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  Although I liked Zoey, I wasn’t ready to pour out my heart to her or anything. So I just said, “It is a little strange.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Zoey said simply.

  I said, “Me too,” and mostly meant it. We sat in the sun in comfortable silence for a long time. Then Zoey looked at her watch. “Shoes,” she said.

  “No heels,” I warned her.

  “A sensible decision,” Zoey agreed, cementing my opinion that shopping — with her, anyway — wasn’t so bad after all.

  And maybe the wedding wouldn’t be either.

  We beat Patrick and Sam home. Charlie was lounging on the deck in a hammock, actually reading a book. It was a paperback called Willie’s Time, with a picture of Willie Mays on the cover.

  “I guess the book you brought wasn’t too good,” I said pointedly. “How’s that one?”

  Charlie had the grace to blush. “Pretty good,” he said. “I found it in the study.”

  I noticed that he avoided saying Patrick’s name — or calling him Dad.

  “Charles Einstein is a good writer,” said Zoey. “I like reading baseball history. One of my favorites is The Glory of Their Times. It’s a collection of interviews with some of the early players of the game.”

  To my complete shock, Charlie’s eyes lit up. “A classic,” he said. “That is the coolest book.”

  “I’m going to hang up my dress,” I announced.

  When I returned, Zoey and Charlie were deep in a discussion of books and sportswriters. “And Robert Lipsyte is another great sportswriter,” I heard Charlie declare. “He was one of the first writers to recognize Ali for the boxing star he was.”

  “You’re more than the average sports fan,” Zoey said. “Not many fans can talk about the writing that goes with the games.”

  Charlie made a face. “Hey, the sports announcers are so dim, you have to read, or all you’d know is a lot of meaningless computer-generated stats.”

  I said, without thinking, “That’s right. You and Patrick used to watch baseball games with the sound off and the radio on. And you still do, Charlie.”

  Charlie froze and I could have bitten my tongue. Me and my big mouth.

  Zoey said, “Patrick still does that also. Sometimes I think he would have been happiest as a radio sports announcer.”

  “Can we use the cappuccino machine?” I jumped in.

  “Sure,” said Zoey. “I’ll show you how. Then you can make coffee for Patrick when he and Sam get back. Shopping can be so exhausting.”

  “Well, I’ll shop with you anytime,” I said.

  Zoey gave me her deep-dimpled grin and I could tell she was pleased. “Thanks, Kristy.” She went on, easily, “You know, the fact that you guys are here means a lot to both of us, especially Patrick. He is so pleased and proud.”

  “Then why can’t he tell us that himself?” Charlie asked. He spoke in a low voice and it was clear that he wasn’t trying to be mean or nasty, or even defensive.

  Zoey didn’t try to give him an answer. She only said, “I don’t know, Charlie. He should tell you himself.”

  After that, Charlie and I focused on mastering the cappuccino machine. It wasn’t very hard.

  And then Patrick and Sam came home. They were positively beaming with pride. “We came, we saw, we shopped,” Patrick announced.

  “You wouldn’t believe the tuxedos out here,” said Sam. “They make the ones I’ve seen back home look totally lame.”

  “So what did you pick out?” I asked.

  “We looked in about a million places,” said Sam. “And then we went to The Tuxedo Cat and found the perfect tuxedos for all three of us. The Tuxedo Cat is cool. This actual cat lives in the store, and he’s black with white markings so he looks like he’s wearing a tuxedo. And his name is Tuxedo.”

  Although I had a definitely decent dress, I was suddenly a little envious — until Patrick pulled out a brochure, opened it, and spread it, with a flourish, on the counter. “Ta-da,” he said. “With a few alterations, we’re going to be amazing.”

  Zoey, Charlie, and I stared in stupefaction at the photos of the tuxedos Sam and Patrick had chosen.

  “Amazing,” I echoed in a weak voice.

  They were the ugliest tuxedos in the history of the world. I hadn’t known it was possible for a tuxedo to look so bad. But these did. They were a sort of unnatural yellow-orange that, for one thing, was going to clash with my new dress. Even I could tell that. And ruffled shirts, with matching yellow-orange edging? I don’t think so.

