by Gail Bowen
The bathroom door was shut, but unlocked. I rapped a couple of times and when there was no answer, I walked in, sat down on the toilet seat, and waited for Taylor to emerge from the steam. When, finally, she stepped out of the shower stall, her skin was scarlet, her hair dripping, and her lower lip quivering. She thrust her head towards me. “Is it normal now?” she asked.
I picked up a towel and began to dry her hair. “It’s normal,” I said. “After a while, I can do it in French braids if you want.”
The sound she made was somewhere between a snort and a sob. “That’d be okay,” she said, then she streaked to her room. I went downstairs, put on some soup for lunch, and tried not to stare at the phone. By the time Taylor came down, the phone still hadn’t rung. We ate a bowl of chicken with stars and made French braids. When Jill and Willie got back, my daughter was sitting at the kitchen table drawing a cartoon of Danny Jacobs with a thatch of hair that looked as if it had been attacked by termites. Jill glanced at Taylor’s braids and then at me.
“Change of plans,” I said.
Jill poured herself a cup of coffee. “It seems to be the day for it,” she said. “Our judge called this morning. He has the flu, so he’s sending a replacement.”
“We can live with that,” I said. “That little man’s fatuous level was off the charts.”
Jill sat down at the table. “I don’t think you’re going to be so breezy about the next change. Gabe had to go back to New York. Felix is our new best man.”
I felt a flare of panic. “Is everything all right?”
“Apparently, Gabe had a heart flutter,” Jill said tightly. “Evan says he’s a real hypochondriac. Anyway, he went back to New York to be close to his doctor.” Jill rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Do you think there’s a significant pattern here?”
My mind was racing. “In what way?”
“First the judge, then the best man. I can’t see everything going wrong on the day of my wedding without believing that someone is trying to tell me something. ‘From shadows and symbols into truth.’ That’s what Cardinal Newman said.”
“Where did Cardinal Newman come from?” I asked. “I thought you had fallen away.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “Fallen away, yes, but not unmarked. A Catholic education is like stigmata, perpetually suppurating. It’s been thirty-five years since Sister Phyllis Mary filled me in on what boys want from girls, but I still can’t sit next to a man in a car without remembering that I should leave room for the hips of the Virgin between me and my date.”
Despite everything, I smiled. Jill caught my response. “I know it sounds crazy, but the Church was right about a lot of things. My sex life wouldn’t have been such a disaster if I’d left room for the hips of the Virgin between me and most of the men I’ve known. And you and I are both old enough to know that Cardinal Newman was right about shadows and symbols. Sometimes, no matter how much you want something, it’s suicide not to read the signs.”
As the hour for the wedding grew near, I didn’t need to be a Prince of the Church to know that the gods were not smiling. The box from the florist arrived, but the spray of creamy camellias Jill had ordered to tuck in her hair had been mysteriously replaced by a candy-cane nightmare of spruce cuttings and red and white carnations. Rapti’s attempt to fashion a replacement spray by cutting camellias from the bridal bouquet ended when the Swiss Army knife she was using slipped and sliced her finger so badly that only Angus’s first-aid training saved us from a trip to the medi-centre. As I held the petals under the tap to rinse the blood off, I was shaking.
When the phone rang, I dropped the flowers in the sink and raced to it. From the moment Jill told me that Gabe had bowed out of the wedding, I had been spinning a theory that Gabe’s illness was subterfuge and that somehow he had stumbled upon information that needed to be verified before he could stop a marriage that clearly shouldn’t take place. Considering that we had known each other for only six hours, my faith in him might have seemed bizarre, but I felt that Gabe and I had made a connection that went beyond the tectonic-plate-shifting power of sexual attraction. I hadn’t yet learned the name of his favourite string quartet or how he liked his eggs in the morning, but the night before he had promised to take a walk in the snow with me, and I knew at my core that a fluttering pulse wouldn’t have kept him from honouring his promise.
