A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “I haven’t been here, Jesus, for ten, twelve years,” the lumberjack says, sitting two stools away from Eric. “I had a lot of breakfasts here when I was a boy.”

  “Darlin’, you remember Teddy,” the father calls to his daughter who’s already begun frying Teddy’s steak and eggs.

  “Sure do,” she yells, as though competing with the sizzling sound of the grill.

  “Where you been, Teddy?” the father asks.”

  “Workin’ up north mostly. Holy smoke! That’s a lotta sausage gravy!” he tells the daughter when she puts his order in front of him. “Where’s the cot?”

  She points to the clock on the wall.

  “No! Cot! Where am I gonna sleep after I eat all that?”

  “We got a booth for you.” She laughs.

  “Where are the pillows?”

  “How is it?” she asks when he takes a bite.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Good.”

  “I hate it when people cook better’n I do.”

  She laughs again and refills his cup.

  “I ain’t holding nothin’ against you, but can you order half a serving of sausage gravy? This is way bigger ’n my belly.”

  “That’s ’cause you ordered a full egg breakfast with it.” She draws out her statements that are equally laden with some sort of anticipation.

  “I don’t really like sausage gravy. I make it, but I don’t like it,” the father says, amused with the flirtatious dialogue between his daughter and the returned native, maybe even hopeful.

  “I gotta give you our phone number so you can call us to let us know if you make it home,” the daughter tells Teddy.

  Eric smiles at the way the conversation is going. Time to leave. Just as well, since he doesn’t want to be late meeting the couple. He slaps a five-dollar bill on the counter and tries to get the attention of either proprietor (he likes to say goodbye to servers and show his appreciation) but they’re wrapped up with the lumberjack, listening to his tale about a big fir that nearly fell on him earlier that morning. When Eric stands up and puts his parka on, the father nods in acknowledgment, then he goes right back to Teddy.

  He told Danni he’d pick her up and they’d go together to the Daffodil, which he knew pleased her. He could have booked the couple at the Brackton Inn, on the Common, but he really wants them to stay at the Daffodil, even though it’s on the outskirts of town, because he believes the Goldmans, burned-out stockbrokers from Greenwich, Connecticut, know what city folk expect. That’s why he couldn’t be happier that the Chamber board of directors agreed with Danni’s suggestion to hold the reception at the Daffodil, which is set on several acres, with winding garden paths and waterfalls.

  He’s heard that the Goldmans even iron the sheets at the restored mansion, built in the style of a Newport “cottage” (though much more modest in size), with creamy yellow clapboards and dark green shutters and a circular driveway that leads to a massive front door with leaded-glass sidelights. Its interior has been updated with pastel painted walls, unlike the dark floral wallpaper of the Brackton Inn. The Daffodil boasts white marble fireplaces, soaking tubs, and a glassenclosed conservatory with French country and India-print cushions, fashionable touches that are mixed with the latest conveniences. (Eric knows all this because it says so in the brochure.) Eric would have described it a bit more succinctly, like: Here at the Daffodil, WiFi meets wicker. And their catering service is top-notch, second only to the cuisine at the new French restaurant in town, but nobody expects authentic French food at a wedding with 125 guests.

  Eric pulls in front of Licks and Relics. In the summer, there’s an antique ice cream maker on the porch and a wire rack filled with copies of the local weekly newspaper and the Vermont Country Store catalogue, but during the winter they’re tucked away inside, along with the Depression glass, butter churners, crescent-shaped porcelain chicken bone dishes, funky salt and pepper shakers shaped like cars and animals and things unrelated to condiments, and whatever else Danni acquires from estate sales. Danni’s been watching for Eric behind the wavy-glass-paned door. When she sees him, she runs out, pulls her white fur-trimmed hood over her head, and jumps into his pickup.

  “This is so exciting! Our first winners! I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about it. You know, Brokeback Mountain. That was so sad.”

  “Focus, Danni. This is Brackton. It’s a happy day.”

