by Amy Poeppel
“I think Gwen wants to meet your plane,” Bridget said. “And you’re welcome to stay at my father’s. They have the pool house ready for you.”
“No, thank you,” said Hans. “I’ll go back to New York directly after the ceremony.”
What a party pooper, thought Bridget. They hung up, and Bridget looked sadly at her barn, knowing her father would never give in to Hans’s demands.
26
The Castle, which had always seemed so formidable and grand, looked sad and broken when Will pulled in the courtyard Sunday evening before the wedding. As he parked Emma’s car, he saw the big pieces of ugly plywood covering up the broken mullioned windows on one side of the house, above which black smudges marked the stone where the fire had licked the walls. There was debris littering the ground and a small dumpster filled with the charred furniture and floorboards. A broken mirror stuck out of the top. In the other direction, he could plainly see the house’s enduring beauty, the sun lighting the chimneys and turrets, the green lawns and terraces. “Last night,” thought Will, “I dreamt I went to Manderley…”
Will had been to the estate countless times with Bridget and the kids, to swim in the pool, have four-course dinners, browse the antique books in the library. Friendship with Bridget had given him access to all kinds of experiences he might not have otherwise had, being granted an audience with Sir Edward Stratton being one of them. Most people of modest means would feel out of place walking up to such a grand house, approaching this solid door, and Will had never lost his sense of awe in all the years of coming here. He only hoped he might find Edward in a mood to listen and not to lecture.
Will rang the bell, and Jackie answered instead of Marge. The house was quiet with the exception of the intermittent sound of the piano; someone was playing quite well from behind the closed living room door, a beautiful piece Will didn’t recognize. It was hard to make Edward’s piano sound bad. Will had played his Bösendorfer a few times over the years, another example of an experience normal people would never get to have.
He put his hand on the chair rail to balance as he took off his shoes. “What’s the mood around here today?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” said Jackie. “Marge and Ms. Lang are finalizing the menu for the wedding dinner, and Mr. Stratton’s been in the library for hours.”
“And in there?”
“The French composer,” said Jackie.
“How’s this health-kick thing you’re all doing?” he asked. “Sounds brutal.”
“It’s good,” she said, glancing down at her feet.
“You can tell me the truth. What’s the book called again? Ancient something?”
Jackie dropped her shoulders. “Ancient Nonsense, Modern Bullshit. I hate it, and I cheat all the time. I haven’t gone a single day when I didn’t break most of the rules. I even sleep with my phone.”
“Scandalous.”
“Yesterday I had a Snickers bar and coffee for breakfast.”
Will mimed zipping his lips. “But are you otherwise enjoying yourself?” Unlike the evening he’d first met her, Jackie now had the air of a young woman at ease; she was standing casually, hands tucked in the back pockets of her jeans.
She looked around the foyer, which was mahogany-paneled on one side and burned to a crisp on the other, a plastic sheet separating Edward’s wing from the entry. “It took some getting used to,” she said, “but… I spent an hour swimming last night with the brilliant, adorable Greek composer, and when I got back to Bridget’s, someone—I don’t even know who—had done all my laundry and left it perfectly folded on my clean bed. I got up early this morning just because I felt like taking a bubble bath in Isabelle’s tub. Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know how I’ll ever go back to my shitty, dull life after this summer.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Will remembered how small his apartment felt after staying at Bridget’s house the first time.
Jackie looked surprised. “But you’re sort of a family member, aren’t you? Or an honorary one?”
“Sure, but I’m from the impoverished side of the family. This kind of grandeur is foreign to me, too.”
“I didn’t know there was an impoverished side,” Jackie said.
“I’m the only one on it, actually.”
Jackie was looking at him as if she hadn’t met him until now.
