That word I wasn’t supposed to utter in front of my father? It slipped out—loud and clear, not whispered in any demure tone. Some nearby guests might have described it later as a bellow. But what could I do? I’d been plagued by incredibly vivid dreams about my future brother-in-law.
Father's hand flew from my elbow to his mouth, followed by a coughing fit that could have been genuine or an attempt to downplay my slip as a mere exhalation. Nevertheless, I had broadcast to the Upper East Side pack that the East Village pack was akin to Cousin Eddie from "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation." Not that anyone there would appreciate such a pop culture reference.
A swarm of judgmental eyes swiveled towards us, peering over champagne flutes and skewered appetizers. Among them were Finnian's.
