by Rice, Luanne
Martin scored once in the first minute, got penalized for fighting four minutes later, scored a penalty shot—all in the first period; in the second, he sustained a bloody nose and went to the penalty box for hooking; with Martin off the ice, Montreal scored two goals in quick succession. Coming back, Martin blocked his thirtieth shot of the game just as the clock ran down on the second period.
As the Bruins skated off the ice, May found herself thrilled and breathless; the palms of her hands were raw from digging her nails in, her voice raw from yelling.
The Zamboni came out and made the ice smooth. While music thumped from speakers overhead, May watched the big square machine slide over the rough ice, melting the grooves and freezing it into glass. Kids hooted and hollered, trying to get the players’ attention. They stood huddled around Coach Dafoe, planning how they’d break the 2–2 tie and win.
“He’s telling them to give the puck to Martin,” Genny told her, studying the scene. “He’s saying no matter what, regardless of what your man is doing, get the puck to Martin.”
“You know so much about hockey,” May said.
Genny broke out laughing. “No, that’s what he always says. Every game! Martin’s our star, but, wow, May—he’s outshining even himself tonight. ’Cause of you, you know. How’s it feel to have your husband showing off for you?”
“Not bad.” May said, so happy she couldn’t stop smiling.
“Okay, okay!” Genny called, stamping her feet. “We’re ready, guys! Come on out and win this game—put these babies to bed!”
“Come on!” May shouted just as loud. “Go Bruins! Let’s win!”
Just then, a crowd of young women came over to the box where May and Genny were sitting with several other wives and girlfriends. May felt her stomach tighten. Martin had warned her to expect comments and catcalls, to throw her shoulders back and ignore it all, and so far she had. But here were four gorgeous women—just like the blond-model type May had seen talking to Martin on the plane that first day—storming the box.
“Hang tough,” Genny muttered. “Incoming.”
“Excuse me,” the tallest blonde said, rapping on the Plexiglas.
“Yes?” Genny asked as she opened the door a crack, doing an admirable sentry imitation with a frostiness May hadn’t imagined her capable of.
“May Cartier?” the blonde asked.
“This box is private,” Genny said, standing between May and the intruders.
“I know, forgive us.” The blonde was smiling sheepishly now, holding out a card. “I just wanted to give her this. It’s…well, it’s just a message from me and my friends. We’re big Bruins’ fans, and we just thought—”
“I’ll give it to her.” Genny closed the door firmly behind her. Turning to May, she handed her the large white envelope. May held it for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Her heart was pounding, and she knew she was afraid of what the card said.
“Maybe I’ll wait till later,” May said. Play was about to resume; she didn’t want to ruin the rest of a great game by reading something that would upset her.
“Why not open it when I’m with you?” Genny asked. “We’ll just laugh it off together.”
May nodded. Tearing open the envelope, she pulled out a greeting card. It showed golden wedding bells in a white church steeple, and the message read: Best wishes on your recent marriage. May your years together be long and filled with the blessings of love. It was signed: Mary Truscott, Doreen O’Malley, Amy Jenckes, and Carolina Grannato. Then, in tiny perfect handwriting, the following P.S.: Dear Mrs. Cartier, My fiancé and I got engaged in August. I read about you being a wedding planner, and I’d really like you to plan our wedding. We’re thinking about April. I’ll stop out at the Bridal Barn soon. My aunt had a Bridal Barn wedding fifteen years ago. It’s a small world! Congratulations on your marriage—Go Bruins!
“Wow,” Genny said, reading over May’s shoulder.
“Another lesson in ‘benefit of the doubt.’ ” May smiled.
“No, I was thinking, wow, May’s lucky to have…the Bridal Barn.”
“You mean my career?” May asked, when Genny didn’t go on.
“It’s sad, but I was going to say ‘a life.’ Maybe I meant ‘an identity.’ I don’t know…”
“You have those,” May said, surprised by Genny’s serious tone.
