A program,” Tony said, running a thumb along his jaw. “There is a full-color, printed program for Ogilvie’s Fourth of July Jubilee.”
He was holding it at arm’s distance, squinting to read down columns printed in blue and red on white. “Fifty people have been working on this for six months,” he informed Angie and Rivera, the unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth jiggling. “Starts at eight with a five-K run/walk that snakes all over town and campus, ends up—oh, this is good—at the Kiwanis Pancake Breakfast. They’ve got a tent in the park. I could use some pancakes, should we start there?” Without waiting for an answer he flipped the page and kept reading. “Sack races, tug-of-war, water-balloon toss, logrolling on the river, a band concert, a gospel choir, an orator’s corner, a softball game, oh, a chili cook-off and”—he glanced at his watch—“there’s a pig roast. The barbecue pits have been going for two hours already.”
“We get the idea,” Rivera said. She handed Angie a camera lens.
“But wait, I haven’t got to the best part,” Tony said. “A parade before the auction. And you’re in it.”
Angie looked up from the open camera bags. “Come again?”
“Everybody with a basket for the supper auction walks in the parade. To show off the goods first, I guess, before the bidding starts.” He grinned at them. “I’m almost sorry I don’t have a basket myself.”
“Work first,” Angie said. She meant to sound firm, but found that she had lost that knack. Which went along quite nicely with the fact that the bones in her legs, once very reliable, were now partially jelly; John’s doing. With a jerk of the head she went back to counting film canisters and battery packs.
Both Rivera and Tony would be taping, Rivera staying close by Miss Zula and Miss Maddie, Tony roaming. They had started the day with the usual argument about who got which digital video camera. Angie herself was loaded down with two still cameras, one digital, one 35mm, a small voice recorder, multiple notebooks, a phone, a beeper, and a walkie-talkie that would put her in touch with Rivera or Tony if she needed them.
The idea of a day running around in the July heat should have had her dragging with exhaustion, but in spite of the fact that she had had very little sleep—or maybe because of that—she flushed with adrenaline, fired up, ready to go. Work could do that for her when it was going well; good sex had the same effect. No wonder she was flying.
Rivera poked her in the ribs. “Wake up, Mary Poppins, we’ve got company.”
Markus Holmes was standing at the screen door, looking eager and embarrassed all at once.
Tony said, “I told Markus we could pay him for helping out with the gear, and if that works out, we’ve got the assistant position still open, right?”
“Sure,” Angie said. “Good idea.”
Tony put his palm on the crown of her head and wobbled it. Then he leaned in and whispered, “It’s okay to be happy, you know.”
Angie was suddenly very aware of how fortunate she was in her friends. If she asked for opinions she’d get them, unvarnished, but right now they were both studiously looking the other way, which was exactly what she needed. Sooner or later she’d want their thoughts on this situation she’d gotten herself into, but not now. Not today. Today they had to concentrate on work.
Just a few days ago Memorial Park had seemed huge, but at nine o’clock in the morning it was obvious that just about every inch of it would be put to use for this Jubilee. Tents had sprung up like mushrooms, all of them with official-looking banners in bright colors.
“Whole families just about move in for the duration,” Markus told them. “They won’t break camp until the fireworks are done, close to midnight.”
In New Jersey, a day at the park or down the shore meant a blanket, sunscreen, some sandwiches, beer and soda, and money for ice cream. Angie found the scene in front of her hardly credible, a carnival sprung out of the mist,
State Fair
meets
Brigadoon
. She was actually relieved to see a half dozen small enclaves of teenagers who were making it their business to stand out. Markus talked to many of them in passing, including one group of Goths who must certainly die of heat prostration before the day was out.
Angie caught sight of a kid at least six and a half feet tall with Day-Glo yellow hair; Alice Cooper eye makeup; studs in his nose, lip, ears, and eyebrows; and a black T-shirt with stark white lettering: I’m the Shit That Happens.
Markus took his job seriously, pointing out details that were often funny, whether he meant them to be or not. “The Parkhams have had that spot for fifty years or more,” he said. “Same with the Ogilvies, over there, and the Roses and the Walkers. Over there by the band shell, that’s Deacon Beasley and his whole clan. The Assembly of God families all set up closer to the river and Four Square Gospel way over there. The Four Square ladies and the Assembly of God ladies don’t see eye to eye. There was a falling-out over tomato chutney back in the seventies, and they haven’t got along since.”
A man in an Uncle Sam costume walked by on stilts, his cotton beard fluttering in the breeze. A line of children ran along behind him like the tail on a kite. There were strolling vendors selling balloons and lemonade and miniature flags.
“Wait,” Tony said. “Is that a couch?”
Markus grinned. “Folks are going to be here all day, they want it comfortable.” That seemed an understatement to Angie, looking over a sea of sun umbrellas. One family had set up what looked like the pavilion of an Arabian prince under a striped awning.
“The Lawsons,” said Markus. “That’s Weezie Lawson there, I expect you’ve met her.”
“Vice president of the Junior League,” Rivera said.
“At the very least,” said Markus. “What the Ogilvies don’t own, the Lawsons do. You saw Weezie’s oldest boy, Chris, back there.” He jerked his chin back in the direction of the teenagers.
Tony laughed. “ ‘I’m the Shit That Happens’ is a Lawson. I like it.”
Markus led them toward an open area under a canopy of live oaks. Louie came shooting out from under a table, his whole rear end wagging frantically, to launch himself at Markus. The boy caught him neatly and tucked the dog under his arm like a rolled newspaper.
