A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  Keep moving. Keep moving. He fixes his gaze on the crucifix hanging above the altar, mindful of the pulsing at his temples, the dryness in his throat. He closes his eyes. Images pass by him. He lets them flow, until he is unaware of the traffic outside, of the light shining through the stained-glass windows, of the elderly woman kneeling in front of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, fingering her rosary beads, muttering Hail Marys.

  He drifts into an abyss of peace, and then the phone he should have silenced sounds like a doorbell with a text from Ryan: Can’t make lunch. Working on a deadline. Go shopping. U can do it. Okay, he texts back, writing the word out in full. He doesn’t like it when people use letters for words like okay and you. He wishes Ryan didn’t. He scrolls the emojis to seal his text with lips, but he hesitates. How ridiculous is that? They’ve made love every night since he returned. Still he refrains and uses a smiley face. She didn’t seal hers with a kiss.

  At dinner that night, over the shrimp scampi and angel-hair pasta she’ll make him, and the salad and garlic bread he’ll prepare with his signature dressing (his only dressing), and the cabernet sauvignon he’ll spring for and uncork and wonder about how long it should breathe, he’ll tell her how he maneuvered through the second-hand designer discount store all by himself. He’ll haul out his booty bought at unbelievable savings and put on a credit card. And he’ll express concern about how little the worker in some Southeast Asia sweatshop was paid. And she will too.

  They’ll discuss the benefits and liabilities of a global market, pour themselves the last of the wine, and drop the subject. Sitting there together in a familiar domestic bliss, glad that Tiffany isn’t there, they’ll feel good, and so good he won’t tell her that he went to speak with the people from the outreach program at Driscoll and not to the registrar’s office at the law school. He won’t tell her that he doesn’t think he’s likely to return to law at all; rather maybe get a doctorate in philosophy, which will prolong his studies at least another five or six years. He’ll ask her if she minds going to Brackton without the engagement ring he’s got to get back from his mother, who lives in Boulder now. He’ll tell her this and, moving on, he’ll take her to bed.

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday, March 19

  THANK YOU, GOD. Thank you for not letting me send that email to Eric Boulanger. She was referring to the contrite note she had written just prior to Jason’s appearance on her front stoop. She says Thank you, God a lot when she feels saved by some extraterrestrial power, though she isn’t really sure whom she’s actually thanking. Yahweh? An enlightened being like Jesus or Buddha? The morning after their talk at O’Hanrahan’s on St. Paddy’s Day, she deleted the confessional email waiting in her Drafts and wrote a new one:

  Hi Eric,

  Forgive me for not responding sooner. As I explained in my earlier emails, we have been experiencing many complications that have prevented us from setting a date to come to Brackton. You know how it goes: life happens. However, our path has been cleared some and we should be able to pinpoint a date to visit very soon. Once again, please apologize to the vendors for me, and do tell them we’re anxious to finalize our plans. We’ll be in touch again very soon.

  Warmest regards,

  Ryan

  Friendly yet respectful, but not legalese in any way: something her friends accuse her emails of being. She did use a colon and thought about rewriting that sentence, but, as a former English major, she was a stickler for good grammar. Apologetic, but not offering any concrete excuses or information. Casual (their indiscreet encounter had no negative effects) but not diminishing their new friendship in any way—made clear by the closing. She did not save this email to Drafts; rather, she could not click Send fast enough. Done. Let the chips fall where they may with Jason, but her intuition on this one was a good one—better than good.

  His response was short and to the point:

  Hi Ryan,

  Great to hear from you. We’ve all been wondering how things were going for you two. We are also eager to set plans in motion. Let me know when you’re coming as soon as possible and I’ll reserve a room at the Daffodil. I look forward to hearing back from you soon.

  Best,

  Eric

  If he was harboring ill feeling toward her, he didn’t express it, although the one-paragraph email with no spacing clearly smacked of annoyance or carelessness. He might have closed it with Warmest regards, or maybe just Warm regards, or even Best regards. Why should she have deserved more? What did she expect? At least he used a closing and a greeting, and hadn’t jumped into conversational speech or ended with the trendy Cheers she found so annoying: after all, they weren’t in England.