“I happen to be pretty broke at the moment,” he said, “but I’ll figure it out. I always do. If I want to pay my rent, I have to earn the money, one lesson, one gig, and one dollar at a time.” Will had seven months left on his lease and had finally started searching online for apartments in Queens and Jersey City, but he was still hoping—irrationally—that if he wanted to stay, he could find a place in his own neighborhood. It would be smaller, of course, and crappier, which at his age seemed a cruel joke.
“If my mom can’t pay her rent, she calls me to bail her out.”
“Ah, touché,” he said, tipping a pretend hat to her. “You bested me.”
She curtsied back.
“You and I may not come from money,” he said, “but we’re resourceful, self-reliant, and we have grit.” He made fists and held them up, with a little shake, as a gesture of encouragement. “And I’m not going to deny there are advantages to being friends with people who happen to be completely loaded.”
“I’ve taken up horseback riding,” she said. “It’s a short-lived hobby, since I’m not exactly in the market to buy a horse.”
“Borrowing horses is always better. I hear they make terrible roommates.”
Jackie smiled. “I rented a yellow strapless dress to wear to the wedding this weekend, and I’ll feel like Cinderella when I mail it back Monday morning.”
“I’ll think of you when I’m returning my fancy tux. The one I wear for performances is too old and shabby for this event. Wish me luck,” he said, pointing to the library. “I’m about to go out on a limb.”
Jackie smiled, held up her fists, and shook them back at him.
* * *
Will knocked on the door to the library and cracked it open.
“Come in,” Edward called. He was sitting in one of a pair of antique chairs, very close to the French doors that led to the living room. Will wondered if the composer, who was playing the piano so well in there, knew Edward was only a few feet away, able to hear every note he played. If so, was it making him self-conscious?
Edward had no book in his lap, no phone in his hand. He was sitting idly with an empty brandy snifter, facing the table that held his many awards and dozens of silver-framed photographs of famous opera singers, dancers, actors, and politicians posing with him.
Will approached him and shook his hand. Edward barely acknowledged his presence. He had a sour expression on his face and was dressed as if for a funeral in a navy suit, pressed white shirt, and dark tie.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Will said. “I know you’re probably very busy with wedding plans…”
Edward looked sullen as he set his glass down. “Did Bridget mention anything to you about her objections to my upcoming trip?”
Bridget had, in fact, told him everything there was to tell about it. “No,” said Will, examining his hands. “What objections?”
The composer in the next room had paused, but he now played a few harsh atonal chords followed by a graceful, tonal melody.
“When you get to be my age, you’ll understand,” said Edward, “that it’s a bloody slap in the face to be treated like a child.”
“I’m sure she—”
“Do I look like a man who can’t handle a little international travel?”
Will had clearly come on the wrong day. “No, sir.”
“I’ve traveled more than anyone else in this family. I was in East Berlin in the ’60s, Shanghai in the ’70s, and Leningrad in the ’80s. I’ve been to war zones. Don’t tell me where I can and cannot go.”
Edward had yet to invite Will to take a seat, but Will did anyway, sitting on the matching chai
r that was placed at an angle beside Edward’s. Will turned his body to face him, while Edward stared straight ahead.
“Where are you going?” Will asked.
“If Bridget gets her way, I’m being wheeled with Lottie onto a padded yacht, lashed to the mast to keep me out of trouble, and fed baby food with a plastic spoon.”
“I’m sure that’s not what—”
“Hans, my future son-in-law, put a bee in Bridget’s bonnet. He thinks I’m not to be trusted.” In his dark suit, Edward looked responsible enough to run a nation, in spite of the embroidered slippers on his feet. “I thought Lottie and I would be good traveling companions, and a happy couple, but I wonder now what I’ve gotten myself into at this point in my life. Maybe I’m better off on my own.”
Edward looked deadly serious. Will understood his doubts all too well, but hated to think of Edward canceling the wedding, of Lottie jilted. Of a big family rift.
“I’ve been fine by myself for forty blasted years,” Edward said. “I finally enter into a relationship, and I’m suddenly on trial by a jury of our offspring. I won’t stand for a loss of my independence.”