When I picked up the receiver, I was so prepared to hear Gabe’s Columbo growl that my daughter Mieka’s voice was a shock. She was calling from Davidson, a town halfway between her home in Saskatoon and mine in Regina. The snow had grown so heavy that highway driving was treacherous, and she and her husband had decided to turn back. Mieka loved Jill, and I knew how much she had looked forward to being at the wedding and meeting Jill’s new family. I could hear the disappointment in her voice. I was disappointed too, but as I hung up, I felt an unexpected wash of relief. The omens were not good, and I was glad Mieka and her family would be out of harm’s way.
I’d just finished dressing when Claudia and Bryn arrived. They were alone.
“No Tracy?” I asked, as I helped them off with their coats.
Claudia shook her head. “The older she gets, the longer it takes her to get ready, but she’ll be along.” Claudia locked eyes with me. “Nothing is going to go wrong with this wedding. I want you to know that.” It was impossible to tell from her tone if her words were intended as reassurance or warning. In her champagne silk jacket and skirt, Claudia was a figure of head-turning elegance, but there was steel in her manner. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine her pinning her Rottweiler puppies on the ground, showing them that the sooner they recognized she was dominant, the better it would be for everyone.
By the time Gaia Powell, the photographer, arrived, we had our masks in place. Inwardly, the members of Jill’s wedding party might be racked by panic, uncertainty, fury, jealousy, hatred, or terror, but outwardly we were picture perfect. Gaia, a lanky young woman in overalls, gave us the once over and announced that this shoot was going to be a breeze. Jill was clearly not a Bridezilla who obsessed about every detail, and we had a seriously edgy look going for us.
It was the year of the strapless dress, and Jill’s was an exquisite, classic cream satin that brought out the warmth of her skin and the highlights in her sleeked-back auburn hair. The blood had left a faint pink stain on the camellias, but Rapti had tucked the flowers behind Jill’s ear so skilfully that the imperfect petals were hidden. The dresses for Jill’s attendants were black, Bryn’s choice. I’d been dubious about a colour I’d always associated with funerals, but the gowns were stunning. Bryn’s and mine were strapless sheaths with matching stoles lined in cream; Taylor’s dress had a simple cream top and a full black satin skirt. Urban chic.
For the first ten minutes, Gaia praised the practised ease with which we moved in and out of our poses, but when Tracy Lowell came through the front door, our poise shattered. Bryn and Taylor were oblivious, but the rest of us suddenly became as tentative as people who had been blindfolded and told to walk over a floor littered with razor blades.
From the outset, Tracy’s behaviour was bizarre. She was wearing an outfit that could only be described as bridal: a simple white silk shift, matching pumps, pearls, and, in case anyone had missed the intent, a white-lace mantilla draped artfully over her dark hair. Claudia took one look at her sister-in-law and growled, “What the hell are you doing? Get back to the hotel and change. I mean it.”
Tracy dimpled innocently. “I thought I’d bring the happy couple luck by wearing something old.”
“You must be insane,” Claudia said.
I tried to lower the emotional thermostat. “It’s a lovely dress,” I said, “but the mantilla might be prettier draped around your shoulders.”
Claudia glared at me. “She could drape it around her ass, and she’d still be wearing the dress Annie wore when she married Evan.”
My heart sank. Tracy must be crazy. I shot a quick glance at Jill to see her reaction.
Predictably, she had rushed to Bryn, who was standing in front of the pier glass between the long windows in the hall, wholly absorbed in her mirror image.
“I’m sure Tracy would change if you asked her to,” Jill said gently.
“It’s just a dress,” Bryn said tonelessly to her reflection. Her gaze shifted to her aunt. “But, Tracy, I wish you’d let me have those pearls. I like having things that belong to people. Not just material things – secrets too.”
Without hesitation, Tracy undid the clasp of her necklace and handed the pearls to her niece.
Bryn held the necklace against her throat. “Perfect,” she said. Jill moved behind her stepdaughter-to-be and fastened the pearls. As she checked the mirror to make sure that the effect was indeed perfect, Jill’s hands dropped to Bryn’s shoulders. The gesture was one of such unaffected tenderness that Gaia Powell was beaming as she snapped the shot. Mother Love.