  “You’re right. You’re always right. I thought you might stop here for breakfast but I saw you drive straight through town.”

  That she monitors his behavior is beyond annoying and not the least bit flattering.

  “I ate at the Tandem. A late breakfast.”

  “Yes, you like sausage gravy.”

  She has a habit of rationalizing everyone’s actions, especially Eric’s, and offering explanations and extraneous information she’s unable to keep to herself. If someone says they forgot the almonds for the green beans they brought to a potluck, Danni will nod and say, “Oh, yes, amandine,” demonstrating that she knows the proper name for the dish. If they have traded heavy drapes for sheers, she will say, “Yes, nice and light for summer,” when the person has no intention of limiting the curtains to one season. If she brings flowers to a gathering, she never fails to tell the host where she got them. “Grand Union,” she’ll confess for no good reason, even though she’s betrayed the more expensive local merchant. Now she’s making Eric aware that she knows why he frequents the Tandem Café.

  “Maybe I should add sausage gravy to my menu,” she says.

  “You shouldn’t, Danni. It’s a Tandem specialty. Nobody makes it the way they do.”

  “I could learn to make it,” she insists.

  “No, Danni.”

  “Do you think it’s okay that I’m wearing jeans? I thought about a skirt, but it’s so cold today. That’s why I wore my long coat.”

  “Unlike the heat wave we had yesterday?”

  She giggles.

  Eric shakes his head. Danni’s whiny voice drives him crazy. She drives him crazy. It’s so easy not to be nice to her, especially when he can feel her trying to get close to him, which is just about all the time. Occasionally he’s downright mean to her, at least from his perspective. She rarely gets offended, except when her mouth takes a downward turn and follows the droopy outer edges of her eyes, like an apologetic dog with its tail between its legs. Then he feels bad about the way he’s behaved, but at the same time satisfied. It’s as though Danni is his ingrown toenail and bottle of Outgro all in one. Just when he’s feeling insecure, along comes Danni—a shitload of insecurity—and he settles back into taking the upper hand. You’re despicable, Eric Boulanger, he tells himself.

  * * *

  “They’re upstairs settling in. My wife took them some tea.” Mark Goldman is soft-spoken and of slight stature, with thinning hair and horn-rimmed glasses. In a collared shirt and vest he looks more like a stodgy academic than a successful Wall Street dropout. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Shot of Jack Daniel’s?” The wry smile on Goldman’s face makes Eric suspect he should take him up on the whiskey even though it isn’t even noon yet.

  “I wouldn’t mind a glass of white wine, Mark,” Danni says.

  “And you, Eric?”

  “I’m good, Mark. Thank you. Was I right about the room—you know, the number?”

  “Oh yes, they’re fine. We gave them the Lady Wentwerth. They loved it.”

  “I bet they did,” Eric says as Mark hands Danni her chardonnay. “You and your wife have transformed this place.”

  “Ah, here they come now.” All three turn their heads toward the curved rosewood staircase. Right train, wrong track, Eric thinks as he takes in the lesbian couple—very attractive ones, he can’t help but notice. He feels Danni’s tension ease at the sight of the women in jeans.

  “This is Danni Pritchard,” Mark tells them, “owner of the ice cream shop and café. She’s got the scoop on everyone, so to speak. And the handsome guy is Eric Boul
anger.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Ryan extends her hand to Danni, then Eric, where it lingers a moment.

  “And you must be Jason,” Danni says, turning to Tiff, and for once Eric is grateful for the way Danni jumps mouth first into everything, saving him from taking the first stab at figuring this out.

  “Oh, no,” Ryan corrects her, laughing. “This is my roommate, Tiffany. Jason—couldn’t make it.”

  Tiffany’s eyes open wide with surprise at the ease with which Ryan perpetuates the lie, and so early into the meeting.

  “Well, I guess we’ve got it straight now,” Danni says, elbowing Eric, who feels like a damned fool that Danni had it right from the get-go.