  It had taken her another two weeks to follow up on that email. This time she had to be sure, and when she wrote back, she was:

  Hi Eric,

  Forgive me for yet another delay, but Jason and I would like to set a date for us to come to Brackton. Hopefully the lapse between emails has given the vendors extra preparation time. How does April 12 sound? We plan to leave Boston early morning.

  Since we’ll only be coming for Saturday, no accommodations will be necessary. I’m sure we can decide on everything in one day and make up for any lost time.

  Best,

  Ryan

  She used his closing this time. His follow-up came in less than ten minutes and nearly froze her computer with its brevity. He had probably been put off by their not staying over, but she really did feel somewhat awkward about seeing Eric again, and the shorter the time around him the better.

  Saturday, April 12 it is. I’ll meet you at Licks & Relics.

  Text me when you’re passing Rutland to give me a heads-up.

  Eric

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, April 12

  “YOU DIDN’T HAVE to wait for us outside,” Ryan tells Eric as they step from their vehicles pulled up to Licks and Relics on this wet and chilly morning.

  “Just got here myself. I appreciate your coming so early. You must have left at the crack of dawn.”

  Eric and Jason shake hands as they stand, rain dripping off the hoods and visors of their slickers and down their faces. Eric’s eyes do a quick body scan of Jason. He’s surprised, Ryan thinks, to find Jason a good three inches taller than himself. She’s glad Jason has a strong handshake to match that of muscular Eric’s grip.

  “We have a lot of time to make up for,” Ryan says.

  “Yes we do,” Jason says.

  Eric takes a direct jab at Ryan. “Find us okay? Been awhile.”

  “The GPS knew the way,” she says.

  “Let’s get you some coffee and breakfast first and discuss the itinerary.”

  She is heading for the door of the shop when Eric suggests they could go to the Brackton Inn, if they prefer.

  “This is just fine.”

  She hopes Eric finds her more enthusiastic about the wedding than on her first rip. She might even detect a bit of regret on his part to see her so happy, but then again, she might be conjuring that up. Hadn’t she told him not to be sorry?

  “Here all right, Rochelle?” Eric asks, looking around and pointing to a café table next to the window. A teenage girl with chin-length hot-pink hair and her boyfriend are the only other customers in the small shop. Rochelle, a short, thin woman older than Ryan’s mother, is wiping down the counter lined with vintage red-leather-cushioned stools. Her dry, over-bleached hair sits like a haystack atop her head—maybe for extra height. A barrel-gutted guy with a full gray beard is scraping off the grill in a stained white chef ’s jacket and black cap that resembles a bandana with ties hanging down the back of his neck. Ryan guesses he rides a Harley.

  “Sure. Anywhere’s good, Eric. Not too many coming out in this weather this morning.”

  He can no longer hold off asking. “Where’s Danni?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Broke her leg, the poor thing, in three places skiing yesterday. Had to have surgery
.”

  Ryan hears him mutter “fuck” under his breath as he goes into the pocket of his jacket for his cell.

  “Where’d they take her?”

  “Rutland Regional.”

  “That’s too bad,” Ryan says, draping her raincoat over the back of the antique bistro chair that creaks with every move she makes. “She was very helpful.” She is really kind of glad Danni won’t be there. It was irritating the way she gushed over Eric, making sure to let Ryan know how well she knew him.

  “She likes to take time away from the shop in winter, summer’s so chaotic,” Eric says. “Excuse me a minute.”

  He steps outside to where she has a view of him standing underneath the awning, talking on his phone. When he returns, he seems to force that seductive grin of his, but it doesn’t match the distance of those squinting eyes.

  “Everything okay?” Jason asks.

  “Yeah, considering,” he says.

  “End of the season’s a dangerous time,” Jason says.

  “Best time, worst time,” Eric says. “We thought you might bring Tiffany to help. Will she be an attendant?”

