“And Andrew…” she continues.
“You mean Adrian?” She never gets his name right.
“Whatever.” She flips her hand dismissively. “He calls your father too much”—she also calls Joseph my father—“kissing his ass by giving us reports on you. The only reason I don’t tell him to go straight to hell is because you never call or stop by. If you were dead, I wouldn’t know.”
I feel like shrinking into my chair. I didn’t know Mom felt that way. But I don’t apologize because she’s right; I should say what I think and not what will make her feel better.
“I didn’t think you cared. After Daniel died, you and Dad checked out. I thought without him, you didn’t want me.”
She reaches over and strokes my hair. I’m stiff. I can’t believe I said that, but it’s the nucleus of everything that’s wrong with our relationship.
“We were going to divorce before Daniel died,” she finally says. “I could be nothing but a shitty mother and Jacques could be nothing but a shitty father. We did the best we could. I’m always doing the best I can, ma fleur.
“You and Daniel were easy. You had each other, and Jacques and I, we retreated like cowards. The first time I knew we had it too easy as parents is when you were four and Daniel was six. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was taking calls and panicking over deliverables. Finally, I remembered I had two little children. I said, ‘Fuck, I haven’t fed them all day!’
“But when I found the both of you, you were in the backyard building a dog house.” She chuckles at the memory. “Daniel dug all the tools out of the garage and then dragged you door to door to ask the neighbors for any spare wood they had lying around. You also made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches–lots of them.”
I’ve never seen my mom smile like that. It’s refreshing. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were too young. And there are too many similar memories buried on top of it.”
“Like the tree house debacle.” Now I’m wearing the same smile, remembering my brother, my hero. “And the fifth dog house debacle.”
“He also tried to dig a second swimming pool in the front lawn. Five times. Build a house for only you and him to live in. Screw us…” She chuckles. “That’s what he said. He was mad at me for forgetting your birthday.”
I lift a finger. “I remember that.”
“You both used to get your skateboards, and we wouldn’t see you until dinner.” She narrows her eyes inquisitively. “Where did you go?”
“To the park to jump the benches. Once we skateboarded all the way to Hollywood Boulevard and Long Beach.” I pause. “And Malibu and Santa Monica. We tried Pasadena, but I wimped out at the 10 Freeway.”
“Is that so?” Mom asks, half impressed, half amazed. “I would’ve never let you do that if I knew.”
I shrug and joke, “Well, you were too busy being a shitty mother.”
She laughs in the way one does when they’ve had too much to drink. “I hope you let me make it up to you.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “You’ve already started. But, Mom, if you didn’t want children, then why did you marry Joseph and have two more?”
She sighs, getting cozier with the chair cushions. “Because he wanted them. You know these goddamn people; they have their ideals. He’s a good father though. Thank God for that.” She falls silent, and I study her beautiful face as she becomes more and more human to me. “Listen, ma fleur, when you get home, call Jacques. Go see him and say to him what you said to me. He would like to hear it.” My eyes grow wide, and she catches it. “You’re not coming home?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing.
“Is it that serious between you and Jack Lord?”
I shrug and mutter, “Maybe.”
“And you met him on Saturday?” Her tone is colored by doubt.
I nod continuously, grinning. “Yeah.”
She studies me with narrowed eyes. “Humph.”
“What is it, Mom?”
“I never thought you’d fall in love with anyone other than Daniel.” She massages my shoulder. “It’s quick, but hell, I believe it. I knew this is how it would have to happen for you. Joseph and I used to talk it about it all the time. We knew you didn’t love Andy—”
“Adrian,” I quickly correct her.
“Andy, Andrew, Adrian, who cares? I’m glad I don’t have to take any more of his phone calls. But we knew it would have to sneak up on you.”
“What would have to sneak up on me?”
“True love.”
“Oh…”
“This is good. I’m happy for you.” She smiles at me and strokes my cheek. “Ma belle fleur.”
