by Amy Poeppel
Bridget picked up her phone and called Gwen in New York.
“Marge just told me you were here in the city yesterday,” Gwen said. “You didn’t even say hi?”
“I was barely there for a whole day,” Bridget said. “Did you get a package from Lottie?”
“Oh, that,” she said with disdain. “I’m not wearing it.”
“I don’t think we have a choice.” Bridget remembered how insistent Lottie could be. “We’ll hurt her feelings. She must have gone to a lot of trouble.”
“I already bought a Carolina Herrera for you and an Elie Saab for me. If you’d let me know you were here, you could have come over to try it on.”
Bridget was touched. “That was nice of you.” On the outside of the shipping box, taped under a plastic seal, there was a customs form and the receipt. Bridget opened it and gasped. “Lottie spent a fortune on all of this.”
“I’m still not wearing it.”
“Oscar’s vest alone cost eight hundred dollars. Or euros, I guess. The dresses were three thousand, not including the shirts.”
“Still,” said Gwen. “It’s not happening.”
“What color is your apron?”
“It comes with an apron?” Gwen asked, sounding appalled. “What am I, a hausfrau?” There was a pause. “Burgundy.”
“We’re wearing them,” said Bridget. “It was a kind gesture. And we don’t want to start this relationship with a family rift. Who cares what we look like?”
“I care,” said Gwen. “We’re adult women, not flower girls, and I find this very manipulative and controlling.”
“She’s a bride,” said Bridget. “Brides are always manipulative and controlling.”
“I wasn’t,” said Gwen.
“Yes, you were,” said Bridget. “From the pale pink dyed shoes I had to wear to the headbands with bows, you were very… in charge.”
“I was young, and that was the mid-’90s,” said Gwen. “What’s Lottie’s excuse? That she’s almost in her mid-nineties?” There was a long pause. “Actually,” she said, apparently giving her dress another look, “they’re very well tailored. I’ll think about it, but I won’t button the shirt all the way up to my throat.”
“Of course not,” said Bridget, holding the dress to her chest. “Aren’t dirndls supposed to be sexy?”
“I’ll call you back after I try it on,” Gwen said and hung up the phone.
At the bottom of the stairs, Bridget yelled to Oscar.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Come down, I have to show you something.”
The dogs arrived first, followed by Oscar in his boxers. He came into the living room, took one look at the suede pants draped over the couch, and started laughing. “What is that,” he said, “my Halloween costume?”
“It’s your groomsman outfit. No, Bear,” she said sharply, pushing the dog away from the boxes before he could drool all over the silk.
Oscar was holding up the long socks that came with his outfit. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Whose idea was this? I’m going to look like I’ve joined the Hitler Youth.”
Bridget was afraid he was right. “I know you’re a grown-up, and you can say no, but I think we should just be agreeable, regardless of how ridiculous we’ll look.”
Oscar studied the thick, heavy leather. “Holy shit, I’m trying it on.” As he headed to the powder room, carrying the embroidered shirt, the leather knickers, the linen vest, and, yes, even the hat, he said, “Something smells good, like cookies.”
He closed the door to the bathroom, and Bridget went to check on the muffins. They were puffed up but too pale, needing a few more minutes.
The dogs ran off and started barking in the entry. Bridget followed them and looked out the window to see a car coming up the driveway. Never a moment’s peace, she thought. It was a Ford Expedition, shiny and black, with opaque windows.
The car stopped, and the driver, wearing a black suit, black tie, and sunglasses, got out and opened the door to the backseat.
Bridget instantly regretted her sloppy workout clothes when she saw Congressman Jackson Oakley step out of the car, followed by darling Matt.
Bridget ran to the bathroom door and said, over the loud yelping of the dogs, “It’s Matt! He’s here!”
