Bon Bon Voyage by Nancy Fairbanks Read Free Book Online Page A

of the colorful liquors being offered. “Adjunct professors at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography.”
    â€œDid you notice how many pictures they took at this party?” Kev demanded. “Over four hundred. Four hundred! Now they’ll develop them in their photo shop, sell them to you at outrageous prices, and pour the developing chemicals overboard.”
    â€œThose chemicals are toxic,” said Bev. “Dangerous pollutants.”
    â€œReally?” Too bad Jason isn’t here, I thought. He’d be interested. In fact, he’d probably know more about the toxicity than she did.
    â€œTake a picture. Kill a fish,” said Kev, looking outraged.
    â€œA whole school of fish,” Bev predicted.
    â€œWell, let’s hope we won’t be eating any of them tonight,” said Vera. “And speaking of eating—”
    â€œA pleasure to meet you,” I said politely to the Crosswayses and let myself be shepherded away by my sour-faced mother-in-law.
    â€œHeads up, Luz,” Vera called over her shoulder to Luz, who had bent over to readjust the bow on her left foot.

8
    At the Doctor’s Table

Luz
    People actually believed that I was a fashion designer from Madrid wearing one of my own outfits. How dumb was that? I got stopped and gushed over by women who probably were wearing designer stuff, so I played along by answering in Spanish while Carolyn squirmed and her mother-in-law had a great time translating my remarks. I found out after the first translation that Vera didn’t know a word of Spanish. She just improvised. For instance, she told some blue-haired snob from Connecticut that high heels were definitely out now that everyone knew heels were the result of a plot by the patriarchy. The woman looked pretty surprised and seemed to think the “patriarchy” had a connection to terrorism.
    The dining room was something else—big framed panels of silver and light purple silk and velvet stuck up on the walls, crystal chandeliers, silver carpet so soft the stuff inched up between my toes and knocked my toe bows cockeyed. I got my feet under the table as fast as I could because I kind of enjoyed playing Spanish designer. The tables seated eight, with velvet armchairs, white tablecloths, candles, china, place cards with our names written in old-fashioned script, and waiters who directed us to our seats.
    We got the doctor’s table. I had a sneaking feeling that wasn’t a plum assignment. The captain’s table had the blue-hairs and their well-fed husbands. I was next to the doctor, and on his other side were a really tall, busty, middle-aged black lady and her large, black husband—Randolph and Harriet Barber. He owned a string of funeral homes. How the hell he got so big is a mystery, because he had a video camera and took pictures of everything and everybody, pretty much ignoring dinner, while his wife talked about the Republican Party and her years at some fancy eastern girl’s university where she was one of the first African-American students.
    Carolyn was squeezed between the black mortician and a bald guy named Greg Marshand, the VP of a cereal company in Iowa. He’d retired to Florida to play golf and wanted to tell her in excruciating detail about every hole he’d played at the Boca Raton Club in the last five years. That was until he found out that she was a food critic. Then he told her more than she ever wanted to know about what kind of corn made the best dry cereal. Jesus Christ! If I’d had to sit next to him, I’d probably have slumped headfirst into my soup, which was pretty good. Pumpkin with flowers floating on it. Carolyn said they were edible, so I ate mine, but they didn’t taste like much.
    The mother-in-law sat next to Mr. Cereal and wouldn’t even talk to him beyond giving him a lecture on some famous golf club that wouldn’t let women join. Between her and me was a short, stocky guy