by Amy Poeppel
In spite of her worry about Gavin, Bridget had not lost sight of the bigger problem: the Forsyth Trio was missing a violinist, a manager, and any sort of viable plan to move forward. They were, as her kids would say, completely fucked. Will was likely still clinging to the idea of Gavin stepping in, and, of course, it made sense, professionally speaking, but it wasn’t an option.
Was Gwen right? Had she known what she was doing that night? She had watched, in awe actually, as Gavin transformed over the years from a dorky, immature freshman to a handsome, successful adult. Even the sound of his name had changed in her ear: he went from the awkward geek named Gavin to the talented virtuoso Gavin Glantz. His genes were the kind she would have paid good money for. In her defense, he’d never asked if she was on the pill, never volunteered to get a condom; his complete negligence joined forces with her very strong intentions, and the next thing she knew, she was pregnant. If it weren’t for Gwen, Bridget would have swept the whole situation under the rug and walked over the lumps for the rest of her life.
The phone in her hand began to ring, and she saw Matt’s face appear on her screen. Cute as he was, the sight of him made her furious, and she couldn’t bring herself to take his call. What could she possibly have to say to him? Or him to her? Sorry for breaking your son’s heart?
Too angry to hear an apology or an explanation or anything at all from Matt, she silenced her phone just as a loud, crashing sound came from outside in the yard. She went out and saw that, with the help of three other guys, Kevin had knocked down what remained of the broken tennis court fence.
The guinea hens were still pecking their way around the grass, eating all the ticks they could find, but the sheep were gone, having finished the initial work on the overgrown field. Kevin had finally been able to mow, shirtless, riding a John Deere. Isabelle’s attraction to him made some sense, Bridget had to admit; he had a Chris Pratt look about him, and he was proving to be the kind of man you’d want with you during an apocalypse: steady, reliable, strong, and resourceful. Isabelle certainly did seem light of foot and energetic lately, helping out in the kitchen, offering to do the grocery shopping, and—most of all—trying to get Oscar back together with Matt.
“Don’t you miss him?” Bridget had overheard Isabelle saying that morning. “I bet Matt misses you.”
“He misses the dogs,” Oscar had said sadly.
“Why won’t you at least hear him out? You’re being appallingly stubborn,” said Isabelle, “and you’ll be sorry one day when you’re lying on your deathbed and you realize how much time you lost with him.”
“Jeesh, morbid much?”
“People screw up,” she said. “You could consider forgiving him. Or listening to him at least.”
“No fucking way,” said Oscar. “And how can I forgive him if he won’t even admit he’s done anything wrong?”
Bridget was in no mood to forgive Matt either, but what did she know about relationships? Maybe Oscar’s problem, she thought, was that he had no role model for marriage. Bridget certainly wasn’t one, nor was Will. Gwen had offered a counterexample, a reason to avoid marriage at all costs, along with grounds for suspecting the very worst in one’s partner. Where could Oscar look to get good advice?
* * *
The men were now dragging the fence posts away from the court. From the spot where Bridget was standing, she heard a car horn and turned to see Kevin’s grandfather Walter pulling up the driveway in his pickup truck.
He walked stiffly over to her with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a folder. “I heard there’s a lot going on over here.” He looked out across the field at the tennis court, where his grandson was using pure force to pull chain link off of the cedar posts and pile them onto the bed of a truck. “What’s the plan for the barn?” he said.
“I’m sprucing it up.”
“Because once the nomination is approved, you’ll have to get permission to make exterior changes.”
“Nomination for what?”
“I’m on the board over at the historical preservation committee,” he said. “All applications go through me via the town council, and Kevin mentioned you needed a form.” He handed her several stapled sheets of paper. “We’ll need you to fill this out, and the board members will come to do a site visit.”
Bridget leafed through the pages of questions. “This is to get landmark status? Like a plaque?”
“It’s the application to start the process.”
“Thanks for bringing it over.” She looked over the application, nodding. “I’ll get this back to you.”
“Just give it to Kevin. I hear he’s spending a lot of time here. Funny that your kids came home after all, isn’t it? Getting to know each other again.”
“Getting to know each other” was one way of putting it. Bridget smiled. “He’s a huge help,” she said.
Walter gave her a salute. “Let me know when you’re ready, and the board will schedule a meeting about the landmark.”
As he walked off to his car, Bridget faced the barn with hands on her hips, appreciating the way the late-afternoon sun was shining on the rotting vertical boards on the west side. Kevin had replaced a few of them, but it looked like many more needed attention. Looking up higher, she saw that the windows were blackened with decades of filth.
And then she saw Oscar posing in the barn’s open doorway, holding an industrial push broom upside down like a staff. He looked like one half of the couple in a much cuter American Gothic.
“Hey,” he called, giving her a wave and then wiping his face on his shirt.
Bridget walked over to him, and as she went inside the barn, his dogs came over to say hello before flopping down again in a shady spot. “You know, I think that broom works better with the bristles on the floor.”
“Ah,” he said, turning it over, “no wonder it’s been slow-going.”
“Have you seen Henry around?” she said. “He’s MIA.”