  Charlie didn’t hesitate. He said, “No way I’m putting that on and wearing it in public. It is hands-down ugly.”

  “Hey,” said Patrick. “You had your chance to go shopping with us.”

  “If I’d been shopping with you and I’d seen that, I’d have run screaming out of the store. It could star in a horror movie,” Charlie said.

  I choked back a snicker. He was right.

  “Try not to ruin the fun, okay, Charlie?” said Patrick, his eyes snapping with anger.

  “I’m afraid Charlie is right,” Zoey said calmly. “They are truly, deeply awful. What were you thinking, Patrick?”

  “Hey! These are great tuxes. Kristy, tell them.” Patrick and Sam looked at me expectantly. I could see the laughter in Sam’s eyes and could tell he wasn’t bugged by the criticism. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he’d deliberately egged Patrick on to pick out the ugliest tuxedos in the world.

  I took a deep breath. I let them have the truth. “Ugly,” I pronounced. “With a capital U.”

  “What?” Patrick’s voice almost blew the roof off.

  “Three against two, Patrick. You lose,” Zoey said. “Coffee, anyone?”

  “I like these tuxes and so does Sam. We’re not changing our minds.”

  Zoey said, “You can wear those tuxes if you want. Just not to our wedding.”

  “Our wedding. That’s right. I have a say in this too,” sputtered Patrick.

  “Baby-puke yellow,” I said, suddenly, identifying a color all too familiar to baby-sitters everywhere.

  “What?” Patrick turned to me.

  “The color. That’s what color those tuxes are,” I said.

  Charlie and Zoey both laughed.

  Patrick didn’t. “Very funny,” he said.

  “Come on, Patrick. It is kind of funny,” said Zoey. “Besides, it means you get to shop some more.”

  Patrick glared at the rest of us. Sam ducked his head. Then Patrick said, “Fine. We’ll reconsider our decision. But only if Charlie goes with us.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie, to my surprise.

  And that was that, except for the mystery of how my father, a man who was supposed to have good taste, could have chosen such incredibly awful tuxedos in the first place.

  * * *

  The next day, we all went to The Tuxedo Cat. Patrick was not on his best behavior. He sulked. As Sam and Zoey pulled out tuxedos and flipped through books, he kept saying, “Whatever,” in a bored voice.

  Sam commented on every tuxedo, glancing from Patrick to Zoey like a spectator at a tennis match. “What about this?” he’d say, showing a tux to Zoey. Then he’d turn to Patrick. “This would be cool,” he’d say encouragingly. He reminded me of me, trying to sweet-talk a difficult baby-sitting charge into behaving.

  I pitched in and even held up a few tuxedos against myself to admire the effect in the three-way mirror. Princess Diana, the late fashion-great (that’s what my friend Claudia calls her, anyway), had been photographed decked out in a tuxedo. Maybe I’d try the look myself one day.

  But after Patrick had said “Whatever,” for about the umpteenth time, Zoey got fed up. She put her hands on her hips, gave Patrick a long, level stare, and said, “Patrick, you’re picking out tuxedos to wear in our wedding. Are you in or are you out?”

  Looking from one to the other, I had the feeling that Zoey was talking about more than just the tuxedo. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for his answer.

>   Patrick glowered at Zoey. Then he glanced at Charlie. Charlie’s face was stony. Patrick looked at Sam, but Sam had looked away, his attention apparently riveted on a rack of shirts. Finally Patrick glanced at me. The sulky expression eased and he dropped one eyelid in a slight wink.

  Then he rolled his eyes and heaved a big, theatrical sigh. “Really, Zoey, they’re just tuxedos. I bow to your superior taste.” It was a little sarcastic, but then he smiled and threw his arms around her in a bear hug and lifted her up. When he put her down, they were both laughing.

  I let my breath out. Charlie rolled his eyes, and I could tell that he thought Patrick had gotten off too easily. Sam looked visibly relieved.

  After that, things went more smoothly. By the time we strolled back out onto Bridgeway Boulevard to check up on the flower arrangements, everything seemed fine.

  Patrick and Zoey introduced us to the florist, who provided fresh flowers for the Greenhouse. The three of them fell into a discussion involving baby’s breath, herbal essences and their effect on social situations (whatever that meant), and the color scheme for the wedding (which did not include baby-puke yellow, although Patrick did get his way about yellow roses as boutonnieres for himself and Sam and Charlie).