“We set up for you right next to the Braggs. I hope that’s okay.”
“Perfect,” Angie said, and put her bag on a picnic table topped with a huge sun umbrella and spread with a bright yellow-and-pink tablecloth. There was a pitcher of lemonade and one of sweet tea, a number of covered dishes, and a tub of ice. There were also four reclining lawn chairs with pillows, a paper fan sitting on each of them. “You didn’t have to do all this,” Angie said.
“But we’re glad you did,” Rivera added, scooping ice into her hand and holding the cubes to her neck. “We need a home base. We’re not paying him enough, Angie.”
“You’re not paying me anything at all,” Markus said.
“See?” said Rivera.
Markus looked uncomfortable at the mention of money. “It was all Miss Zula and Miss Maddie who arranged all this,” he said. “You know Miss Maddie has been on the Jubilee committee for forty years? Folks will tell you it was the preachers from all the different churches who were behind the push to integrate the Jubilee—this was back in the sixties—but it was Miss Maddie pushing the preachers.”
Tony looked up from his viewfinder. “Where are the Braggs, anyway?”
“Over at the Kiwanis tent,” said Markus. “I’m supposed to take you over there.”
“Right,” said Tony. “Lead on to the pancakes.”
By ten o’clock Angie needed a break, so she headed back to their base under the oaks, where she found Miss Zula and Miss Maddie sitting comfortably in the shade, surrounded by some fifty of their closest relatives. Angie had never seen the three nephews in anything but suits, but today they were wearing Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts and baseball caps. There was a sleeping toddler sprawled across Dr. Bragg’s lap—which one of the dozens of younger Braggs, Angie could not say—and a hound of some kind sitting at his feet, panting madly. She shot a half dozen frames before the doctor realized she was there, and then went to the table where Rivera was pouring her a tumbler of sweet tea.
Rivera squinted up at Angie and inclined her head toward the old women, who were admiring a baby with a great ruffle of chins and dimpled knees.
“It’s like a court session,” Rivera told Angie. “Everybody comes to pay their respects. Half the board of regents has been by already, and every preacher from every church.”
Angie took a long swallow, closed her eyes in appreciation, and took another. Her tank top was already soaked through with perspiration; her hair, bundled up under her sun visor, was just as wet at the scalp.
“You getting anything?”
Angie said, “Lots of good sound bites, seven interviews set up for next week, twice that many invitations to supper, and a couple dozen questions about the contents of my picnic basket.”
There were other numbers she could have recited for Rivera, but kept to herself. She had seen John five times, four times from a good distance away; once when Connie and Pearl had called her over to give her a glass of lemonade so cold it made her teeth ache. In that one meeting he had met her gaze three times. She had managed to keep her voice even and steady, and hoped that the flush that crawled up over her neck would be attributed to the heat, by the Rose girls, at least.
All morning she had been stalking him with her camera, though she did her best not to make it obvious. She caught him as he came over the finish line, at the pancake breakfast, in conversation with children and his brother and a dozen other people, leaning down to hand Miss Junie a plate, throwing a ball, laughing. At one point she went to the top of the slide in the playground with her camera, taking an occasional shot of the ring of disgruntled kids’ faces below her, but mostly looking for John.
She was acting like a horny sixteen-year-old, but couldn’t stop herself from shooting a few pictures of him stretched out on a lawn chair in a row set up, it seemed, specifically for the Rose sons-in-law, minus Tab, who had had bypass surgery two days earlier.
“Where to now?” Rivera asked.
“Some church ladies are judging jams and preserves in the food tent, and then there’s the tug-o’-war.” Angie took an ice cube and rubbed it on her throat. “Apparently the Lawsons and the Ogilvies will be going head to head. Any sign of Tony?”
Rivera shrugged. “I’d check down by the river. He’s staying away from Harriet, at least.” Her gaze flicked to Angie’s right. “Heads up,” she said. “Patty-Cake.”
Angie took a deep breath and pasted on a smile before she turned. Patty-Cake was leaning over Miss Maddie, teeth flashing, eyes rounded.
“Cue the
Jaws
music,” Rivera said, and started filming.
“Miss Zula,” Patty-Cake was saying, “maybe you can tell me what our Caroline was thinking, running off right before her wedding.” She crossed her hands on her chest. “Makes no sense to me, no matter what angle I look at it.”
“Is that so?” Under the broad brim of a straw hat Miss Zula’s eyes seemed especially dark and very large. “Best you leave such complicated problems to the folks who aren’t so easily confused.” There was nothing even remotely friendly about her smile, something that seemed, finally, to register with Patty-Cake. She bit her lip and looked to Miss Maddie for help, but got only a vaguely polite, distant look from that normally friendly face.
“Um,” Patty-Cake said. “Well, all righty, then.” She half turned, caught sight of Angie, and her expression shifted again, from embarrassment to annoyance.
“Busy today, I see.” Her mouth twitched convulsively.
“Yeah,” Angie said. “It’s a good opportunity.”
With a sticky-sweet smile Patty-Cake said, “You take care now, things can get a little rough around here once the games start.”
“Is that so?” Angie could feel Rivera hovering nearby, and hear the low hum of the camera. She counted to three and found that she couldn’t keep quiet. “And here I thought you were already playing.”
Before she turned away she caught Miss Maddie’s expression, bright and amused and not at all displeased, and Miss Zula’s more thoughtful one.
Angie saw Harriet Darling for the first time that morning in the food tent. There was a red ribbon attached to the placard on the table that introduced Mrs. Harriet Rose Darling’s brandy peaches.