“He’ll come in when he gets hungry enough. I saw Eliza sleeping on the piano.” He flipped the broom over and started sweeping again with fast, angry movements.
There was another broom leaning against the wall, and Bridget went to get it. She started in the entry to the barn, sending the dirt out the door. “I hear physical work can be therapeutic,” she said after a few minutes.
“It’s keeping my aggression at bay.”
Bridget waited.
“Watch me, sweeping all thoughts of Congressman Oakley out of my head. Bye-bye, you gorgeous, tall, brilliant public official,” he said, with a hard sweep of the broom.
Bridget copied him. “Why are we exorcising Jackson Oakley?”
“Because it’s him,” he said.
Bridget stopped sweeping. “What’s him?”
Oscar didn’t say anything.
“No! The congressman? That’s who Matt—?” Bridget was shocked. “That’s scandalous. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“That’s not only horrible,” she said, “that’s bad… workplace behavior.” She watched as he swept another big plume of dust out the barn door.
“Did you know the washing machine’s broken?” he said.
She had to hand it to him for a well-executed change of topic.
“It fills up with water,” he said, “but then it just sits there.”
“Hell’s bells,” said Bridget. “Jackson Oakley? Really?”
It was strange seeing Oscar looking like an adorable farmhand, messy hair and dirty jeans, a sad expression. She hated Matt for hurting him like this and patted herself on the back for refusing his call. She went back to sweeping the wood floors, just as angry now as he was. “Is anything not broken in this place?”
“Broken appliances, broken windows, broken hearts,” said Oscar.
Bridget put her broom down. “Maybe dinner at the Castle will cheer you up. I need a shower before we go,” she said. “You?”
Oscar looked down at his damp, stained clothes. “Matt once told me
that Congressman Oakley is so perfect, he doesn’t even sweat.”
* * *
Bridget and Oscar were cleaned up and well dressed as they walked across the courtyard of Edward’s house. The front door opened, and Nicholas Donahue stepped out into the light, walking toward them. Not wanting to make assumptions, Bridget introduced herself as he approached.
“We’ve met before,” Nicholas said, shaking her hand and smiling warmly.
“I remember,” said Bridget. “You and your wife were at that festival in Austria—”
“Ex-wife,” said Nicholas quickly.
“Sorry,” said Bridget. “I didn’t know.”
Nicholas waved off her apology. “Quite all right. Yes, I saw you in Salzburg when your trio performed an arrangement of Liszt’s ‘Carnaval de Pesth.’ ”
If Bridget herself had been asked what they’d played at that concert, she didn’t think she’d recall. “Sharp memory.”
He seemed to realize he was still holding her hand and let it go. “It was a memorable rendition.”
She turned to Oscar. “Nicholas is writing a book on your grandfather,” she said.
He and Oscar shook hands.
“Your mother is an exceptional musician,” Nicholas said and then shook his head, embarrassed. “But then you know that, of course. Are you a musician as well?”
“God, no,” said Oscar with a laugh. “My sister and I didn’t inherit that gene.”
“Will and I,” said Bridget, “—you remember Will?—we tried for years to get the kids interested in classical music, but we couldn’t get them to appreciate anything further back than the ’60s.”
“Also a worthy period,” said Nicholas. “Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix. Some of my favorite musicians.”
Bridget was surprised; she’d have thought he’d be snobbier.
“You’re not staying for dinner?” Oscar asked.
“I’d love to, really, but I’m expected in New York,” said Nicholas. “My daughter’s in town for work, and I couldn’t miss a chance to see her when she’s so nearby.” He pointed to an old Subaru parked in the courtyard. “I’m on my way to take the train into Manhattan.”
“You may run into Will at the station,” said Bridget.
“Excellent. Well, I’ll look for him. And should we miss each other, please send him my regards.”
Nicholas gave them a polite nod and turned to leave. Before getting in his car, he called out, “I’ll see you at the wedding, if not before,” and waved good-bye.
“He reminds me of Colin Firth,” said Bridget. “Nice man, isn’t he?”
“Very,” said Oscar, “and attractive if you’re into that charming, dignified professor look.”
They watched his car sputter down the driveway.
“You do this thing,” Oscar said, “and I don’t know if it’s on purpose or if you’re even aware of it, but you made him think you and Will are a couple.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” Oscar said, smiling. “The message you just sent is that you’re completely unavailable, which is fine if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, please,” Bridget said, “he wasn’t interested in my… status anyway.”
“If you say so,” he said, turning to walk to the door.
They rang the bell, and Marge greeted them, saying, “Still no Matt?”
“He’s in DC,” said Oscar, walking in the entry and kicking off his shoes.
Marge considered this. “You want my opinion?” she asked.
“Not really,” said Oscar.
“You’re not a child anymore, and you can’t run away from your problems.” She gave her words a moment to sink in before reaching up to hug him. “You look hungry,” she said.
“I’m starved,” said Oscar, walking away to the dining room.
Marge studied Bridget, then took her hand and turned her around in a circle. “What a pretty rig,” she said. “You never dress up here. What’s gotten into you?”
Bridget appreciated the compliment; she’d gone to a lot of trouble, even shaving her legs so she could wear the navy blue wrap dress she’d worn in May to Sterling’s book-release party.