Genny stared at the ice. The players were starting to skate out, but her expression was soft and thoughtful, as if she were far away from the Fleet Center. “I’m mainly Ray Gardner’s wife,” she said. “Mrs. Right Wing on the Boston Bruins. I love my husband, I have a terrific life. I’m not complaining—it’s been great.”
“And now I’m Mrs. Gold Sledgehammer,” May said.
Genny shook her head. “You’re more than that. It’s obvious. No groupies ever stopped by the box to hand me a nice card….”
“Maybe if they tasted your apple butter they would. Or your strawberry jam. Or if they knew what a great person you are.”
Genny laughed. The players were milling around, and the crowd’s tension filled the air. As Genny started to focus on center ice, with both teams getting settled on either side of the red line, May stared at her.
It was great to have someone to share hockey with. It was so new and extreme, and Genny was happy to show May the ropes. At the same time, May felt a pang, deep down, because she felt herself edging away from Tobin. Her life was changing at the speed of light, and she didn’t know how everything fit together.
“Can you stop by this week?” May asked. “At the Barn? I’d like to show you around, tempt you to let us sell your wares. And my aunt and Tobin would love to see you again.”
“The Bridal Barn? I’d love to!” Genny flashed May a brilliant smile just as the teams began to face off.
“Good,” May said, turning toward the ice.
A horn sounded, the puck dropped, and the official’s whistle signaled the start of third-period play. Boston got the puck, Ray passed to Martin, and bang—Martin scored his hat trick. May screamed her lungs out as Martin skated by and planted a big kiss on the Plexiglas.
His lip marks were there all through the rest of the game. Martin shot again and again, scoring goals four and five. The crowd chanted and pounded the bleachers. The scoreboard flashed Martin’s name and stats, and then—to May’s amazement—it showed wedding bells. Right in the middle of the third period, with six minutes left to play, the scoreboard began flashing “MAY! MAY!”
“Listen,” Genny said, grabbing May’s hand as the crowd took it up.
“May, May!” they chanted.
“Oh, no!” May laughed, blushing as the call grew louder. She ducked her head, but the crowd just kept calling her name, turning it into a rhyming cheer: “May, May Cartier…”
“You’ve won them over,” Genny told her.
“I can’t believe it…after what they were calling me last month,” May said, hoping Tobin was watching TV.
The crowd kept up the racket as Martin scored an incredible, heart-stopping sixth goal.
“Believe that,” Genny said.
This time Martin bowed as he skated by the box, and May bowed back with Genny holding her hand, welcoming her to the real and superheated life of a wife in the NHL. Her emotions overloaded, she thought of her parents, what they would think if they could see her now. And then she wondered, just for a moment, about Serge: whether he was able to watch the game from prison, whether he was proud of his son.
May stared at the ice, and she did manage to watch the last few minutes of the game, but her eyes kept returning to her husband’s lip prints on the scarred old plastic, wishing that everything she had at that moment—familiar and new—could go on forever.
Chapter 12
THE DAY WAS COLD AND cloudy, with a fine dusting of snow on every roof and field. Wearing old leather boots and a down jacket, May showed Genny around the property. It was mid-November, and they found themselves talking about the upcoming holidays, traditions, parents, a
nd in-laws.
“Tell me about Serge,” May asked.
“Oh, Serge,” Genny said. “He’s a complicated man.”
“Did you know him well?”
“When I was young. He adored Martin, recognized his amazing talent right away. He’d coach him from morning till night, and often Ray and I got to play along. He was Martin’s idol.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was one thing when Serge was living at home, commuting to play in Montreal. But then he got traded to the Maple Leafs and soon afterward, everything changed. The assault on Martin happened, and then Serge and Agnes broke up, and after that he never came back anymore. He turned his back on Martin.”
“But it wasn’t Martin’s fault,” May said, thinking of her relationship with Kylie’s father, how it always seemed to be the children who suffered most for their parents’ troubles.