I turned away. I’d spent a lifetime watching Jill squander her emotional capital. Now she was turning her life inside out for a girl who didn’t give a rat’s ass for her. Suddenly, I was sick of the whole thing. The hours before the ceremony were now down to single digits. My fantasy that Gabe Leventhal was going to rescue the situation was looking more and more like the plotline for a B movie. In all likelihood, the cold light of day had brought Gabe fresh perspective and he’d decided he didn’t want any part of the wedding or of me and hit the road.
When Gaia called me over to join Jill for the traditional photos of the bride and her matron of honour, my legs were leaden. As I smoothed an indiscernible wrinkle in one of the panels that formed Jill’s sculptured bodice, I tried a smile.
Gaia shook her curls impatiently. “Come on, Joanne, your friend is getting married, not drawn and quartered.”
I took another crack at it, but Gaia’s grimace made it clear I was still short of the mark. “AA’ s got a great expression,” she said. “ ‘Fake it until you make it.’ How about a nice fake smile, Joanne?”
Jill raised her hand in a halt gesture. “Maybe just give us a moment, Gaia,” she said. “Why don’t you get some pictures of the kids with the dog?”
“You’re paying the bill,” Gaia said, and she wandered off with her camera.
As soon as we were alone, Jill turned to me. “Jo, I need you to help me get through this. I know this isn’t a great romance. I even know that Bryn has certain…,” she averted her eyes, “certain gaps in her emotional makeup. But you’re the one who told me that in every relationship there has to be a gardener and a flower. I’m prepared to be the gardener here. Bryn hasn’t had an easy life. She deserves a chance to be hopeful and young.”
“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy,” I said.
“Then let me help Bryn,” Jill said. She slid her arms around me, and a flash exploded.
Gaia cheered. “That’s the shot I was going for,” she said. “Only three more Very Special Moments, and we’re out of here.”
We drove to the gallery under a dark and threatening sky. As we passed through the familiar streets, I stared out the window, feeling thoroughly miserable. Jill didn’t seem to be doing much better. Surrounded by the soft folds of her dark green hood, her face appeared pale and tense. “Hey,” I said, “remember ‘Fake it until you make it’?”
“Easier said than done,” Jill said, continuing to stare straight ahead.
Tracy had insisted that Bryn ride with her and Claudia. In Bryn’s absence, Angus reverted to his usual raucous self, and he was amusing his sister by devising a series of inventive and excruciating tortures for Danny Jacobs. It was hard not to be drawn into their fun, but Jill’s smile was remote, like that of someone suffering from an illness. I patted her hand and turned away, relieved the drive to the gallery was a short one.
Felix Schiff was waiting for us under the portico. He was holding an umbrella, and as soon as he spotted our limo, he sprinted towards us. When the limo driver opened the passenger door, Felix positioned the umbrella carefully. “I thought this might keep the snow off your hair,” he said.
“You’re a good soul,” Jill said.
Felix’s expression was wistful. “Maybe once upon a time,” he said. Then he offered Jill his hand. “Time to go,” he said.
Dizzy with the adventure of it all, Taylor raced ahead into the building and Angus plodded after her. I stayed in the limo, wondering and delaying the inevitable. When Felix came back for me, I motioned him inside. He closed the umbrella, slid in, and crouched on one of the jump seats.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I think there may be,” I said. “Have you heard from Gabe?”
Felix gazed out the window of the limo. “Why would he call me?”
“Because you two go way back. Gabe and I watched the ending of Black Spikes and Slow Waves together last night. I saw you in your flaming youth.”
“That particular time in my life is nothing to joke about,” Felix said stiffly.
“Then fill me in,” I said. “Felix, you’re the only person I trust who has a link to Gabe. This just doesn’t make sense. According to Evan, Gabe has bowed out of the wedding because he’s a hypochondriac. He’s supposed to be so fearful that he flew home to New York to be with his doctor, yet last night he was the poster boy for living with gusto: smoking cigars, enjoying his wine, making plans for the future. You saw him. Do you believe he panicked and left town because he had a flutter?”
Felix’s voice was gentle. “Don’t ask a question when the answer can only cause you pain, Joanne.”