Will had come prepared for a very different conversation. “I’m sure you don’t mean that. You and Charlotte have so much to look forward to.”
Edward turned his head and looked at him then, for the first time since Will had come in. “You stayed clear of marriage, though, didn’t you?” His expression had changed, as if he saw Will as an ally. “After one bad experience, you avoided getting married all these years, so you must value your independence like I do. Well? Aren’t you going to tell me to run for my life?”
Will shifted in his chair. “Being single has its advantages,” he said. “Or I always thought so. And then one day the alternative presented itself in the form of an extraordinary woman who happens to be your wedding florist. Now I find myself rethinking my position on love and commitment and everything else. Bachelorhood is lonely, and the future will be very bleak if Emma isn’t part of my life.”
Edward made a sound of disgust that conveyed his opinion: Will was being useless.
“Why did you propose to Lottie?” Will asked.
“I’ve been asking myself that question. As Goethe said, ‘Heart, my heart, what are you doing?’ But I’m enamored, unable and unwilling to escape the ‘magic spun with magic skill.’ And I thought—” Edward’s face grew dark again. “No one ever tried to limit me before Hans came along. To be questioned now by a man who barely knows me, to be doubted and disrespected by him, is infuriating,” he said. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a child. Lottie and I are fully capable of taking care of ourselves, and it’s not as though I’m proposing a trek up Everest.”
“What are you proposing?”
In the next room, the composer slammed his hands on the keys in rapid succession and in no particular rhythm, causing both Will and Edward to jump.
“A folly,” said Edward. He placed his palms on his knees and stared straight ahead. “When the girls were small, we took them to London, where we saw George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. Bridget loved everything about that trip, the city, the museums, the show. I remember watching Peter O’Toole as Henry Higgins that night, a character who is delighted to take on a new project, and when someone implies it’s a foolish undertaking, he says, ‘What is life but a series of inspired follies? Never lose a chance: it doesn’t come every day.’ I don’t want to lose this chance. Or, in the words of Lin-Manuel Miranda, ‘I’m not throwing away my shot.’ It’s the last chance I’ll have to delight in a bold action, to take on a folly that inspires me.”
Will already knew the answer, but he asked again. “And what’s the folly you’re inspired to take on?”
Edward glared at him. “Our itinerary is no one’s concern. I was willing to discuss the plans until I caught wind of this mutiny in my own family. All of a sudden, my travel is everybody’s business, and Hans is acting as if he has veto power over me. He’s sabotaging the wedding! It’s blackmail. If we don’t capitulate to his demands, he won’t come. Lottie folded immediately, agreeing to cancel the whole trip. But not me. I won’t negotiate with a terrorist.”
“Terrorist?” asked Will. “Really?”
“Maybe Hans can boss Lottie around, but Bridget can’t tell me what to do.”
“In that respect,” Will said sincerely, “I envy you. I’ll never have children to boss me around. I’m sure it’s frustrating, but you have to admit, it’s kind of sweet.”
Edward didn’t respond. He crossed his arms and frowned.
After a moment of silence, Will said, “Are there compromises you’d be willing to make?”
“Why on earth,” he bellowed, “should I compro—”
“Let’s say you and Lottie go to the Athens Festival as planned. You attend the concert of Handel’s mythological operas at Odeon of Herodes Atticus, stay at the King George—”
“I thought Bridget hadn’t talked to you about any of this—”
“She may have told me a little. You can even stay long enough to see Robert Wilson’s production of Oedipus at the Ancient Theater of Epidaurus. And after a pleasant stay in Athens, you treat yourselves to a cruise as suggested by your loving daughter, soak up the sun, stop off in Crete or Cyprus if you feel inclined, and then return to New York.”
“What for?”
“Clean boxers.”
Edward almost smiled.