  “Yeah, straight,” he says. “How was your trip?”

  “Piece of cake, except for the forty miles behind the Ford Focus,” Tiffany answers, although Eric had addressed Ryan.

  “With Vermont plates?”

  “Uh-huh. Wasn’t the only time we were behind one.”

  “May have kept you from getting a ticket. The speed limit is strictly enforced here, and the cops love to nab out-of-staters.” Eric, spokesperson for the Chamber of Commerce, cannot believe he just said that.

  “You know the new pope uses a Ford Focus,” Danni says.

  “I thought he rode in a Popemobile,” Ryan says.

  “In the crowds, but in Rome he has an old blue Ford Focus. He’s very humble and energy conscious.”

  “How do you know this, Danni?” Eric is astonished.

  “I read about it. Didn’t you? I think he’s adorable and refreshing. And I’m not even Catholic.”

  “Have you had lunch yet?” Eric asks. “I thought we’d grab a bite before we meet with the vendors.” He prefers sticking to the old rule of avoiding discussions about politics and religion when swimming in uncharted territory.

  “Sure,” the women agree.

  There’s a cleanliness about Ryan—not painted up like Danni, yet she glows like a match in the dark. He can see her in black-and-white, maybe even sepia. Her face is full, like one on an ancient Greek or Roman sculpture. His eyes frame her and impose her in the memory stick of his brain.

  Ryan and Tiffany go for their shiny down-filled jackets—one red the other lime green. With their skinny jeans, they look like psychedelic lollipops.

  “I know it’s hard to imagine an outdoor wedding in the dead of winter,” Eric says, helping Ryan into the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Do we need a key to the front door?” Tiffany asks Mark.

  “Not unless you plan to be back after midnight.”

  After a few smiles and Danni giggles, they’re out the door. Only then do Eric and Danni realize they can’t all fit into the pickup.

  “I thought we’d walk into town,” he says.

  “Nice save,” Danni whispers. “What were we thinking?”

  “I like to walk.” Ryan takes a crumpled tissue from her pocket and gives her nose a good blow.

  “How long have you lived here?” Ryan asks Eric as they stroll; the narrow shoveled path has funneled them into double file, with Eric and Ryan leading and Danni and Tiffany falling far enough behind to engage in their own conversation.

  “I was born here—but I left for college. Then I moved to Providence for grad school. I came back to take care of my mother. She’s been sick.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, she’s better now. In remission.”

  “Tough stuff. And Danni?”

  “We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” he tells the white ground. He’s afraid if he stares into those iridescent green eyes, he’ll get lost like Alice down the rabbit hole. “Look, I know it’s hard to imagine, but it’s really beautiful here in summer and fall. It’s a perfect place to have a wedding.”

  “It’s pretty beautiful now.”

  “Yeah.” Eric nods. Who’s convincing whom?

  “I always like the quiet during a snowfall,” Ryan says. “It’s like a big blanket that muffles the whole city, slows everything down. Of course, once the storm stops, it’s all over. The city comes back to life and so does the traffic and noise and exhausts. Soon it’s gray and black slush. But you’ve lived in a city, so you know.”

  “Well this is pretty much how it is here all winter. But in summer there’s the farmers’ market on the Common, and of course the leafpeepers in the fall.” He’s pushing too hard. The couple has already entered the contest and won; let the place speak for itself.

  “We initially thought we’d let you choose the vendors,” he says, “but then we didn’t want to create hard feelings in town or make you feel awkward. After all, this is supposed to make life easy for you and Jason. So the vendors are already designated, but you’ll have the final say on what they present to you. There’ll still be decisions to make.”

  “Do I hear a beggars-can’t-be-choosers theme here?”

  “Not at all. But I have to admit that the parents of the bride must be pretty happy about your winning.”

  “Actually, I haven’t told them yet.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “It’s a little complicated. One reason I came up here was to tell you in person that Jason and I—Jason and I are of different religions.”