  Everyone was always asking for Tiffany. “No attendants, except my cousin for maid of honor. That’s it.”

  Ryan hasn’t yet asked Emma if she’ll be able to get away from the hospital for several days, but she knows that if it’s possible, Emma will make it happen. That’s why Emma is a doctor and Ryan is writing someone else’s briefs for fish farms.

  “How about you, Jason?”

  “My brother is best man—if he can get back from the Galápagos.”

  Rochelle stands beside them, no pen and pad in hand. “What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll have a cappuccino.” Ryan picks up the laminated one-page menu and studies the options.

  “Oh, we don’t have cappuccino. Just regular coffee, honey.”

  “That’s fine. And I’ll take two eggs scrambled with wheat toast. Do you have wheat?”

  “Sure do. Bacon or ham?”

  “Neither, thanks.”

  “Hash browns?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Comes with it.”

  “Take it, Ryan. I’ll eat what you don’t want,” Jason says. “And I’ll have a cheese omelet and orange juice, please.”

  “Bacon—”

  “I’ll take it all, thank you.”

  Ryan stares at him.

  “Can’t help it. I’m starving. We didn’t want to waste time stopping on the way,” he says.

  Eric laughs. It’s a generous pleased-with-Jason laugh, and Ryan is starting to feel like the only outsider.

  “Just coffee—and a cinnamon raisin bun, Rochelle. Already ate at home,” he says.

  “Got that, Phil?” She yells to the cook as she collects the menus.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hey Rochelle, I’m gonna shave off half my hair,” the teenage girl shouts out. The boyfriend laughs.

  “Do it while you’re young, honey.”

  “I’m thinking of my right side.”

  “Oh, but that’s your good side,” Rochelle says and winks at Eric.

  * * *

  At exactly 10:15 Eric deposits Ryan at Trousseau Bridal Shop, where Fran Costantino has just opened her store that looks like a wedding venue, with beige-and-lilac-patterned carpeting and artificial flowers and bridal veiling draped over a white arbor that leads to the dressing rooms. Fran has several dresses in Ryan’s size lined up on a rack, and Ryan has to admit that the gowns are way more elegant than the cheesy ones displayed in the window of Mirabella’s Couture on Tremont Street across from the Boston Common. Eric offers to take Jason to Neat ‘n Tidy Cleaners to pick out tuxedos to rent. Jason prefers suits or even just khakis and collared shirts without ties, but Eric explains the necessity of using as many vendors as possible, and ties really do make a statement. They’ll be back for Ryan at eleven. “Not enough time,” Fran says. They agree on eleven forty-five. Half a day already gone, but, as Fran says: “This is one of the most important selections you’ll make.”

  “Are these my only choices?” Ryan asks as Fran pulls out gown after gown. “I was thinking of something plainer.”

  “A lot of women think they want a particular style they’ve seen in a bridal magazine and then end up with something totally different once they’ve tried a couple on.”

  And so she complies with Fran’s help, but still isn’t wowed: too frilly, too many ruffles, too revealing, too heavy, too much scratchy beadwork, too-too.

  “Do you have anything that wasn’t made in some overseas sweatshop or in a way that’s harmed the environment?”

  “I don’t deal with fair-trade companies, if that’s what you mean. Not that I wouldn’t like to. It’s just too costly for me. Not many brides are willing to pay the high prices. Well-made gowns are expensive enough. But I carry a lot made of silk and heirloom lace, which is sustainable and eco-friendly. Silk uses very little water and chemicals, unlike the polyester that so many cheaper gowns are made of.”

  “How about that one? Is it silk?” Ryan points to a dress on a mannequin in a corner of the store.

  “It just came in. But it’s used, and not your size.”

  “Can’t it be altered?”

  “Again, it’s a secondhand. I thought you’d like a new one. After all, it’s on the house. And there isn’t much time to make alterations.”

  “Something old, something new, right?”

  “I guess that works.” Fran shrugs.

