by Amy Poeppel
“Oh, come now, Will. You’re engaging and likable, generous and professional. Enough said, I’m not here to flatter you. I’m sure Gavin felt like the third wheel in Forsyth, since you and Bridget were always so close.”
Will got an odd sense of satisfaction hearing all this. “Bridget and I are a good team,” he said.
“It’s impressive what you two have done together all these years. You’re both exceptionally good.”
A compliment from Edward was rare indeed. “Thank you.”
Edward looked down at the score in his hands. “Change is not failure.”
Will didn’t know if he was referring to the arrangement he’d written, his upcoming nuptials, or Will and Bridget’s future. The composer in the living room began to play again, discordant and jarring chords that physically repulsed Will. Why people wrote music that was ugly on purpose was something Will would never understand.
“Change,” Edward repeated, “is not failure.” He turned to Will. “Let’s kick that composer off my piano before he breaks it, shall we?”
Will got to his feet, resisting the temptation to offer Edward a hand to help him up, lest he seem patronizing. But he stood by closely, in case.
“Do me a favor,” Edward said, handing him the music. “I’d like to hear you play the piece first. Then I’ll give it a whirl.”
27
One of Isabelle’s biggest flaws, she’d be willing to admit, was that she was convinced she could straighten out everyone else’s life while her own was—to the objective observer—a shit show.
“You should write an advice column,” a college friend had once said. And it was true. She had excellent instincts, as her mother had always told her, about all things, from judging character to making critical life decisions. This summer she’d offered counsel to Oscar (on his marriage), Will (on his girlfriend), and her mom (on pretty much everything).
So how the hell did she, of all people, end up working as a part-time employee at a country coffee shop, living with her mom, and dating a guy who didn’t have a college degree?
This was a gap summer, if ever there was such a thing. The one and only reboot she was allowing herself in life. She didn’t regret her decision to quit her job and get the hell out of Hong Kong. The homesickness she’d felt there had been debilitating, and her job was purposeless and Sisyphean, work that did nothing whatsoever for the good of society. She’d been sure she was getting tumors behind her eyeballs from the computer screen and worried about the severity of her cramps every month and the new pinching pain in her lower back. She was too young to feel this old. She wanted to interact with people rather than data. Wanted to live her life rather than endure it. She wanted to be part of a community.
She wasn’t feeling old now. Maybe Juliette Stark’s book wasn’t scientifically sound, maybe half of it was bullshit, but it made her feel good, made her think. Isabelle was going to keep following her plan, at least for the rest of the summer. That Kevin was willing to go along with it was adorable.
But there was so much more she needed to do. Fate had brought her home this summer. Being home meant she’d been there to help her mother through her breakup. She’d stopped her brother from fucking up his marriage. She was attending her grandfather’s wedding. She’d met a truly great guy. She felt better in every respect, that was for sure. And the best part was that Juliette’s program had given them a common cause, some family “team” spirit. There was more to do. Meanwhile, she was biding her time, walking around with a paint roller in her right hand and an heirloom carrot in her left, considering the most difficult question: What would she do once the summer was over?
* * *
The day before the wedding was warm and muggy, and Isabelle and Kevin were up early, ready to take on the final wedding preparations. But before she’d even made a pot of matcha tea, she was summoned by her mother to the main house. When she walked in, Oscar, who had arrived the night before with Matt, was explaining to Will why they’d decided to leave Hadley and Bear in DC that weekend. “It’s better not to mix big dogs and caterers. That’s what Matt said anyway.”
“Probably a smart idea,” said Will. “Right, Bridget?”
“What?”
“Dogs and weddings,” he said. “Could get messy. Did your father go along with the cruise idea?”
“A cruise?” Isabelle asked. “What about all the plans Jackie made?”