“Of course it wasn’t. But Martin didn’t believe that. He started playing hockey harder, with a vengeance, as if he thought that might win his father back. He made Ray practice with him, with Agnes coaching the two of them out on the lake….”
“Serge missed all that.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for Serge. He was a celebrity before hockey players were seen that way. Between seasons, he lived the real high-life in Los Angeles, Las Vegas—we’d see him in magazines, his arms around models. He only came back into Martin’s life once Martin left home and joined the NHL himself.”
“Once Martin was out from under Agnes’s wing.”
“Exactly. Serge is legendary around Lac Vert, though. Kids idolized him—for being such a great player himself, then for having a son like Martin.”
“Martin never talks about him,” May said, thinking back to the summer, to those awful nights when Martin had slept on the sofa. “Only once.”
“No, I know,” Genny agreed. “Martin wrote him off the day Natalie died.”
“I wonder if someone can really write off his father,” May said, low and thoughtfully. “No matter how much he thinks he wants to.”
The Bridal Barn tour progressed. May couldn’t help trying to see through Genny’s eyes, wishing she had come earlier—with the herbs and flowers in bloom, the old white roses climbing up the side of the barn—to see the place at its best.
They walked into the barn, decorated for autumn with thick sprays of bayberry and bittersweet. Bright, gnarled squashes and gourds lined the old stalls and cross-beams. Owls slept in the rafters, shadowed from the bleak white light slanting through the skylights.
Tobin, finishing up with a new client, glanced over from her desk.
“Oh, this makes me homesick for Canada,” Genny said, waving to Tobin. “I can smell the wood. It’s cold outside, but you have these nice heaters going.”
“Our biggest expense,” May told her. “Keeping this big place warm all winter.”
“Martin must feel like home here,” Genny said.
“I think he does.”
Walking through the great space, Genny touched the silvery barn board and tarnished brass hooks, examined the wide-plank floors, found the hole in the wall where the owls flew in and out. Carrying a pile of manila envelopes, Tobin walked over to meet them by the hay ladder.
“I’ve seen you on TV, at the games,” Tobin told Genny, “but it’s good to see you in person.”
“Good to see you.” Genny leaned over to hug her.
“You and May are so famous.”
“Against our will,” Genny laughed.
“Want to have tea with us?” May asked.
Tobin shook her head, glancing down at the envelopes. “Thanks anyway. I’m in the midst, and I’m not sure how long this will take. See you later. Nice to see you again, Genny.”
“You, too,” Genny said.
Climbing the ladder into the hayloft, Genny tapped May’s shoulder.
“Is Tobin okay?”
“I think so.” But May felt Tobin’s distance. For one thing, Tobin and May had always been jealous of outsiders, other women seeming to threaten their friendship. But beyond that, their relationship was changing in other ways and they both knew it.
“It’s a big adjustment,” Genny commented. “Seeing her old friend on TV, in magazines.”
“It’s a huge change for me.”
“The NHL looks glamorous to outsiders,” Genny said. “If they only knew.”
“Martin’s away half the time, recuperating from injuries the rest. We’ve hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”
“Sometimes it’s lonelier being married than not,” Genny agreed. “You love someone, but he’s hardly ever there. And when he is, he’s obsessed with the last game or the next game.”
“That’s it.” May was relieved to have Genny to talk to, but feeling guilty for holding the same things back from Tobin.
They ambled through the hayloft, filled with old gowns hanging from the rafters. Organza, taffeta, silk, and satin swished as they walked through. Some were nearly museum pieces, but toward the back were newer styles, as well as a collection of bridesmaids’ dresses. As in Emily’s time, they stored them up here, out of view, except for the once-yearly showing. But May wanted to show them to Genny.
“Oh, Genny, I haven’t seen you since the wedding.” Aunt Enid came over as they climbed down. “Welcome to the Bridal Barn. How are you? Ray and the kids?”
“Fine, Enid.” Genny hugged her back. “Deep into the hockey season just like May.”
