A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “Plants and flowers are not the only motifs,” Annie Chalis seems compelled to tell her. “Animals and insects also carry symbolic meaning. Birds signify wisdom and joy, hope and beauty; butterflies, transformation. The dolphin is a sign of love—”

  “The dolphin? People have dolphins on their invitations?”

  “Even horses. They indicate vitality and beauty.”

  “I’ll stick with flora and fauna.” Ryan can only imagine what Faye would say upon finding a horse on her wedding invitation.

  One hundred and twenty-five guests—that’s what she’s allowed. Ryan likes it that the vine will also appear on the upper left-hand corner of the envelope.

  “How about the seating?” Annie asks. “Some couples like their tables to have themes and not just numbers, something they identify with, like cities or national parks or ballparks they’ve visited, or mountains they’ve climbed. Two high school guidance counselors had colleges and universities.”

  Ryan can’t think of anything that might distinguish them except MBTA stops, but that seems ridiculous for a wedding taking place in Vermont. “Numbers will be fine,” she says.

  “Let’s carry the vine theme on the place cards,” Annie says, “and trim the tabletops with a little ivy.”

  “That might be nice.” Ryan doesn’t want to offend her, but she fears the dining room may look like a jungle. “We’re pretty short on time, so the guests can RSVP by email. I like the idea of saving postage and paper.”

  “Stick with snail mail. It’s classier,” Annie says, and winks.

  When Jason and Eric pick her up at Plantasia, Ryan encounters two old buddies who have clearly had more than one brew, and as the day wears on, Ryan has to admit that even she and Eric have fallen back into an easy place, their misstep clearly a thing of the past. Jason, as expected, has made good on his promise not to let on about the seminary and expose Ryan. As far as Eric knows, he’s been in between jobs even having tried law school on for size. He doesn’t lie about his being in the world of finance; he just doesn’t mention it.

  They make a quick stop at Decadent Delights, where Claire Bellerose, who has offered favors for the guests, presents half a dozen chocolate samples cut in two on a doily-lined silver dish. Ryan becomes queasy after too much sugar on an empty stomach, and they leave undecided. As they walk to Heavenly Bakeshop, she babbles on about the tea rose and white rose bouquet, the rosebud boutonnieres to match the flowers in her hair, and the centerpieces of roses and irises, only to have Eric and Jason revert to their lunch conversation about the Red Sox: three weeks into the season and still riding high on last year’s World Series Championship, they’re growing concerned over the team’s last-place start.

  Out of the blue Eric asks: “Hey, what about transportation? A limo? A horse and buggy? A pedal rickshaw?”

  “Transportation to where?” Jason asks.

  Eric would never have thought about half of this stuff either if he hadn’t been living and breathing this event with the Chamber for nearly a year and if he hadn’t photographed his share of weddings. “To the ceremony and back to the Daffodil,” he tells them.

  They haven’t decided where the ceremony will take place. Jason would like it to be in a Catholic church with a Mass, Ryan outdoors at the Daffodil, with a friend or her uncle Vincent officiating. They agree on the church without a Mass, and Eric is surprised at how fast they can come to an agreement.

  “Hello, we’ve known each other a long time,” Jason says. “If you can’t compromise on the ceremony, what can you compromise on?”

  “I’ll let Father Rivera at St. Anne’s know. That’s it over there.” Eric points to a high white steeple in the distance.

  “He’ll probably want us to do Pre-Cana classes,” Jason tells Ryan.

  “What?”

  “Sessions to help you prepare for marriage. I don’t know much about them.”

  “We’re not taking any classes, especially from a priest. We did Pre-Cana for three years.” Ryan is adamant.

  Eric smiles and takes a few steps away. He appears to be relieved to see a bit of dissension that indicates they are normal after all.

  “Some dioceses have them online.”

  “No, Jason. You see, I knew having it in church would create problems.”

  “Given the time constraint and the distance from where we live, I’m sure the diocese will make an exception. That’s if they even require it. I’d like to stop in to take a look. Is the rectory there too?” he calls over to Eric, who has been checking his email.

  “To tell you the truth, I really don’t know. My dad never went to church, and my mother took me to a Baptist one out of town.”

  “We’ll check it out before we leave.”

  Ryan has lost her appetite for choosing a cake and sulks all the way to the bakery, where Lisa Anderson is waiting for them with inch-sized squares that she keeps in the freezer for tastings and a large photo album of cake towers that Ryan vaguely remembers flipping through on her first visit. As they arrive, Jason is distracted by the young woman standing out front—the same girl Ryan saw on her previous visit. Her face is expressionless, her body ever so still as she stares into the shop window. But at what? Her eyes don’t scan the long-stemmed caked dishes. She just stares at something that doesn’t seem to be there, her hands resting on the handlebars of the rusty bike alongside her.

  “Wait a second.” Jason steps toward the girl, his hand already in his pocket.

  “She’s not hungry. Trust me,” Eric says.

  Jason searches Eric’s face for an explanation.

  “She’s fine, Jason. We need to go in. Lisa’s waiting.”

  It’s almost 6 p.m. by the time Eric suggests that they head over to the Daffodil for dinner, a meal that will also serve as their sampling of the reception fare, but Jason urges Ryan to check out St. Anne’s first. Eric offers to drive them, but Jason and Ryan prefer to walk.

  “Call me if you want me to pick you up. It’s a good way back to the Daffodil.”

  They are intent on meeting him there. This requires private time.

  “We should have come earlier,” Jason says, reading the schedule of Masses inside a glass case next to the whitewashed double doors. “There was a Mass at four. We might have caught Father.” He is surprised to find the doors still open.