Our conversation turns, and we talk about everything under the sun. She wants to know about my job—where I’ve been and where I’m going. She vents about all the imbeciles she has to deal with on a daily basis, including tomorrow. She has to fly out first thing in the morning.
“First I let them take my accent, next they’ll take my life,” she complains.
But I accused her of loving every second of it, and she had to agree.
We fall asleep on the sofa in the enclosed patio, watching the ocean and finishing off the bottle of wine. At five o’clock in the morning, the alarm on Mom’s cell phone rings.
Mom darts upstairs to shower and brush her teeth. When she comes back downstairs, she’s wearing a tight pair of boot-cut jeans and a sheer, button-down white blouse with a silk camisole under it. She emigrated from France to California when she was ten years old and never looked back. My mother puts the California in California girl.
I offer to drive her to the airport, but she insists on taking a taxi.
“Get some real sleep, Daisy. You have a man to make up with today,” she says and hugs me good-bye.
She’s now gone. And I can’t wait to properly thank Belmont Lord for bringing her to me.
***
I take my mom’s suggestion and set the alarm on my phone for ten a.m. before climbing into bed. When the alarm sounds, it’s loud and imposing. I groan as I climb out from under the sheets. I had four glasses of burgundy too many. If it weren’t for my aching head, I would doubt that my mother was actually here last night. We’ve never spoken to each other like that. Ever.
That’s because I had an epiphany recently. Leaving things the way they are is merely my way of maintaining emotional and spatial distance. So much of my life has been lived already, but in the last three days, I realized I want more. I simply want more.
According to the list, the first wedding was scheduled for nine a.m. this morning at Blue Meadow Ranch in Chilmark. According to the map, the estate is only six miles away from where I am. I hate that I missed it. I mark the next six weddings and two receptions I plan to crash. The brides and grooms are all from big cities like Baltimore, Manhattan, Chicago, and Alexandria, Virginia. I should be able to fit in easily.
According to the forecast, today’s high will reach sixty-eight degrees. That’s pretty nice for this side of the country. I decide to wear a dreamy, powder-blue cashmere wrap-dress and gold two-inch high heels. I’ve already accepted the fact that by the end of the day, my feet will be throbbing, burning, and stinging. Only another warm bubble bath, this time accompanied by Belmont Lord, will sooth them. I know I should call him to thank him for what he’s done for my mother and me, but the pressure of six weddings in ten hours is weighing down on me.
I straighten my hair with the flatiron and twist it into a chignon at the back of my head, allowing loose strands to fall around my face. By ten thirty a.m., I’m behind the wheel of the rental car and plugging all the addresses into the navigator. Three of them are at farms, two are at lighthouses, and one takes place in a meadow. One reception is in the courtyard of the Ocean View Inn in Edgartown and the other in Vineyard Haven.
The Martha’s Vineyard landscape is becoming familiar to me. My senses have gotten used to the oak, birch, maple, cedar, and sassafras trees. I expect to be swamp
ed by trees at every turn, but there’s a surprise around every corner. You’re driving or walking along and then out of nowhere, a meadow of wildflowers opens up or a shimmering pond where ducks play appears. And I can tell how gentle a place is by the varieties of fowl that live there. Wild geese flap through the sky, safe and secure, knowing that there are no hunting seasons on Martha’s Vineyard.
The first three weddings go just as planned. I take pictures. I always choose the bride’s side because her guests are the most talkative ones. I make comments to strangers about how beautiful the flowers are, how fantastic it is that the day has finally come, and embellish by saying “I saw her already, and she’s stunning.” That’s how I usually get the name of the bride.
“Yeah, Tabatha picked the right dress this time.”
“Leanne deserves this moment.”
“I’m so happy Rachel decided to go through with it.”
“Hell, it cost her enough… Sidney is always big on spending big…”
Of course I can’t use these tidbits in the article, but I become part of the guest list just as if I received my own invitation with the big day announced in gold lettering.
