And Maurice Chevalier fell into song: “. . . for little girls.”
Opal listened to the song for a minute, a silence which seemed to her almost impolitely protracted. She could go no longer without talking. “Oh, if a man would just once croon to me like he does.”
Mrs. Christiansen said, “We hope in vain, Opal.”
“Are you having a hard time following this picture show?”
“I haven’t been paying attention.”
She called, “Natalie, what’s happening in the picture show?”
Natalie was heading into the kitchen for a soda. “Elle va se marier,” she said.
Mrs. Christiansen translated, “She’s getting married.”
“Oh, so that’s why she’s here!” Opal said.
Mrs. Christiansen glanced up in puzzlement. “Who?”
Opal pointed to the kitchen. “She is. She’s getting married here.”
Mrs. Christiansen said, “I had no idea!”
“Well, looks like I’m one up on you for once.”
Mrs. Christiansen considered the situation. “Why here, do you suppose?” And when Natalie walked back in with a waterglass fizzing with Coca-Cola, Marvyl asked, “Pourquoi êtes-vous venue ici?” (Why did you come here?)
Natalie indifferently said, “Pierre,” and fell back onto the sofa.
Opal hissed discreetly, “She said Pierre chose us.” She placidly held up an ill-fitting puzzle piece and trimmed a third of it with her scissors.
Mrs. Christiansen turned to Natalie. “Have you thought about your shower, dear?”
“Pardon, Madame?”
“Won’t you have it here?”
She began to doubt her freshness. “If you like.”
Opal asked in a hushed tone, “Question her as to when this wedding is supposed to take place.”
Mrs. Christiansen asked, “Was it to be this weekend, Natalie?”
“Excuse me?”
Opal said, “I could have asked in English. I thought you were going to speak French.”
Mrs. Christiansen flapped a hand disdainfully at Opal and continued, “You and Pierre. This weekend?”
Natalie was surprised she knew about their deadline, but uncertainly nodded. “Oui, Madame. Saturday. Noon.”
“Oh, I’m so excited,” Mrs. Christiansen said. “I haven’t known you but a few hours and I already think of you as family.”
Natalie watched in mystery as Mrs. Christiansen went upstairs.
Gigi ended and the videoplayer chirred into Rewind.
With fists squishing her cheeks and her elbows propped on the card table, Opal judged the wrecked puzzle. The left kitten looked like a handsickle now, and its playmate, she was forced to admit, was distinctly ogreish. She skeptically considered Natalie. “You play checkers, missy?”