“To visit your daughters, of course,” Will said. “To introduce Lottie to your friends, take her to the Met. Hans will see that his beloved mother is alive and well, at which point she can call to tell him that you’re both going to Munich for a visit, during which you can take off to Salzburg or Budapest or Prague or wherever you like. Why spook everybody by trying to break some kind of record? Ease them into it. That’s my advice.”
Will was surprised by his own boldness. His usual stance with Edward was to maintain a respectful distance and speak very little.
“Give in to their demands?” Edward said. “No. I won’t set that precedent.”
“You’re not giving in; you’re outsmarting them. You’re letting them think they’ve put on the brakes when in fact you’re still doing exactly what you wanted to do anyway, on a slightly modified schedule. Hans is just looking after his mother, which, in my opinion, says something positive about their family. Your girls are looking after you because they give a shit, excuse me. You can get rid of all this conflict with a little diplomacy.” Edward seemed to consider this advice, as Will added, “And speaking of diplomacy, I have a request.” He hesitated, and then said, “I want you to know that what I’m proposing will ruin a big wedding surprise Bridget has for you.”
“I detest surprises.”
The composer in the next room had gone completely silent, as Will second-guessed his plan. At the reception, when Edward took his seat at the piano and Will stepped off the stage, where would he go? Would he stand alone, off to the side, like a wallflower? Would he sit with some of the music teachers he’d invited so he could watch their reactions to his arrangement? Would he take a seat beside Emma and hold her hand? This decision was about more than playing the piece at the wedding. It was about his future. He felt a lump in his throat.
Rather than say anything else, Will handed Edward the sheet music. Edward smiled when he saw the title and sat quietly, reviewing the piece and tapping his foot as he heard it in his mind. “I haven’t seen this in ages. It’s naive, isn’t it? Unsophisticated.”
“I love it. And it’s perfect for such a happy occasion. I hope you like my arrangement because I can’t really make changes at this point,” Will said lightly, though he was, in fact, completely serious. “Bridget and Gavin already have their copies and are preparing to play it for you at the wedding, and I don’t want to spring more on them than I already am: I want you to play it instead of me.”
Edward looked up at him. “Play with Bridget?”
Will nodded. “During the reception.” He thought
to add, If there’s going to be a wedding, but Edward didn’t balk at the idea, so he let it go.
“You’re giving up the chance to reunite as your original trio,” Edward said, looking at him. “Is this because Gavin Glantz is your nemesis?”
“No,” Will said. “Not anymore.”
Edward looked over the music. “You’ve given him the best part in the piece.”
“The melody you wrote is beautiful—”
“You once instrumentalized me to get Gavin out of your life,” Edward said pointedly.
It wasn’t a question, but Will answered. “Yes, it was wrong.” It occurred to Will that this was by far the longest, most personal conversation they’d ever had. Why not make it the most honest as well? “I was jealous of him.”
“He’s undoubtedly very jealous of you,” said Edward.
Will laughed. “No, never. Gavin was the star, the prodigy, the one the faculty and press doted on. He got all the prizes, the accolades. I’ve always been the hard worker who keeps his head down and plugs along. There’s nothing to envy.”
“Gavin has problems of his own,” said Edward. He looked at Will with his eyebrows raised and said, “The director of the orchestra of the Sydney Opera House called me after Gavin started there, angry I’d recommended him. It was embarrassing.”
“Angry?” said Will. “Why?”
“His attitude made his colleagues despise him from his first day, and he caused tension in the violin section and beyond. Gavin is the kind of man,” Edward said, “who makes a hideous initial impression. He inspires hate at first sight, poor man. Many make up their minds right then and dislike him forever. A few, like my biographer, Nicholas Donahue, take the time to get to know him and find him worthy of their friendship.”
This observation was true, and Will also knew which group he was squarely in.
“I assure you,” Edward said, “it’s not easy going through life, personally or professionally, when you put people off as soon as you meet them.”
“But why would he be jealous of me?”