“Are you saying that Gabe left town because of me?”
He looked away. “I’m saying that Jill’s wedding is scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, and you might be wise to let this go.”
“I’ll let it go,” I said. “But only for the time being.”
“Fair enough,” Felix said. “The time being is all we have.”
Angus had already taken Taylor to the room where the wedding was being held, but Jill had waited, and we took the elevator to the second floor together. When the doors opened, Evan, like some apparition from a Gothic novel, was facing us.
I could hear Jill’s intake of breath. “So much for the idea that it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” she said.
“Like all superstitions, that one is nonsense,” Evan said. “You look beautiful, Jill.” He nodded to me. “Your dress is lovely too, Joanne.”
Jill and I are both on the tall side of average, but Evan dwarfed us. It wasn’t just his height; he exerted a powerful undertow that seemed to draw those around him into his sphere. In his cutaway, striped trousers, pearl grey waistcoat, and grey-and-black-striped four-in-hand, he had the larger than life quality of a stage actor, but there were two jarring notes. Ms. Manners would have approved of his gloves, but every man I knew would have stuffed the gloves in a pocket until the last minute, and Evan was wearing his. He was also wearing makeup of the heavy-duty concealer type about which Jill and I had joked earlier.
When he caught me eyeing his face, Evan’s response was a preemptive strike. “Bridegroom’s jitters,” he said. “Surely even you can’t see anything Machiavellian in the fact that I nicked myself shaving, Joanne.”
“Of course not,” I said, but I kept looking. His jaw was slightly swollen and even beneath the makeup I could see discolouration.
Jill stepped closer to examine the bruising. “That must be painful,” she said.
Evan raised his hand to cover the area. “It’s nothing,” he said.
“How does the other guy look?” I asked.
Evan’s eyes widened. Clearly, I’d shaken him. “There was no other guy,” he said. “I told you I cut myself shaving.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You did.” I touched Jill’s arm. “We should go in now. It’s almost time.”
Once, during the early years of my marriage, I saw a production of Richard III in London. The designer had created a stage world as bloodless as a chess game: the actors were costumed i
n sculptured robes of white or black and the set was a series of harshly geometric metal backdrops. Until Clarence was beheaded, we were in the stark, greyscale universe of absolutes, but the beheading introduced a new element. The trough that caught Clarence’s head filled quickly with blood, and the bleeding never stopped. As Richard’s brutal march to power continued, the blood poured unabated. By the time the final curtain fell, the stage dripped red.
The memory of that production washed over me as we walked down the aisle towards the place where Jill’s husband-to-be and his best man stood waiting. The wedding guests, shimmering in their bright outfits, fell silent as they took in our austere monochromatic gowns. It was a dramatic moment, made even more dramatic by the setting. Jill and Evan would be exchanging their vows in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised the west wall of the gallery. Jill had hoped for a pretty snowfall or for the soft glow of a late-winter afternoon, but the light that seeped through the glass had the dull sheen of pewter. The only splash of colour in the area came from the cranberry miniskirt of the replacement judge, Rexella Sweeney. Rexella’s words would set the action in motion. Like the characters in that long-ago production of Richard III, the members of Jill and Evan’s wedding party seemed to be chess pieces moving inexorably towards an endgame of sacrifice and checkmate.
Rexella, a sixtyish blonde with a whisky rasp, dagger acrylic nails, and legs that wouldn’t quit, was an unlikely catalyst for tragedy. Earlier, when she introduced herself to Jill and me, she sensed Jill’s tension and wheezed, “Relax. This won’t hurt half as much as a Brazilian bikini wax.”
The moment came for Evan and Jill to exchange rings, and I knew that, worldly as Rexella was, she was wrong about the Brazilian bikini wax. When she pronounced that Evan and Jill were now husband and wife, tears stung my eyes. Watching my friend enter into a disastrous marriage was more painful by far than anything a cosmetician at The Sweet Hairafter had ever done to me.
Felix and I walked back down the aisle arm in arm, each of us grateful for the other’s presence. “Keep smiling,” Felix said through gritted teeth, “it’s almost over.”