The Hen of the Baskervilles(17)

I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to prove or disprove this theory, when another, stouter figure sailed into view.

Brett Riordan. Molly’s not quite ex-husband.

“Babe!” he cried, as he approached Genette’s booth. He had a half-full glass of red wine in one hand. He wrapped the other arm around Genette and pulled her into a prolonged kiss. Prolonged, but with curiously little heat—he didn’t seem to be expressing passion so much as marking territory.

For that matter, so did Genette.

I looked away, and glanced around to see how the other denizens of the wine pavilion were reacting. Most of them were also looking away—some of them rather ostentatiously. A few were tittering or rolling their eyes.

Brett and Genette had finished their kiss but were clinging together, giggling and pawing each other. Brett was still handsome in a beefy way, but he’d gained bulk. His jowls were softer now, and his nose and cheeks a lot redder. I didn’t think much of Genette, but she could do a lot better than Brett.

Then again, I’d always been immune to his boozy charm.

“They put on quite a show, don’t they?” Dorcas murmured.

“Are we supposed to believe that they can’t resist each other?” her neighbor added.

I had the feeling that what they couldn’t resist was the opportunity to shove their affair in our faces.

Or had my arrival had something to do with it? Brett was no rocket scientist, but he knew who I was. Was he hoping I’d go back and tell Molly what I’d seen? Not a chance.

A pity I couldn’t tell him that. But he probably knew I’d never been his biggest fan. Molly and I had become better friends in the last several years, when I no longer had to rack my brain for the right thing to say when she burbled about how wonderful Brett was. I’d been a lot more comfortable sympathizing when she complained about his spendthrift ways, his inability to hold or even get a job, and her growing awareness that he was turning from a happy-go-lucky young man with a fondness for restaurants and parties into a loud middle-aged alcoholic loafer.

But “I told you so” isn’t something you can say to friends. I reminded myself that however tempting it would be to criticize Brett to Molly, it wasn’t a wise or kind thing to do. What if they got back together again after I’d told Molly exactly how little I thought of him? Or, more likely, what if slamming him, instead of cheering her up, made her feel like an idiot for marrying him in the first place? No, as long as Molly was around, I’d keep my opinions of Brett to myself.

But Molly wasn’t around. And Mother was.

“Honestly,” I said, rolling my eyes slightly.

Mother shook her head.

“Precisely.” She arched her neck and deliberately turned her back on the two of them. “By the way,” she went on. “I want you and Randall to know right now that next year I’m imposing rules on the decor. Shopping malls do it, and homeowners’ associations, so I don’t see why we can’t.”

“You think the winemakers will stand for that?”

“They’re asking if we can’t impose them this year,” she said. “I don’t think that’s fair, but next year, we will send out lists of acceptable colors and materials, and any exceptions must be approved by me. Or whoever you appoint to be next year’s arts and crafts director.”

“Does this mean you’re volunteering to be Quilts, Pies, and Wine Czarina again next year?” I said. “Awesome.”

“Only if I’m allowed to evict eyesores like that,” she said.

“If you can come up with some enforceable rules, we’ll enforce them.”

Actually, I had no doubt Mother could do it herself.

“Thank you, dear. And you did have that rule against exhibitors interfering with other booths. I was able to use that to shut down the music.”

“I remember you mentioned music,” I said. “I gather we’re not talking anything tasteful and classical?”

“Sounded like someone killing hogs,” the neighbor said.

“People fled the tent when she turned it on,” Dorcas added.

“It made the Rancid Dreads’ music sound melodious,” Mother said. Possibly the first time she’d every used the word “music” to refer to the sounds emitted by our local heavy metal band, so I deduced that Genette’s taste in music must be very strange indeed.

Brett and Genette were still pawing each other, obviously aware of the disapproving stares they were getting. Well, a few disapproving stares, and a lot of disapproving backs of heads. Mother raised one eyebrow and sighed.

“Not a big fan of public displays of affection?” Dorcas asked.