  The gown is too large, which is a good thing because there’s room for adjustments. Fran takes some clothespins and clips them down the back. Now the dress starts to take shape on Ryan’s body as she gazes into the three-way mirror at yards of the palest blush-pink silk with a sweetheart neckline that reveals just the slightest mound of her white breasts. The skirt falls softly from a fitted bodice into a subtle flair. Straps of the most delicate lace extend at an angle over her shoulder into what Fran calls illusion capped sleeves.

  “I love it!”

  “Well, because of the simplicity it shouldn’t take too much time to alter. My mother helps me out. How’s the length?”

  “I don’t like the train.”

  “Good. Because the dress is a bit short, especially with any kind of heel, even a wedge. We’ll cut the train off and attach it on the bias with a false hem. My mother and I will figure something out so it looks like it’s always been part of the design.”

  Ryan can see that Fran adores her work—and her mother.

  “All done, with time to spare,” Fran announces after taking the final measurements. “How about a cup of tea? Earl Gray okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Ryan loves this lady. She takes a seat on one of two richly upholstered purple chairs. After Fran returns carrying a tray with tea and biscotti that she places on a bronze-and-glass coffee table, they discuss the headpiece. Ryan doesn’t want a veil or hat. She doesn’t want anything.

  “You should have something on your head to finish it all off. Talk to Maisie the hairdresser about flowers when you decide on a hairstyle. Oh no! We forgot your maid of honor! What size is she?”

  “A six I think.”

  “What color would you like her to wear?”

  Ryan hadn’t thought about it at all. “How about black?”

  “Kind of passé, or better for a black-tie wedding.”

  Fran disappears into another room and returns with a long shimmering champagne dress with a draped neckline and spaghetti straps. “I have this in a six. You can go neutral all the way, with white roses for centerpieces, or you can bring a burst of different colors into the room. If she’s got your hair, she’ll be smashing.”

  “She doesn’t, but we don’t want her to be too smashing anyway.”

  Fran laughs. “If she needs any alterations, she’ll have to get them done on her own. Do you want to take it to her, leave it here, or should I send it to her?”

  “Oh, I won’t be seeing her before the wedding.
You should send it. That way she’ll be able to find shoes in time.”

  “Done. Leave me her address.”

  “I’ll have to email it to you when I get home.”

  By the time the men return, the rain has stopped and Fran’s next appointment has shown up. Eric whisks Ryan and Jason off to Gold Mine Jewelers, where they quickly settle on an etched antique whitegold band for Ryan, to accompany Jason’s grandmother’s diamond, and a plain gold band for Jason. The jeweler, Ralph O’Leary, will engrave the rings with the date.

  They pass on lunch, since Jason had stuffed himself at breakfast and Ryan had a snack with Fran, and head over to Maisie’s A Cut Above Hair Salon, where another local photographer, Sarah Bentley, turns up with her albums and brochures to save them time. Ryan shows Maisie a photo she took of the wedding dress, and Maisie plays with her hair—lifting, parting, and pinning—and decides on a style that will best complement the shape of Ryan’s face and the dress: an upsweep to the side, a deep wave across the forehead with tendrils around the face for softness, a strand of rosebuds intertwined in the chignon. Jason selects the photography package: one large album, two miniatures (one for his mother and one for Lauren and Joe), and two 8 x 10s (one for Ryan and Jason, and one for Faye).

  “Would you like me to do your makeup?” Maisie asks.

  Noting the thick layer of pancake that coats Maisie’s delicate skin, Ryan says: “I can handle it.”

  Afterward, the guys go for some spicy wings and a beer at Baby’s Bar & Grill, but Ryan prefers to move on to Plantasia Florist, since Jason has no opinion on flowers or invitations except for what they will say: Together with their parents, Ryan Toscano and Jason McDermott happily invite you to celebrate their marriage with them on June 28th, etc. That’s the perfect way, he said, to honor their parents and not alienate anyone. Ryan chooses a white parchment card that has a vine running around the border.