Bridget didn’t answer, and Isabelle began to suspect that something was wrong. Jackie had rushed out of the house early that morning, saying Marge was in a panic and needed her. (Matt offered to give her a ride, and on their way out, Jackie tripped and dropped her bag, which contained, Isabelle couldn’t help but see, a large, half-eaten bag of potato chips. Isabelle pretended not to notice the contraband.)
“What’s going on?” Isabelle asked. From down the hall she could hear the low rumble of the washer and dryer. Her mom sat down awkwardly on the couch. She was wearing a beige linen dress Isabelle had never seen before and a lot of eye makeup and lip gloss, strange given that the only thing happening that day, other than cleaning the house and making sure the tables and chairs arrived and were set up properly, was a Forsyth Trio rehearsal. Will took a seat next to her. He was also looking spiffy in well-pressed thin cotton khakis and a loose white button-down.
Eliza rubbed up against Bridget’s leg and jumped in her lap. Across from them, Isabelle sat next to Oscar; they looked at the grown-ups with matching puzzled expressions. Something was definitely up.
“Are you two going on safari?” Oscar asked. “I feel like I’m on the set of Out of Africa.”
“Is there a photo shoot we don’t know about?” said Isabelle.
“Don’t tell me. You’re getting a divorce,” said Oscar. “Was it my fault?”
Bridget laughed, a little too loudly. Will put his hand on her knee.
“The only thing more bizarre,” Oscar added, “would be if you announced you’re getting married. I’ll need therapy if that’s where this is going.”
“Nothing like that,” Will said.
“It may be a little surprising, though,” her mom said.
Something about this scene, the four of them sitting so formally, with her mother’s Prussian silver teapot of organic chamomile and a plate of ginger snaps (from a recipe in Ancient Practices, Modern Life) on the table in front of them, made Isabelle feel like she was in a bedroom farce. She wished they all had British accents.
“It’s slightly awkward and a tad overdue,” said Bridget. She picked up her tea, and the cup rattled against the saucer.
Isabelle saw her glance at Will, who gave her an encouraging wink.
What the hell?
“There’s a musician,” Bridget began, “a violinist named Gavin Glantz, who’s coming to the house today to rehearse with us. He went to college with us…” She trailed off and looked at Will.
“He was in our original trio, and we were friends for a decade,” Will said, “so, of course, we were all quite close, back in the day.”
“Around the end of that particular era,” Bridget said, as though beginning a grand lecture, “was when I decided I was ready to have kids. I… was very eager to get pregnant.”
Isabelle waited, seeing that her mother had hit some kind of dead end.
“So eager, in fact,” said Will, smiling, “that she once asked me to be the father.”
Bridget turned and looked at Will. “No, I didn’t.”
Will said, quite earnestly, “You did. I don’t know how serious you were, but you did ask. I was honored actually.”
“I must have been joking,” said Bridget.
“That’s offensive,” Will said. “And you didn’t sound like you were joking. We were at your studio apartment, and you said, ‘Would you consider…’ and ‘no strings attached.’ Remember?”
She squinted, her eyes focused on some point on the wall behind Isabelle. “Wait,” Bridget said, “I did, didn’t I? We were eating takeout—”
&nb
sp; “Dumplings.”
“—after you got divorced. And what did you say?”
“We both said it would be too thorny,” said Will.
Noël Coward, thought Isabelle, could spruce up this scene, get it stage-ready. All that was missing was the slamming of doors.
Oscar was looking slightly horrified. “Too much information, you guys,” he said. “Can we get to the point? The wedding’s in T minus twenty-eight hours, and Matt and I are in charge of picking up the alcohol.”
Isabelle had often wondered if Bridget and Will had ever… A single night in all their years together? But she’d come to believe that no moment of passion had ever taken place. It’s true they were physically comfortable with each other, often touching casually or even affectionately. But there was no spark between them, nothing complicated or charged.