Marge sniffed the air, saying, “I hope that’s not our dinner burning. I’m trying out a new caterer who’s auditioning to do the food for the wedding.” She hurried off to the kitchen, as Gwen came down the stairs in jodhpurs, a tucked-in, crisp white shirt, and a tailored blazer. Jackie came down slowly behind her, gripping the banister as though her legs might not hold her. She had rethought her wardrobe since her first visit and was wearing cropped linen pants and a pair of indoor Allbirds like the ones Gwen always wore. She moaned slightly, waved to Bridget, and limped into the dining room.
“Whoops,” said Gwen.
“What happened to her?”
“I introduced her to equestrian life today. We went on an easy little trail ride.”
“For how long?”
“About four hours.”
Bridget gave Gwen a look.
“What? She’s a runner. I thought she could handle it.”
They went into the dining room, where Edward had already taken his place in his armed chair at the mahogany table. Technically, he wasn’t seated at the “head,” as this table was round and so large it brought the court of King Arthur to mind. Gwen and Bridget sat on either side of Edward, while Jackie, Oscar, and Marge took the other three chairs. The table was perfect for entertaining groups of twelve or more, but with only six of them there, there was too much space between them, leaving everyone a little unmoored.
Looking around the candlelit room, Oscar said in a spooky voice, “Everyone join hands, so the séance can begin.”
Edward, who looked like Cary Grant in his belted, navy blue smoking jacket, said, “I can offer something even more mystical than a meeting with the dead. If I can have everyone’s attention.” He leaned over an iPad that was next to his placemat, pressed a few buttons, and said, “Abracadabra.” Handel came out of the speakers hidden somewhere in the room.
“Is that your handiwork?” Oscar asked Jackie.
She nodded.
“Jackie,” said Edward, “is a technological wizard.”
Jackie looked embarrassed. “No, it’s just iTunes.”
“Nonsense,” said Edward, holding up the iPad. “What you’ve accomplished with this device is a miracle of science.”
“Now, listen up,” Marge said over the music, “we’re eating buffet-style tonight because I didn’t have a clear head count.” She directed their attention to the platters that were lined up on the sideboard. “Now, come on, Jackie, help yourself. Is Isabelle coming?”
“She said she was,” Bridget said, starting to reach for her phone.
Marge stopped her. “Don’t nag her,” she said. “She’ll get here when she gets here.”
Bridget put her phone away. “Dad,” she said, “how’re the plans for the wedding?”
“Fine,” he said. “It’s certainly a very busy summer for me.”
Jackie hadn’t gotten up yet, so Marge encouraged her, saying, “Don’t be shy. Go ahead.”
Jackie started to stand, winced, and then tried again.
“You okay?” Oscar asked.
“Just a little sore,” she said, going stiffly to the buffet and returning with a modest serving of beef tenderloin and asparagus on a Wedgwood plate.
“There’s plenty of everything,” said Marge, getting up to adjust the dimmer on the chandelier.
“Good,” said Oscar, “because I did hard-core manual labor today.”
Marge served a plate for Edward and brought it to him as Bridget tapped him on the sleeve. “Lottie says you’re inviting about a hundred and fifty people.”
“Closer to two hundred,” Edward said, waving his fork around, “give or take a dozen.”
“God help us,” Marge mumbled, sitting back down.
“How many people are staying here?” asked Gwen.
“I do
n’t know,” he said, “ten or twelve? Marge?”
Bridget counted the upstairs bedrooms in her head. “Where will they all sleep?” she asked.
“Marge can sort that out,” Edward said, pouring himself a glass of wine and offering some to Bridget.
“With Gwen, Lottie, and Hans coming, and the composers in residence, we’ll be full to bursting,” said Marge.
“Oh, and I’ve decided,” said Edward, “to invite all of my former retreat composers to the wedding. It’s a chance for them to get to know one another and discuss their experiences writing music here.”
“That’s kind of complicated,” said Gwen. “Why do you want such a big to-do?”
“Your wedding was big,” said Edward.
“And look how that turned out,” Gwen said grimly.
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Marge, standing up again.
“Lottie wants a big affair,” Edward said, “so that’s what we’re having. This discussion is closed.”
At that proclamation, Oscar and Bridget got up to go to the buffet as Marge came back in the room with Isabelle and Kevin. Kevin stopped in the doorway to admire the coffered ceiling and wainscoting.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Isabelle. She kissed Edward’s cheek and introduced him to Kevin.
“Beautiful house, sir,” said Kevin, shaking his hand. “Very impressive woodwork.” Kevin came over to Bridget, looking excited. “I met a guy today at the lumberyard who’s an expert on old barns, and I thought maybe he should come see the place, if that’s okay with you.”
“Do I need an expert?” Bridget asked.
“Yes,” said Marge, “you do.”
“Guess what, everyone,” Isabelle said loudly, “I got a job today.” She sat down in Oscar’s chair. “Starting tomorrow I’ll be working at Latham’s.”
Bridget thought the name rang a bell.
“The alpaca place?” said Gwen.
Isabelle looked surprised. “You know it?”