Slippery roads lay beneath us and icy sleet comes at us as I cling to the dash or the door alternately. My husband is a seasoned-bad-weather-NJ-driver but we are in unfamiliar territory in Richmond, Virginia. He holds our little Honda on the road as we fly through deserted streets trying to keep up with the sedan in front of us. I turn and ask my brother in the backseat. “You alright?” He nods. His future as a naval aviator requires immunity to motion sickness, but I check anyway. “And this guy we are following was your driver’s ed teacher?” Dan laughs but I urge caution. We have to keep Dwight in sight or we won’t find our way from the church to the reception. It would not be good for a groomsman to go missing.
Later, we meet our friends in the center hall of an elegant historic manor on a Richmond Street where you can feel the history pour into your veins. I expect I hear Patrick Henry’s ghost whispering “. . . liberty or death. . .” in my ear from across town. As if the rich red carpets, perfectly polished period furnishings, and elegant crystal chandeliers are not enough, the mansion is decorated Williamsburg style for the Christmas holidays. We are ushered through a carved-molding arched door into a side parlor and enjoy the company of dear friends we don’t see as often as we wish. I stand near the marble fireplace and examine the miniature Christmas tree made of apples and magnolia leaves. Yes, it’s a fresh live apple. A slightly ornery thought enters my mind and I blink at myself in the gilded mirror. “Who might take a bite from this forbidden fruit?” I laugh and dare the men in my party. My husband and brother shake their heads and move away. They think it might be funny but are not willing to risk the wrath of the immaculate southern woman seeing to the details of the event. “Where’s Bob? He would do it.” My brother spreads word of my evil desire.
A suit steps forward, volunteering his teeth to my cause. Brent is a very funny guy, but more mildly mannered than to be looking for this kind of mischief. “Sure, I’ll do it.” I think he’s joking to make me laugh, but before I can regret my dare he leans on the mantle, tilts his head, and snacks off a huge hunk of apple. He chews while we all giggle. Someone snaps a shot of the ruined ornamental pome. Our growing guffaws cause a little stir in this section of the Victorian house, and we view a shocked butler turning to go find the matron. My stomach sinks with dread like a fifth grader on the verge of getting sent to the principal’s office. “Maybe we could turn the tree around so the bite doesn’t show?” But the mirror behind it would reveal the naked truth of our bitten apple. Why, oh why did I let the serpent in my head take control of my mouth?
Like a fairy godmother, Miss Carolyn appears. Our mentor, friend, and frequent fixer is problem solving at the speed of light. “Oh, you guys are too much!” she scolds in between loving giggles. She slides the apple off its post and flips it around so the bite goes onto the spike, and smooth red skin is all the viewer sees.
The matron enters the parlor, scans us hooligans with a piercing gaze, while the butler nods toward the apple cone in question. She makes a slow circumnavigation of the room, pauses at the mantle and looks at the apple cone from all sides. The missing chunk is hidden cleverly, and I thank heaven for Miss Carolyn saving our skins. The elegant southern hostess exits our room and I breath for the first time since she began her examination. Could she see the flush of embarrassment on my cheeks that proclaimed my guilt? She and the butler couldn’t put us on the hook today, but when she dismantles her decorations at the end of the season, the mystery will be revealed—and I will be many miles away!
Your Turn: What dare did you speak aloud and regret?
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