Obviously I was overreacting to the situation, but damn! My antennae were usually better than this. How could I be so mistaken? Perhaps it was wishful thinking. In the five months since breaking up with Jeffrey, I hadn't really met anyone else interesting. Not that I had much time for meeting people, between wedding arrangements and the extra time I'd been spending at the forge to build up enough inventory so I could take the summer off. The few dates I'd had were with men pushed at me by matchmaking friends, and most of them had been awful. I had pretty much resigned myself to putting my own social life on hold until this summer's weddings were out of the way. Obviously my hormones were objecting to this idea by reacting violently to the first attractive male in sight, without stopping to consider whether he was a suitable target. Or was it possible that Mother could, for once, be wrong?
That hope was dashed rather thoroughly when the Brewsters joined our family for a welcome-home-Meg dinner.
"Imagine," I heard Mother say to Mrs. Brewster, "when Meg went in today to be measured, she found Eileen had not ordered her dresses after all. And she told Meg she had done it months ago."
"I should have demanded an affidavit." I shrugged. "Well, we're behind the eight ball, but I'm going to drag her down to Be-Stitched the minute she gets here and force her to make a decision."
"So, you've been down to Be-Stitched already," Samantha said. "What did you think of Michael What-a-Waste?"
"Samantha, really," her mother said, but by her tone I could tell she was rather proud of her daughter's wit.
"What-a-Waste?" Mr. Brewster said, as if he had no idea what she was implying.
"Or the last of the Waterstons, if you like," Samantha said. "I mean, you did notice that he's not exactly much of an addition to the town's list of eligible bachelors."
"He seems very nice," I said, noncommittally. I didn't want to get into an argument with Samantha, but didn't see how I could avoid it if she kept on this way. I glanced at Mother. Surely this violated her ironclad rule against discussing sex, politics, or religion at the table? Surely these days one should add genteel bigotry to the list of forbidden topics?
"I do so like what you've done with your hair," Mother remarked to Mrs. Brewster.
"Oh, he's positively charming," Samantha said, relentlessly, "at least if you happen to be a fag hag."
"That's a perfectly hateful thing to say," I began, and then jumped as Mother kicked me under the table.
"Now, Meg," Mother said. As if I were the one at fault.
"He's a very charming conversationalist," Mrs. Brewster said. "Very chivalrous."
"Well, that's a dead giveaway, isn't it," Samantha said. "I mean, how many straight men do you know who have decent manners and can talk about anything other than football and beer?"
Your fiance and your future father-in-law, for starters, I felt like saying, but Mother was glaring daggers at me, so I counted to three and then said, as calmly as I could, "You all seem to know rather a lot about the private life of someone who's only been here, what, a couple of weeks?"
"Well, it's a proven fact. I mean, several of the bridesmaids who were in being measured have tried to get him interested. I mean, honestly, if they're running around half-naked and practically flinging themselves in his lap and the guy doesn't show a spark of interest, what do you think that means?"
"He has excessively good taste?" I suggested. "Or--" Mother tapped me again with her foot. Samantha gave me a withering look.
"Oh, sure," she said. "He flat-out told them not to bother 'cause he wasn't interested. Besides, he hangs out with those two old aunties who run the antique store and the decorating shop."
"Now, now, Samantha. That's enough. Little pitchers have big ears," Mother chided, indicating eight-year-old Eric. Eric was too busy stuffing his pockets with tidbits to feed his pet duck to pay any attention to our boring grown-up conversation. "I think it's very sweet of them to make Michael feel more at home."
"And so convenient that they've convinced Michael and his mother to do curtains and slipcovers and such," Mrs. Brewster said. "They've had an awful time finding local help who meet their standards."
"Yes," Mother said. "I'm not sure I'd have dared to go ahead with redecorating the living room without Michael's help. Not the deviled eggs, Eric."
"But Duck likes deviled eggs!" Eric protested.
"You may take a deviled egg to Duck, then," Mother conceded. "But don't put it in your pocket."
Eric took this as permission to leave the table and trotted out to the backyard with the deviled egg.