  It was a discussion worthy of Nannie and Watson, and I found my mind drifting back to the preparations for Mom and Watson’s wedding. We had had more than a few difficulties. After all, not only was our mom remarrying, but we were acquiring a whole new family and moving to a new house. In addition, I’d been convinced that Watson was way too uptight and formal. I mean, here was a guy who said “resume your seat” instead of “sit back down” to his kids at the dinner table. I tried to tell myself he was okay, if he made Mom happy, but I thought he could be a stiff, stubborn jerk sometimes.

  But that had passed. We survived the wedding and even had fun, and now I wouldn’t trade my large, blended, noisy family — and especially Watson — for anything.

  Patrick and Zoey weren’t combining families. Having the three of us show up for the wedding didn’t count as a combination platter. We weren’t going to have to move to a new place or change much of anything.

  So what was the problem? Why was this wedding so much more difficult to deal with than Mom and Watson’s?

  I didn’t understand it, especially considering that I liked Zoey much more, upon knowing her for only a couple of days, than I had liked Watson. Figuring this out made me feel a little guilty, I can tell you. It was as if I were somehow betraying Watson, even though I knew I wasn’t, because I loved him so much more now.

  I watched as Patrick chose a single rose, bowed, and presented it to Zoey. She took it, snapped the stem, and pinned the flower to the shoulder of her dress.

  We headed back to the car. Our next stop would be a quick one, to the veranda at the back of the old Italian-style hotel where the wedding ceremony was going to be held.

  “The view is wonderful,” Patrick said. “The finest in Sausalito. After that, we’ll finish the grand tour of the town. I’ll even show you where I used to live, over in Waldo Point Harbor Houseboats.”

  “You lived on a houseboat?” Sam said, and this time the enthusiasm wasn’t strained, as it had been when we’d been shopping for tuxes.

  “Of course,” said Patrick. “It’s where we creative types like to live. The freedom of the open seas.” He made a face and he and Sam began to talk about houseboats and boats.

  Zoey, who was driving, caught my eye in the mirror and smiled, and I realized another unsettling thing about this whole wedding business.

  Not only did I like Zoey but, as charming as Patrick was now being, I liked her better than my own father right now.

  What did that mean?

  “This was a bad idea,” Charlie said. “I want to leave.”

  “We can’t,” I answered. He and I were leaning over the rail of the Sausalito ferry, on our way back from the Angel Island Wildlife Preserve. Sam was somewhere nearby, but I hadn’t seen him or Patrick for a while.

  It had not been a perfect day. The picnic trip to Angel Island had been Zoey’s idea, and I could tell by Patrick’s surprised and not entirely pleased look that he hadn’t been enthusiastic. Zoey hadn’t appeared to notice when she’d brought it up that morning, shortly before departing for the restaurant.

  “We’ve had such fun there, Patrick,” she said encouragingly. “You can kick back, take some time off from the wedding planning, catch up on what’s been happening since you were all together last.”

  I saw Charlie give Zoey a funny look. I admit, I was thinking the same thing I was pretty sure he was thinking: Just how much had Patrick told Zoey about his, well, ex-family? Did she know it had been more than six years since we’d all been together?

  Patrick said, “I’m sure the kids have other things they’d much rather do.”

  Like what? I wondered. We were strangers in Sausalito as well as in Patrick’s life.

  “Take them with you, Zoey,” Patrick went on. “Let them explore Sausalito some more. I’ll catch up on some things I need to do, and then for lunch I’ll come meet you guys.”

  “Things?” Zoey gave him a Look. “Windsurfing things?”

  Patrick looked sheepish. “Well, it has been a long time since I’ve been out.”

  Windsurfing? Patrick? I couldn’t decide if it was cool or weird that someone my father’s age was out there on a board.

  Picking up her keys, Zoey said, “Take a Frisbee. In fact, I’ll tell you what. If you stop by the restaurant, I’ll have a first-class picnic lunch ready for you.”

  Patrick gave in, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely happy.