“The point is,” said Will, “your mom really wanted to get pregnant—”
“I had artificial insemination,” Bridget said, “but… Gavin, this violinist I never talk about, was leaving the country, and we were out one night…”
“Wait,” Isabelle said. She wanted to make things easier for her mom but wasn’t sure where to begin. “You think our donor wasn’t some anonymous man from a sperm bank?” Isabelle said. “You think he’s a real person?”
Oscar bumped his shoulder against Isabelle’s. “He’s a real person in any case, Einstein,” he said. “They don’t make artificial sperm.”
“I know that,” said Isabelle, shoving him back.
“I went to a doctor to get inseminated,” Bridget was saying, “just like I told you. But I also— It’s remotely possible that I— Well, I was convinced that I might have trouble getting pregnant, so I may have been a bit cavalier…” It was obvious that for Bridget discussing a topic that included her sex life was mortifying.
“Your mom really wanted you guys,” Will said, “so she was a real go-getter when the time came…”
“I wasn’t that much of a go-getter—”
Eliza jumped off Bridget’s lap, as if to say, I’m a good girl, I am! “So, you’ve been worrying about this?” Isabelle said. “All these years?”
“ ‘Secrets damage the soul,’ ” Bridget said, quoting from the Juliette Stark book, and then she put her hands up, sort of like whoops, and forced a smile, baring her teeth. “I’m sorry I never said anything before. I lost track of Gavin because he moved out of the country and on with his life, but he’s coming here today, and I realize how wrong it was to keep this from you.”
“You guys looked so serious,” said Oscar, sounding relieved. “I thought for sure one of you had cancer.”
“You could do a paternity test,” Bridget said. “And if it turned out that it was him, you’d know more about your family history and genes or…”
“He’s not psychotic or anything? A serial killer?” Oscar asked.
Will and Bridget shook their heads.
“So he’s a donor either way,” said Oscar. “A donor you know versus one you don’t.”
Isabelle reached for her mother’s hand across the tea set. “He’s the one you don’t know,” she said.
“But it could have been Gavin,” said Bridget. “That’s my point.”
“It’s not Gavin,” said Isabelle.
Bridget looked at her as though she were a professor of the dark arts. Isabelle always tried to be patient with her mother when it came to her lack of technological knowledge. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t grow up with the internet. And her mom had skills that Isabelle didn’t have, after all, good penmanship, for example. Reading music. But, my God, had no one heard of genetic testing? “I spit in a tube,” said Isabelle.
“How does that rule out Gavin?” Will asked.
“Because we got a match,” Isabelle said, pointing from herself to Oscar. “I wanted to know about our genetic makeup, what diseases ran in our family—”
“You’re such a hypochondriac,” said Oscar. “And how is this a ‘we’ thing?”
“You were already in the database, so you must have done genetic testing before.”
Oscar smiled the way he did now whenever Matt was part of the conversation. “Right, Matt got us kits once.” They waited, and Oscar said casually, “We’re thinking about surrogacy down the road.”
“You should go on the website,” Isabelle said. “We got an ‘extremely high confidence’ paternal match with a man with no genetic health risks, mostly northwestern European decent, Neanderthal ancestry, and six other offspring from donations he made in college for money. Very into outdoorsy life, hiking, and climbing. He’s a business owner—”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Bridget asked, her voice much higher than normal.
“Yeah,” Oscar said, “why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to,” Isabelle said, “but you were both having crises in your love lives, and I didn’t think it was the right time.” Isabelle couldn’t tell what they were thinking. “If I’d known you were stressing about this,” she said to her mom, “I would have said something.” She thought she should probably explain her abrupt departure from Hong Kong while she was at it. “I came here in part because I wanted to meet him.” She felt her face go hot and swallowed. “It’s Peter Latham.”
“The llama guy?” Oscar asked.
“Alpaca,” said Isabelle.
“Your boss?” asked Bridget. “Is that why you—?”
“Does he know?” asked Will.
She shook her head. “I was waiting to tell you all first.”
“You’re so weird,” said Oscar. “You’re stalking our baby daddy?”