Hadley and Bear expressed less alarm and more joy as soon as they recognized Matt. Bridget opened the front door and went outside to greet her son-in-law with a reserved hug, but the dogs, showing no restraint, knocked Matt over in their excitement. He sat on the ground, letting them jump and drool all over him. Jackson, his suit pressed, his little congressional pin shining from his blazer lapel, took a step out of the fray and watched from the sidelines. Bridget introduced herself to the congressman (“Welcome, please don’t mind the guinea hens”) and invited them in, apologizing for the cardboard boxes, one of which Eliza had now claimed for her own, while Congressman Oakley (“Please, call me Jackson”) was complimenting Bridget on her property.
“It’s beautiful up here,” he said. “And that barn! I love old New England farms.”
Bridget, amazed by the good timing of her desire to bake, took the hot muffins out of the oven and offered them one. “They may need to cool for a minute,” she said.
Bridget poured them coffee, while Matt, who was antsier than usual, said, “Is Oscar even here?” He looked as though his parking meter were about to expire. How many times had Matt sat leisurely at Bridget’s kitchen table in pajamas and bare feet, either on the phone with his mom or reading the Washington Post, helping himself to whatever he wanted in the kitchen? Seeing him there, formal and reserved, turning down a freshly baked muffin, was a hard transition for Bridget and made her think something terrible was about to happen.
“He needs to stop avoiding me.”
Remembering that she herself had hung up on Matt only yesterday made Bridget blush.
“We came all the way here to tell him something,” Matt said, “something very important.”
That sounded ominous. She mustered a bitter smile and said, “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.”
But before she could go, Oscar called out, “Whoa, I look fucking awesome!” He came into the kitchen yodeling loudly in his tight new lederhosen that stopped just below his knees, leather straps over his shoulders, a feather in his cap.
Matt burst out laughing before Oscar had time to look up from buttoning his vest. Oscar’s smile dropped when he saw the two men, and he turned and glared at Bridget. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“I thought you heard me,” she said with an apologetic lift of her shoulders.
Isabelle, wearing nothing but her wet bathing suit, rushed in, clearly excited to find Jackson Oakley hanging out in the kitchen, which made sense because who didn’t want to meet the young freshman congressman from New York? She took one look at Oscar, and whispered, “Dude, what are you wearing?” as she dripped pond water on the floor.
Matt came over to hug Isabelle, not caring that she got his suit damp.
There they all stood in a circle around the perimeter of the kitchen, looking at each other.
Well, this is awkward, thought Bridget. “Does your driver want a cup of coffee?” she said. “Or a bathroom maybe?”
And then, with a strange thunk, the electricity went out. This sudden shift didn’t have the dramatic effect it might have had after dark, but nevertheless, it felt like the house had died: the noisy buzz of the refrigerator stopped, the coffeemaker shut off, and the fan blades slowed to a halt, the air growing still.
“The electrician said this might happen,” Bridget explained. “Whatever a ‘heavy up’ is,” she said, “I’m getting one.”
No one said anything.
Finally, Jackson cleared his throat and smiled at her. “Have you considered adding solar panels?” he asked. “There are a lot of incentives offered for residential installation, and they’ll reduce your electric bills by up to eighty percent.” His cropped, dark hair allowed his dreamy eyes and long
lashes to get all the attention; Bridget could certainly understand why Oscar was jealous.
“Good idea,” Bridget said, thinking it was, to be fair, a very good idea. “I’ll look into it.”
Oscar fidgeted uncomfortably. The only sound was that of creaky footsteps on the roof, where Kevin’s friend was caulking the skylights.
Matt walked over to stand next to Jackson, across from Oscar and Isabelle, like they were on two sides of a tennis court, with Bridget somehow stuck in the middle, as the net referee. Here we go, she thought. But before Matt could say anything, Jackson took a step forward.