  So we ended up on Angel Island. Zoey hadn’t been kidding — the picnic had been first-class. And the weather was perfect. We watched birds through the binoculars. Sam swore he saw a shark’s fin, far out on the water, and then Patrick entertained us with stories of people-shark encounters in California.

  When that topic had been exhausted, he turned to Charlie, who’d been almost entirely silent, and said, “So, Chuck. Tell me what’s been going on. Bring me up to speed.”

  Charlie gave Patrick a level look. “No one calls me Chuck, for one thing,” he said. “I’m going to college next year. I was in fifth grade when you walked out. In spite of everything, Mom’s been great, and Watson is going to help pay for my college education.”

  Whoa. Sam’s eyes widened and I let out a little gasp.

  Patrick said, “I don’t think I like your tone.”

  Charlie just looked at him.

  Sam jumped up, grabbed the Frisbee, and said, “You’re it,” to me. He winged it in my direction. I jumped up too, and we took off down the beach.

  When we came back, Charlie’s figure was just a speck on the shoreline and Patrick was leaning back on his elbows, his dark glasses on, his face turned to the sun.

  We caught the next ferry back. At first, Patrick focused all his attention on me. Sam was cutting up outrageously, trying to get Patrick’s attention, or maybe trying to keep Charlie from saying anything else. At last I announced that I was going to the bathroom. Returning, I found Charlie leaning against the rail, and I settled in next to him to watch the waves slip by.

  “If we leave now,” I said, “it’ll ruin everything.”

  “Not for Patrick,” Charlie said. “But I guess it would for Zoey.” He paused, then said, “What does she see in him anyway?”

  I shrugged.

  “You would defend him,” Charlie went on. “He’s made it pretty obvious you’re his favorite.”

  What could I say to that? I shrugged again.

  “How do you think that makes me feel? Or Sam?”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Now it was Charlie’s turn to shrug. Then he said, “Don’t be taken in by him, Kristy, that’s all.”

  “I won’t,” I said. And then I wondered, Is that what had happened to Zoey? Had she been taken in?

  Is that what had happened to Mom?

  *
* *

  We arrived home to find a message from Zoey. I had to laugh (and so did Sam and Charlie) at the look on Patrick’s face as he played back the tape. “Patrick. We have a few more members of my family arriving tomorrow, I’m afraid. Not only is my mom coming, but Dad is bringing his new wife. And his other two ex-wives, Mona and Ariel, have called to say they’re joining us too. Could you call around and find them a nice place to stay — but put all the ex-wives in separate hotels. They really don’t get along. Thanks.”

  “Great,” said Patrick. “And Jeannie, Zoey’s mom, is coming with her mother, Mrs. Argos, who practically spits nails when she sees Zoey’s father.”

  “This would make a great movie,” said Sam. “Really funny.”

  “Somehow, I’m not laughing,” said Patrick. But he did grin.

  Zoey came home and congratulated Patrick when he told her he’d put Mona in the Casa Madrone Hotel and sent Ariel to a harborside bed-and-breakfast at a safe distance. The rest of the family was staying at the Alta Mira Hotel, where the wedding was being held, except for Zoey’s mother and grandmother, who were staying with Jessica Sara Klein, Zoey’s best friend and bridesmaid. Jessica lived in the nearby town of Mill Valley.

  Before dinner, Sam, Charlie, and I gave Mom and Watson another call (we’d also called them when we’d gotten to the airport). It was strange to hear our Stoneybrook world was still going on while we were in California. After dinner, Zoey took out two sheets of paper and spread them on the table. They looked a little like blueprints, but they were filled with circles and had clearly been written on and erased a lot. “The seating arrangements,” she explained.

  Patrick groaned.

  Charlie leaned forward. “The seating arrangements for what?”

  “The rehearsal dinner and the wedding. There are some people who should sit together,” Zoey said.

  “And some who definitely shouldn’t,” Patrick finished for her. “Fortunately for me, Ray isn’t coming.”

  I’d forgotten about Ray, our uncle and Patrick’s only brother. (Their parents — my grandparents — had died before I was born.) I gave Patrick a puzzled look. Patrick shrugged. “We had a disagreement, and when I sent Ray an invitation, he sent back best wishes but said no way.”