“I thought I’d make tea before the three o’clock clients get here. Want some, Aunt Enid?”
“No, you girls go ahead. I’m just answering mail. Trying to keep warm by the space heater, and it’s only November. Look at me in this getup—I hope I don’t scare the brides away.”
Aunt Enid got cold easily, and she was wearing her habitual fall-winter dress: wool leggings and a thick turtleneck under a gray flannel jumper. Glancing down at her own scruffy jeans and boots, May had to smile: It was a wonder brides seeking stylish nuptials wanted to come anywhere near the place.
“We’re pretty casual around here,” May told Genny as they headed for the back room.
“That’s what people love, I bet. You have this elegant raffishness about you.”
“Ragged, maybe,” May said, plucking the frayed sleeve of her old canvas jacket.
“No, raffish. Like a shy country girl with a sophisticated secret. Martin told Ray your smile reminds him of the Mona Lisa.”
“You’re kidding.” May turned on the kettle.
“No,” Genny said. “Up at Lac Vert, right at the beginning.”
“She’s so mysterious,” May said. “I’m nothing like that.”
“That’s what you think.” Genny regarded her. “You look, I don’t know, ‘knowing.’ Wiser than your years. But no one ever really sees themselves the way others do.”
Mulling that over, May set out the tea things. From a pine cupboard she withdrew a bone china pot decorated with cabbage roses and two cups painted with violets and blue ribbons, and set out a plate of biscuits and the last of Genny’s apple butter.
Sipping their tea, May showed Genny her grandmother’s famous wedding scrapbooks. There were weddings in cathedrals, churches, lighthouses, yacht clubs, penthouses, rose gardens, grandmothers’ houses, and onstage at the Silver Bay Playhouse.
Genny talked about her own wedding to Ray, in the parish church at Lac Vert.
“Where he’d been baptized and made his first communion,” Genny said. “Very boring and conventional.”
“No wedding’s boring,” May said. “And being married to a hockey player isn’t, either.”
“That’s for sure. How are you adjusting?”
“I miss him already, and it’s only November. At least we have the holidays coming soon.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Christmas falls right in the middle of hockey season.”
“I know. I’m trying not to mind. Work keeps my mind off it.”
“I hear people talking about their wor
k, and I think, ‘I want that.’ I walk through galleries and wish I was an artist. At the bookstore I wonder how it would feel to write a book. I want to do something I’m good at.”
“You already know what I think.” May said, aware of Tobin watching them from across the room. Why wouldn’t she just join them for tea?
“My jams?”
“I’m serious, Genny. Brides love to spend money. We sell our own herbs here. We have our own label candles, soaps, all sorts of stuff. I keep imagining a basket filled with your jams and apple butter called ‘Wedding Breakfast.’ ”
“I could write up cards about how the fruit comes from Lac Vert, the most romantic lake in Canada.”
“The baskets would sell like mad.”
“I don’t know.” Genny was starting to smile. “It sounds fun.”
“It would be. Strawberries in June, blueberries in July—what comes next?”
“Peaches, nectarines, cherries. Blackberries. Then apples…you saw our orchard. But it’s November now. Nothing till next summer.” Genny laughed. “Which is good. My usual style is to dream about something forever and ever, then do nothing about it.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” May said. She remembered her grandmother always saying to the women who came to see her: “Never diminish your own worth, not even in jest, or someone will start to believe it.”
“Well…” Genny trailed off, as if she were done with the topic of Genny Gardner for the time being.
“Did Trisha work?” May asked suddenly. May’s mother had always advised her second-marriage brides never to ask questions about the first wife, to leave the past alone, not to borrow trouble, but right now May couldn’t resist.
“She ‘worked it.’ ” Genny laughed. “If you know what I mean. She was out for herself—going to spas, taking trips, visiting ‘friends.’ Ray said she was having affairs all along. Serge introduced Martin to Trisha, you know.”