1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [94]
"Why not the last?" she asked, trying to remember what it was, and then realizing she'd given him the straight line.
He grabbed and squeezed. "Why covet my neighbor's ass?"
"Ruy!" she squealed, sounding like a schoolgirl to herself, and swatting his hand away. "Not here!"
She glared around at the staff who were in the main hallway, daring any of them to laugh. To their credit, none of them were. Although every last one had a big grin in evidence, even the normally straitlaced Adolf. Oh, well, fair was fair. They were all looking forward to the wedding too, and the searching for the right people to get the wedding organized had all been done without Sharon having to lift a finger. By all accounts, Signora Fontana was a battleaxe to beat them all, and Father Maratta was one of that large minority of Catholic priests who looked like he enjoyed a good party. If he had heard of the ascetic traditions within Christianity, he wanted no part of them. He even had a list of caterers he could recommend from personal experience, and seemed to want more input into the reception afterwards than he did into the liturgy of the nuptial mass.
Ruy was giving off his best sweet-and-innocent look—about as convincing as a party hat on a tiger, in other words—and his eyes were twinkling.
"If you've quite done embarrassing me in front of everyone," she said, trying to get a mad on and failing, "let's get lunch."
But no sooner did they reach the front door to the embassy than their plans got scrambled. The big double doors were yawning wide before the servant who was preparing to open it for them got within ten feet.
Through it came Sharon's father, Melissa Mailey, and Tom and Rita Simpson. Behind them Sharon could see a few members of the military escort that would have shepherded them to Rome.
"You bums!" Sharon wailed. "You're not supposed to be arriving for at least two more days!"
Dr. Nichols smiled at her. If she looked really close and squinted, Sharon could possibly argue than it was an "apologetic" smile. It'd be a stretch, though.
Rita grinned. "You idiot. Don't you remember the time, roomie, when you and I sat up half the night in college and figured out the Three Laws of the Universe. The ultimate ones, not that silly thermodynamics business."
Sharon stared at her. Rita clucked her tongue.
"Poor girl's mind is going already. Repeat after me: The First Law is that you will always be late when it's critical to be on time. The Second Law is that—"
Sharon laughed. "—everyone else will always be early when you don't want them to be."
Then the hugs started.
Rita's was the first, and wildly enthusiastic. Her father's was heartfelt and paternal. Tom Simpson's was the genuine but slightly careful embrace a young man gives a young woman to whom he is neither married nor related and who possesses a very voluptuous figure.
Melissa's was complex. The sort of hug a woman gives who is, first, not temperamentally given to hugging; but, second, went through a prolonged period in her radical and semi-hippie youth where hugging was more or less a Social Mandate and thereby learned the art, however reluctantly; and, third, happened to genuinely like the young woman whom she sometimes described as her "common law step-daughter."
The last one done, and still holding Melissa by the shoulders, Sharon grinned at her and said: "So. Are you and Dad still shacking up, or have you finally decided to make him an honest man?"
"He's starting to pester me about it," Melissa growled, "but I got my principles."
Dr. Nichols snorted. "Principles! What she actually said was: 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it.' And then added—unkindest cut of all—that it wasn't as if I had any Social Security she could collect as my widow when