I’m in the meadow at wedding number four and have been going at it nonstop. Sidney’s chipper friends Carly and Linda have taken a liking to me. The attendees are from Chicago, and we’ve already discussed ad nauseam the sheer number of men who live on the island while waiting for the tardy bride to step on her mark.
“Dirty hands, dirty mouths… plain old dirty,” Linda remarks in a plain old dirty way.
“I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” Carly says for the fifth time as she squints at me. “How do you know Sidney?”
And now I’m forced to confess. “I don’t know her.”
“Then you’re friends with Emil?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m a travel writer, and I’m writing a story about weddings on Martha’s Vineyard.”
Carly snaps her finger. “That’s it! You write that taxicab series! I mean, the photos of you leaning on the taxicab alone make you want to read the articles. I’m like, ‘I want to go wherever she’s going.’” She laughs.
“What taxicab series?” Linda asks, still confused.
Before I’m able to say a word, Carly explains my work. “And Sidney is a bigger fan of your articles than I am! She would die if she knew you were here, at her wedding. Wait, I’ll be back.” She shoots out of her seat and trots up the aisle.
The next time I see her, she’s standing in the aisle waving for me to follow her. Everyone looks concerned as she takes my hand and nearly drags me along. It does appear as if something has gone terribly wrong.
But au contraire–I hit the jackpot!
Sidney, the bride, gives me permission to snap as many photos as I like. She says she would really like to have an editorial-quality shot of the moment they turn to face the audience after being pronounced man and wife. On top of that, she’ll grant me an interview tomorrow morning before they ship out for their honeymoon on the French Riviera. They chose that location after reading my article and plan to follow my excursion step by step.
I also lucked out that she’s a stunning bride. Her figure, face, and dress are very editorial. Sidney is tall, curvaceously fit, and she has wavy brunette tresses streaking down her back. Her dress is white—that’s classic—and I’m so happy she’s wearing a vintage pearl necklace.
The groom is an ordinary tall, thin, shaved guy. He makes me wonder, How in the world did he land her? This, of course, makes the article even more appealing. They represent the promise. If you have your wedding on Martha’s Vineyard, even if you’re an average Joe, you just might end up with a Sidney. There’s no way Dusty Burrows will turn down the article once I send the shots.
I’m in writer mode, paying attention to all the little details. I snap a shot of the little girl with ginger ringlets at the moment she’s handed the satin pillow with the ring by a smiling bridesmaid; the awestruck expression on the groom’s face the moment the bride appears; two women whispering about how breathtaking she looks; how her father’s face turns from dutiful to pleased the moment he hands her to the new leading man in her life. I certainly get the money shot that Sidney requested. The birds in the trees, the sky with its bulbous clouds, and the yellow wild flowers are also featured in nearly every shot.
After the ceremony, Linda and Carly insist that I attend the reception. They promise there will be a horrible wedding band belting out all of the hits from the eighties and nineties, but no one will care how bad they sound because they’ll be wasted as soon as the party starts.
I’m not a big social drinker, so I decline until I’m offered a spot at the dinner table—I can’t refuse food. I hadn’t realized it, but it’s going on six o’clock and I haven’t eaten at all. This happens frequently when I’m working. Only when I’m on the verge of fainting do I remember it’s time to eat.
The wedding party proceeds from the meadow to the docks where a number of boats wait to whisk them across the shores to a mansion in Edgartown that once belonged to a sea captain.
I head back to the car to call Belmont and let him know where I’m going. I search my wallet for the card he gave me, but I can’t find it. And he’s never called my phone, so I don’t have his number.
I chuckle at this minor disaster. I make a split-second decision to drive to his house and knock on the door, but there’s no answer.
This time, fate isn’t on our side. I retrieve my notepad from my bag, rip out a sheet of paper, and write out a note telling Belmont that I’ve gone to a wedding reception in Edgartown. I leave the address. It’s actually kind of disappointing that he isn’t at home.
