
"If you do, I'll kill you," I told him. "Scotty, what on earth are you--never mind, stupid question. Those are from Mother's rose bushes, aren't they?"
"Yes," he said, the smile returning.
"She'll be very upset when she finds out they've been cut," I said. "She was saving them for her wedding."
"Oh." His face fell again, and he clutched the roses nervously, as if he expected me to demand that he hand them over.
"You'd better apologize to her."
"Okay."
"Tomorrow," Michael put in.
"Right," Scotty said.
"I think you should leave now," I said.
Scotty slouched out. Michael watched carefully until the screen door slammed downstairs, then shook his head.Hope those roses don't have thorns," he remarked. I giggled at that.
"It would serve him right if they do. That's the material, those bolts he was standing on. I hope the mud washes out." Michael hoisted the bolts and turned to leave. "Hang on a second and I'll get the doors for you," I told him. "I want to have a vase full of water handy just in case."
"In case he brings back the roses?"
"God, no! I'd throw them back in his ... face. In case he starts singing under my window."
"Does he do that often?" Michael asked, peering over the bolts at me.