“I’m not stalking him. I’m getting to know him.”
“And?” said Bridget.
Isabelle had no idea where to begin. “He has an Instagram page devoted solely to his alpacas; it has over a hundred thousand followers.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Apart from his social media presence?”
Isabelle felt somehow proud, excited to talk about him. “Peter has a terrific sense of humor, a conscience, a wonderful life, great teeth, and a full head of hair.” She smiled. “I admire him.”
It wouldn’t be right to make the discovery all about herself, so she didn’t explain that once she’d found the name of her biological father, she’d googled Peter, reading an article about how he’d left a big corporation and moved to the country, transforming his barn into his place of work. How he hired employees from his own rural Connecticut community, paying them a living wage. He created the life he wanted. Before even laying eyes on him, Peter had inspired her to quit her job, and she had no regrets about that. This summer—one spent observing how Peter Latham ran his company—had ended up being more satisfying and educational than any work she’d done before. And her personal time—spent with Kevin, a man who could not have had his boots planted more firmly on the ground—was better medicine than all the Xanax she’d ever taken. The summer had been a win.
“We could tell him together,” she told Oscar, “maybe after the wedding.”
“I still don’t understand how any of this works,” said Bridget.
“Can we discuss the miracles of DNA databases another time?” said Oscar, getting to his feet. “We’ve got two hundred people showing up here tomorrow, and Matt and I promised Kevin we’d help set up the sound system, and we still have to pick up the booze.”
“You’ll like him,” said Isabelle. “And you might be interested to hear that he runs his entire business using renewable sources of energy.” There were other interesting aspects about Peter she would share with Oscar later: He came to work every day with his two big golden retrievers. He’d followed Jerry Garcia on tour in the ’80s. And he was ethical to his core.
Isabelle couldn’t read her mother’s expression.
Will apparently could. “This is wonderful news,” he said. “Everything’s in the open, Bridget. Gavin is just… good old Gavin, you know? Our old friend. Nothing more complicated than that.”
&nbs
p; Bridget seemed to be processing his words, and then she smiled, with what seemed like enormous relief.
28
Oscar went with Matt to the liquor store, and Isabelle left with Kevin to pick up speaker cables, followed by Will, who headed upstairs to the loft to make sure his room was cleaned up for Gwen.
Bridget was alone.
She hadn’t known how she’d react if or when she found out who had fathered her amazing, beautiful children, but now that she had, she felt as though she’d set down an awkward, heavy burden she’d been lugging around, leaving her off balance but free. She was elated. Gavin, her long-ago friend, a man she’d been trying to erase, could take his place in her life history. She found herself excited to see him.
And how odd, she thought, to have one of the most important partnerships in her life be with a stranger she had never met before who was living only a few miles away. She found herself—just as Isabelle had—wanting to know more about Peter, wanting to thank him for her children.
For the first time in weeks, the house was quiet, and she felt a pang of loneliness.
It was hard not to notice how paired up everyone around her was. Emma and Will were in love. Her father and Lottie were starting their life together. Matt and Oscar were reunited. Isabelle and Kevin were happy.
It was too quiet. It occurred to her that this was how it was going to be once the wedding was over. Her and her cats. What a sad transition from this to that, she thought. She wouldn’t be able to bear it. Eventually they would all leave. What reason would she have to come back here?
The house looked perfect. Maybe now was the time to let it go. She could imagine Mark showing her property to prospective buyers: You’ve heard of Edward Stratton, right? Famous composer and conductor? He got married in this very barn. If the New York Times showed up and printed photos in the society pages, the price might go even higher.
Bridget got up and went to her room, closing the door behind her. Before she could even find Mark’s number in her contacts, she saw she’d missed a call from an international number: a woman named Diane had left a voice mail, inviting her to audition for the London Philharmonic in two weeks: “Please confirm the appointment at your earliest convenience.” Bridget checked the time, added five hours, and called her back immediately.