“I’ve come here today,” he began, as if addressing the nation, “to set the record straight once and for all, and I’m hoping that by saying this in front of you, Oscar, as well as your family, and even your overgrown, slobbering dogs, that you’ll listen once and for all and stop the nonsense.” He took off his blazer, hung it over the back of a bar stool, and began cuffing his sleeves. “There is nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, going on between Matt and me. He’s told you that our relationship is strictly professional, and yet you insist on being jealous and suspicious, and frankly, you’re acting delusional.” Under his shirt, Jackson’s muscles flexed attractively. “If you continue with this absurd drama, I’m going to do something evil, like put you on a TSA watch list, or sic the IRS on you, or report you to DHS as a member of a neo-Nazi hate group, which”—he held up his phone and snapped a quick picture—“I have a feeling they’ll have no problem believing.”
Bridget noticed that Matt was smiling.
“I’m joking, of course,” said Jackson, “but not really. Now that hotel charge that caused you to lose whatever’s left of your mind was, as Matt already told you, booked for my sister. I’d be happy to give her a call right now and put you on the phone with her if you require confirmation.”
Oscar shook his head.
“The point is,” Jackson continued, “I don’t want to lose Matt; he’s smart, we work very well together, and I trust him. I consider him a friend. But I’ll tell you exactly what I said to him: you have to drop this jealous, immature, paranoid bullshit because I can’t have rumors swirling around my office about fraternization between me and an employee. And I can’t have Matt acting all lovesick and pitiful around me; it’s annoying and unproductive.”
Oscar bit his lip and nodded. Bridget nodded as well; there was no arguing with the congressman.
“Honestly, Oscar, I said you were being stubborn,” Isabelle said. “I knew Matt wasn’t lying.”
Bridget hadn’t known it. “I’m sorry I hung up on you,” she said.
“It’s okay,” said Matt.
“Now, I’m going back to DC,” Jackson said, “because I actually have more important things to do than to patch up my staff’s love lives. So, work it out. Now. And, Matt, I’ll expect to see you in a few days, back to your normal self.”
Jackson looked around the kitchen, giving them each his most winning campaign smile. When he got to Oscar, he dropped the smile. “Oscar,” he said sternly, “stop being a… What did he call me in that message he left?” he asked Matt.
“An assclown,” said Matt.
“Right. Knock it off, assclown. Understood?” He gave Oscar a warning look with a wag of his finger and then clapped him hard on the shoulder. Draping his jacket over his forearm, he said, “You look fetching in this alpine-kink getup, by the way. I didn’t know that was your thing.
“Bridget,” he said, shaking her hand, “you have a beautiful home. You know, I met your father at the Kennedy Center not too long ago. He congratulated me for going into public service and said, ‘Never forget why you’re there. Always keep in mind: “Some work of noble note may yet be done.”’ He said it was from a Tennyson poem, so I went home and printed it out, and I keep it on the bulletin board in my office.”
Bridget was so taken with the congressman that she insisted on wrapping up muffins for him and his driver and walking him out to his car. And before he drove away, she invited him to the wedding.
20
Happy and relieved to get back to his routine, Will returned to the city on Metro North after spending over two uninterrupted weeks in the country with Emma. He and Hudson got a cab at Grand Central and cruised downtown with little traffic to delay them. When he opened the door to his fourth-floor apartment, which seemed especially stuffy and dark, he immediately turned on the air-conditioning unit, threw out all the old food in the fridge, and took out the trash. Hudson, looking sluggish and depressed, fell asleep on the couch.
Will was happy to be spending the next week riding the subway uptown and downtown, teaching lessons, doing a commercial gig at a recording studio, and all the while considering the big question: Should he and Bridget continue with Forsyth or let it die?
His first morning back, he woke up to sunshine streaming in his window. Hudson stood over Will on the bed, wagging his tail. As Will quickly dressed for their morning walk, the sound of hammering in the apartment above him began, loud and jarring. With Hudson on his leash, they went down the stairs and out the door, taking in the smell of sun-warmed garbage as they walked down Barrow Street. Will tried to see his neighborhood through Emma’s eyes: It was prettiest in summer, leafy and bright, but the contrast to the country was admittedly brutal. The air was stale, the sidewalks were filthy, and the noises were an assault on his ears. He picked up Hudson’s poop and dropped the bag in a trash can on the corner, adding to the countless other shit bags already in there.