  “No problem here. The Unitarian church is nondenominational. Or you can get a JP or have a friend get a license online. That’s what some of my friends have done. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Yeah, the groom.” She is, like Faye, almost cracking herself up.

  He looks at her.

  “I mean the groom will decide. I really don’t care.” She attempts to be serious.

  “But your parents are not thrilled with the idea?”

  “They’ll need a little getting used to it.”

  “Inside or out?” He has to move her along. He doesn’t understand how she and Jason could have come this far, concealing their wedding from their parents.

  “Out of what?”

  “Of a church. Or a gathering place. The ceremony. Indoors or outdoors?”

  “Oh, maybe outside, weather permitting.”

  “You got it. Maybe on the Daffodil’s grounds? Make it easy on the guests.”

  “Maybe.”

  All this vagueness is unsettling to him.

  “Guess you really aren’t bothered by snow,” Ryan says, as a young girl appears from out of nowhere on a rusty old bike. Head to one side, plaid scarf flapping around her brown leather bomber’s jacket, she stares straight through them, performing figure eights in the middle of the road and ruining Eric’s picture-perfect landscape.

  “It’s Bicycle Girl,” Eric tells Ryan. He can hear the wheels of her brain turning along with those of the bike, wheels he guesses are accustomed to working overtime, along with a tongue that’s probably used to straining hard to hold back. At least she isn’t transparent like Danni.

  “Bicycle Girl?”

  “Another time.”

  Ryan shrugs her puffy-down-shoulders.

  “So what do you do, Ryan?”

  “I’m a paralegal for a nonprofit environmental organization. I started out there to test the legal waters, but here I am five years later, still contemplating law school.”

  “What’s the drawback?”

  “Not really sure I’ll like it for the long haul. Lame, I know.”

  “Not at all. My father was a lawyer. Can get pretty ugly.”

  “And boring a good deal of the time. I’d really like to write, but haven’t had much success there. The arts are tough. What about you? Are you the mayor?”

  He laughs. “Hell, no! We don’t have a mayor, just selectmen, and I’m not one of them either.”

  “Seems like you’d be good at it.”

  “I’m not big on politics. The Chamber of Commerce is about as entrenched as I care to get.”

  “Why are you in it at all?”

  He can’t believe she’s asked that question. He hasn’t even asked himself that. He puts his hand over his mouth to hid
e a smile.

  “Another time?”

  “Yeah. Another time. I’m a photographer, so I understand about making it in the art world.”

  “Will you be doing the wedding?”

  “No. First of all, it would be a conflict of interest, since Brackton Is for Brides was my idea. Also, I don’t do many weddings anymore—too competitive. The portrait scene pretty much dried up with digital, but it opened the way for events.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Was she really interested in all this?

  “If you take a hundred photos with a digital camera, you’re going to get at least one good one, so anyone can do it. But for events, you need someone outside of the family, because guests just want to have a good time. Fewer portraits. More events. That’s why it’s become more competitive for us again.”

  “So if you’re not shooting portraits or events, what do you shoot?”

  “You mean how do I make a living?”

  “Well—”

  “I studied at RISD.”

  “I love their museum. I love museums.”

  “I had a show there this fall—not just me, with a few other alums from the grad program. I only had three pieces. I also do theater work—you know, the shots you see of live drama for brochures and newspapers and playbills. I do a lot of the live theater around New England. Sometimes I travel farther, but not much lately because of my commitments here.”

  “What kind of camera do you have? I’m thinking of taking up photography—just for fun.”

  “I’m a dinosaur, love my 35-millimeter for black-and-white. And I’ve begun working with a Hasselblad XPan—a panoramic. That’s what I used for my show. But in the theater I usually use a traditional digital. I’m using a Nikon D810 now.” He’s getting impassioned explaining his work. No one outside his field talks about it with him. “It lets me capture high-resolution images in the really low-light situations you can come up against when you shoot actors onstage. But in a lot of situations, I most likely will use my iPhone.”