Page 13 of A Wulver for the Week

I wrap my arm around Minnie’s shoulders, casually close, a fond smile on my lips. “I want the best for her, too. I’ve never been married—but I’d like to be.” I smile at Minnie and hope that she thinks I’m just playing my part.

Aunts back away with approving smiles, exchanging knowing winks. Minnie leans into me and winds her fingers through mine. “Yacht? Like fancy-ass yacht?” she asks, pivoting away from the pointed questions.

“Minnie! Oh my God!” A high-pitched squeal from the deck reveals a miniature Minnie with a sleek black bob and a blonde toothpaste commercial model in hand.

“Gerri!”

The gangplank drops to the little wooden pier, and someone on the boat lets loose a spray of confetti.

“Well, it’s a party now,” Minerva’s mother beams, giving me another long once-over. “Craig, you sit next to me.”

“Of course, Mom,” I say, abandoning Minerva to hug this woman, this woman I have to love because she made Minerva. “It’s bright out here, isn’t it? We’ve been having a bit of a gray winter in the mountains.” I reach into my traveling satchel and pull out my red and blue Braves cap. It crushes my ears a bit, but I don’t mind.

Minerva’s dad is beaming. “I like this one,” he says, loud enough for me to overhear.

THIS IS ACTUALLY WORKING!

Craig is happily standing with my Dad, uncles, cousins, and most of Barry’s male relatives at the bar. I’m relieved to see that Barry’s ultra-rich family looks pretty much like mine (except we’re mostly shades of brown, and they’re mostly shades of suntan and marshmallow). Men over sixty are in their tropical shirts with guts hanging above or below belts, caps, and big clunky rings on fingers that are starting to gnarl. The dads and uncles under sixty are in their preppy wear or jerseys. The young guys all look like they’re auditioning for a hotel commercial, carefully braided or gelled hair, wrinkly linen shirts, and Bermuda shorts. Craig blends right in, talking, drinking, pointing to the screens over the bar in the Reflections Cocktail Lounge.

Craig is competent. I can leave him alone. Don’t have to watch him every second—I think.

Me, on the other hand?

“Girl, that bearded wonder is yours? Mmm hmm! Want to get me a mountain man like that!” Aunt Virginia hangs on my arm.

“I can’t stand a beard on a man. Unhygienic.” Aunt May Ellen clucks her tongue, her face telling me beards on men are as welcome as a Southern Baptist guest preacher who pours unsweetened iced tea in the baptismal dunking pool.

“He can shave, Mama,” one of my cousins tries to shift Aunt May Ellen’s expression.

I pipe up, “I like his beard.”

“His hair is awful long,” Aunt Belinda murmurs, narrowing her eyes.

“I like that, too,” I say, voice hotter than I intended. “It’s long, but it’s lustrous. Thick and full and shiny.”

“Someone’s got it bad,” Gerri leans on my arm, her petite little figure wrapping around me like she’s six and I’m sixteen again. “Next year, we’ll be together again for Minnie’s wedding.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Mama says loudly, and my aunts, Barry’s aunts and grandmothers, and basically everyone in the “ladies’ cluster” hurries to get more mai tais and daiquiris.

“Okay, all the luggage has been delivered to your rooms! We’re going to shift from the lounge to the terrace. Dinner in forty-five minutes!” A suntanned man with a luxurious head of silvery white hair stands on the steps that lead to the sunken cocktail lounge, leaning on the gold rail in his crisp white shirt and navy shorts. “I’m sure everyone would like to freshen up. You can pick up your room keys at the desk in the lobby.” He claps his hands, and people scurry.

“Who’s that?” I whisper to Gerri.

“Barry’s grandpa, Barty. He’s a sweetie.”

“He looks like a tycoon on vacation.”

“He kind of is. He’s paying for everything and keeping people on a schedule, but I don’t care. All I care about is being Barry’s wife by the time this week is over.”

Craig sidles up to me. “Darling? Ready to go to our rooms?” he asks.

“Sounds good. I hope everything was delivered, like Grandpa Barty said.” I give Gerri a hug and peel myself away, clinging to Craig’s side—and trying not to sigh like a lovestruck teenager. He just feels so good.

“Oh, don’t worry. Everything will be exactly where Grandpa Barty said, or someone will be out picking individual grains of sand out of the ornamental grass by the terrace,” Gerri laughs. “All your bags will be in your room, I know it. We’ve been here two days already, and everything has gone smoothly.”

Craig and I nod and meander away, caught in a tide of relatives.

“Craig Macpherson,” Craig greets the smiling woman at the lobby desk with his name.

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