“You’ve done an amazing job on the wedding, all parts of it,” he said, inching her back toward him with a gentle tug. “You’ve risen to the occasion to embrace a new daughter. The party tonight is going to be wonderful. You haven’t bankrupted us. That extra legroom in coach was a game changer. This house is paradise. And you look hot in these pants,” he said, running his hand down her back and over her backside. “Senior center Pilates, my ass. You are not a senior with this bod.”

“Language, please, George!” Abigail blamed a pre-dinner drink for the friskiness, but she blushed all the same. “Later,” she promised. “Is your speech ready?”

“You know it. Picked out some choice California quotes.”

“That turns me on,” she purred. “You’re not going to quote Reagan, are you?”

“I’m not. But if that crowd I met at Ming’s club was any indication, he still has a lot of fans here.” George had played bridge at the Nottingham Forest clubhouse and picked up a few potential clients who needed online lessons or paid partners in tournaments. It had been a fruitful afternoon while the Merry Widows and others gathered for the mothers’ tea.

“You know you’re up against Baron Plumley,” Abigail reminded him, as Simon was also giving a toast. The traditional father-of-the-bride slot, though by now, after so many glasses of wine and long talks with Alexa and the Widows, Abigail was resigned to the fact that Simon Fox was not Penny’s biological father and the Blakeman grandchild would not inherit a title. Their grandchildren’s lineage would include a random tall, dark-haired volleyball player/grad student who needed cash. She had made peace with that, most days. But George going toe-to-toe with Simon in the toast department was an exciting prospect. Never mind the mayor of New York appearing as the officiant. “And everyone’s favorite late-night-talk-show mayor, Timmo Lynch.”

“I feel like I can compete with the apple farmer,” George said, referring to Simon by the nickname they’d given him after a few G&Ts. “But I saw the mayor’s schtick at the rehearsal. He swore he was going to play it straight. But you know he’s going to bring all the quotes from those goddamn Irish writers.”

Abigail opened her mouth to speak, but the phone pinged again. She checked the message instead of commenting on Timmo Lynch’s role in the proceedings. “Oh, it’s time! Ricky will be out front in ten minutes with the car. Can you go meet him and I’ll get Sarah and Chase?”

“Anything you say, MOG.”

*  *  *