On the next block, they walked into their regular coffee shop, and Will was surprised to see a brand-new face at the counter, in place of his usual barista. “Hello,” Will said.
The young man frowned and wiped his hands on his apron. “You can’t bring a dog in here.”
“I’m getting my order to go,” Will said. “Medium coffee.” He pulled the money out of his pocket.
“I can’t serve you with a dog, but if you tie him up outside—”
“Look,” Will said, as if he were explaining some very basic technique to a student, “I come here all the time, like almost every day, and I order the same thing—”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’ve been away.”
“It’s a health code thing. A city violation. No pets.” He pointed to a sign in the window.
“I understand that,” said Will, “but I’m not tying my dog outside where anyone could steal him. Now if we stop talking, I’ll be out the door in the exact amount of time it takes you to pour a cup of coffee.”
“Next,” the pimply barista said to the woman now standing behind him.
“You’re not going to serve me? Seriously?” Will asked.
“Seriously,” he said.
Will left the shop in a foul mood. He and Hudson walked back down the street and climbed the dingy, narrow stairs to their apartment. While Will fumbled with his keys by the door, Mitzy stepped into the hallway, closing her door behind her.
“I thought I heard you earlier,” she said, bending over slowly and giving Hudson a pat on the head.
Will felt guilty; he’d abandoned Mitzy this summer. “You’re up early,” he said. “Would you believe I got refused service at my regular coffee place? Because of Hudson! What’s happening to our neighborhood?”
She pointed to the ceiling, where the hammering and drilling continued. “Someone’s putting in hardwood floors upstairs, and tearing up the kitchen and bathrooms, and they start working every day at the crack of dawn. You’re lucky you’ve been away so much. Are you having a good summer?”
“I have a girlfriend,” he said proudly, wishing Emma were beside him to be introduced. “She lives in Connecticut.”
“That’s inconvenient. Couldn’t you find someone closer to home?”
“Apparently not,” he said. “Do you need me to pick up anything for you today? I’m going out later.”
Mitzy cracked her door open and pointed, showing him that somebody was sleeping uncomfortably o
n her small couch. “Ellen’s visiting. She’s taking me to the eye doctor today.”
Will had met Mitzy’s daughter many times over the years when she’d taken the train down from Boston. “Are you getting new glasses?” he asked.
“I have cataracts,” she said. “I’m having surgery next month, only the left eye for now. Tell me about the girl.”
“I’ll introduce you, if she visits,” he said.
“If? Don’t you mean when?”
“I hope so.” The deal-breaker they’d joked about didn’t have to be such a big problem, thought Will, as long as spending weekends together now and then was enough for them. “Let me know when you’re having your cataracts removed. I’ll be coming and going this summer, but if you tell me the date, I can plan around it and take you to the doctor.”
Mitzy rubbed his arm. “It’s all right. Ellen’s coming to stay with me for the whole week of the surgery, but thank you.”
“You know, if I’m away…” He didn’t want to complete the thought but felt compelled to. “Ellen could stay in my apartment. Would that help?”
“Bless you, Will,” Ellen called from the couch. “That would be amazing.”
Will did not like the idea of having anyone, even a responsible adult like Ellen, in his apartment, but he also couldn’t imagine her having to sleep on a hard Victorian sofa for a week.
“No problem,” he called back. “I’ll drop off a key.”
“You’re a saint,” Ellen said. “My back says thank you.”
Mitzy blew him a kiss and went back in her apartment, and Will went in his, turning on music, the same recording of the Mendelssohn piano trio that he’d heard at Edward’s house, hoping it would distract from the construction noises upstairs. He made a pot of coffee and sat on the couch with his iPad. Checking his email, he saw that the brand lady Bridget hired in the spring had just sent them a new logo, and it was fantastic—so fantastic, in fact, that it made the idea of killing the trio ridiculous. She’d sent a few different color options, and Will flipped through them on his iPad, trying to decide which he liked best. He forwarded the files to Brendan so he could incorporate the logo into the website he was designing.