The drive to the reception is a solemn one, and I can’t help but speculate about where he might be. Maybe he was called away on business. Maybe I was right and I was a game he played. But then why would he go through the trouble of flying my mom here? Apparently they had a serious conversation. Nope, he’s serious about me. He truly cares about me—me, Daisy Blanchard.
That puts a smile back on my face as I navigate the dark roads. Daylight Saving Time is no more and I already miss it. I roll into Edgartown and find a parking space just large enough to accommodate one Mini Cooper.
This street brings back bad memories. Boy, did I overreact the other night. Instead of escaping, I should’ve remained at the table, kissed Belmont proudly, and replied, “So what? Now are we done here?” Thus, wiping that smug look off Maya’s face. If only life granted do-overs after cooler heads prevail.
I snap photos while advancing up the street. There’s nothing more enchanting than Main Street of a small town in autumn. Almost all the quaint storefronts have white lights strung in the windows, and the glass-house streetlamps add to the ambiance. Usually the sidewalks are made of red brick, and the one street separating them is so narrow that I could hop right across it in two leaps.
On a scale from one to ten, the pain in my feet has reached seven and a half. I’m sort of limping with each step and alter my plans for the night. I won’t stay for dinner. I’ll take photos, thank the bride for her generosity, and confirm our interview for seven a.m. at the Day Harbor Café where we’ll have a light breakfast.
Finally, my aching feet bring me to the lawn of the mansion. What a novel idea. Blocks of white lights carve out a pathway leading to the white canvas tent. With the lights twinkling in the bulbous shrubs and feathery trees and the mansion rising in the distance, one would think that they’ve just stepped into the pages of a fairy tale.
The closer I get, the more chatter I hear. The guests erupt in laughter. A woman is speaking into a microphone. It’s too early for a toast, but that’s what it sounds like. Aching feet and all, I pick up the pace to capture the moment.
“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…” the crowd chants.
“Ah, what the hell!” the woman says.
I make it just in time to catch the kiss, camera in hand. My mouth is caught open. I’m frozen behind a table of people c
heering on the kissers.
To my utter shock, it’s Belmont and a sultry brunette, and they’re engaged in some serious tongue action. My fingers involuntarily snap the shot as I take steps backward. Before I know it, I’m running away from the tent, across the lawn and down the street.
Heck, I can’t win for losing!
I snatch the car door open, forgetting to turn off the alarm first, and it starts blasting. After fumbling with the keys, I’m able to silence it. Once I close myself inside, I preview the photo.
His hand is on her waist. Their lips are locked. My heart once again shatters. I can’t take this any more. Instead of pain, I feel numb and resolved to the fact that every decision I’ve made regarding my love life has been a bad one.
I close my eyes to settle my breathing. Maybe I had to meet Belmont in order to make things right with my mom. And maybe he can’t help himself. He was, or is, a man whore. He’s a nice guy, well meaning, but maybe his sexual cravings are unquenchable. Since I left him wanting, he found another woman to fulfill them.
There… that’s how I make sense out of what I just saw. I sift through my contacts and call Leslie, my travel agent. I wait with bated breath for her to answer.
“Charter One Travel, Leslie speaking,” she says.
I expel a sigh of relief. “Hi, Leslie, this is Daisy Blanchard…”
“I know who you are!” she says excitedly. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
The fact that she speaks to me as though we’re not the same age doesn’t bother me this time. Instead, I go right into spouting out instructions.
“I need you to find me a house to rent that’s not in Chilmark or owned by a Belmont or Jack Lord. Please tell the owner that he or she is not to divulge my whereabouts to anyone; as a matter of fact, don’t even provide my name. Make sure there’s a wireless Internet connection. I need the rental until Saturday morning, and book me a flight out of Logan to Lima, Peru that afternoon. Oh, and make sure it’s a refundable ticket. I might fly back to LAX instead.” I’ve decided to accept the Peru offer, but I’m also itching to have that conversation with my father.
Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA) Page 13