  The bland white clapboard exterior conceals an interior that is surprisingly ornate. The dark wooden pews seem to have been carved out of the church itself, as though the building might have begun as a giant piece of solid wood. The effect is of a bowl that tilts downward toward the altar, more like a Victorian theater rather than a house of worship.

  “I’ve never seen these in a Catholic church before,” Jason says, pointing to the worn velvet pew cushions that once matched the faded crimson carpet. “We’re way too into penance.”

  The clear beveled-glass windows contain intricate patterns but no religious depictions. There are four Corinthian pillars—two in the front and two in the rear of the little church—that Ryan imagines Annie Chalis will have a ball wrapping ivy around. Better than bringing in galloping horses, though releasing some butterflies in the church could be a nice touch. Several real wax candles—not electric ones—are flickering on a metal rack to the right of the altar.

  “Must have been built for another denomination,” Jason surmises. “The confessional looks like an add-on.” He points to three plain wooden doors in the rear.

  “Can you do that—go from one denomination to another?”

  “Why not? Look what’s been happening: one day a cathedral, next day a shopping mall.”

  “Ooh, people will like this!” Ryan has turned in a full circle and is taken with the choir loft, also bowl shaped, featuring an organ with ranks of tall pipes.

  “But do you?”

  She really can’t decide. The timelessness of it all makes her dizzy and claustrophobic, yet there is a certain solemnity that draws her, that sanctions the step they are about to take.

 
; “Maybe we should look downstairs for Father … what was his name?” Jason says.

  “Rivera. Let’s not. We have to meet Eric, and I’m starving. We can call him.”

  * * *

  Eric is waiting for them at the bar in the lobby of the Daffodil House, chatting it up with two sunburned young women with long blond hair. He must have showered, because he’s changed into a black fleece, the collar zippered into a turtleneck, that gives him a more artistic look—like a poet or movie director—and his hair is shining and neatly parted to the side. It bothers her that the flirtatious women are into him. Crazy. When he sees Ryan and Eric, he excuses himself and heads over. He’s wearing the familiar scent of cologne that reminds her of the darkroom.

  “We don’t want to interrupt,” Ryan says, moving closer to him until their arms are touching.

  “All good. Skiers. Mark and Karen couldn’t be here tonight, but they’ve got a nice selection of entrees for you to try. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” Jason says. “Long drive back.”

  “How about you, Ryan?”

  “I’ll have a glass of red wine. Jason likes to take the wheel.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell your waiter you’re here so you can get going.” He leads them to a table next to a blazing fire in the fining room.

  “Aren’t you eating with us?” Ryan asks.

  “I hadn’t planned to. Thought you could use some private time.”

  “Sit down, Eric,” Jason says. “We’ve got the whole trip back to ourselves.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll just let my mother know.” He takes out his phone and heads toward the bar.

  “His mother’s sick,” Ryan tells Jason.

  “I know. He told me about it.”

  Ryan would like to have heard how Eric talked to another guy about his mother.

  When he returns from the lobby or the men’s room or wherever he went, Eric points toward the terrace. “The reception will be out there under a tent.”

  “And if it’s raining?” Ryan asks.

  “There are sides to the tent that can come down, and it can be heated if necessary. They can also open that wall of French doors and add the dining room to make it one big space, but give it a warmer, cozier feel. I went to a wedding here where that happened, and it was fine.”

  “We decided to have the ceremony at St. Anne’s, unless they’ve already got a wedding that day and time.”

  “You can still have the cocktail hour out on the terrace here.”

  Jason takes a warm roll from the basket the waiter has brought, breaks it in half and begins to butter it.

  A platter of popcorn shrimp, mini egg rolls, chicken skewers, and stuffed mushrooms appears. Good, Ryan thinks, but nothing to write home about. Eric senses her lukewarm reaction.

  “Remember, there’s a long list to choose from.” He hands her the manila envelope he’s been carrying. “Everything’s here: brochure of the place, pictures of the rooms, the catering menus. This is just a tasting, remember. It’ll be a big buffet.”

  Too bad you can’t sample a few years of marriage, the way you can wedding food: a PowerPoint of variations on how life together might turn out; a baby for a month; photos of how you could look in old age.

  “These sirloin tips are outrageous!” Jason says.

  Ryan isn’t even aware that the waiter has brought over a small platter of them, along with one of chicken Milanese and another with herbencrusted faro salmon that reminds her of what they serve at Golden Meadow rehab, and yet another with two large Portobello mushrooms stuffed with Asiago and mozzarella cheeses. The salmon is dry, and the chicken is drenched in too much lemon juice, but beggars can’t be choosey. The small bowl of ziti with marinara sauce that he brings next isn’t bad, and the deep-fried cauliflower patties drizzled with aioli are to die for, as is the beef tenderloin with a shallot and red wine reduction glaze. Jason is happy to see roasted new fingerling potatoes. All in all, it’ll be okay. Her family won’t lose face. What did you expect from a catering house? As long as they avoided the rubber chicken with rice pilaf and green beans, even her father might be happy.

  “Something for the carnivores, something for the vegetarians, even something for the vegans. We’re good,” Jason says. “Do we have to worry about kosher?”

  “With Faye? Are you kidding? Another type of green salad, maybe. And maybe some gluten-free bread. That should do it.”

  “Talk with Karen. I’m sure she’ll work out whatever you’d like.” It’s been a long day. Eric will probably swear to anything to see them on their way.

  * * *

  “Maybe the cake should be all chocolate,” Jason says, settling into the driver’s seat and fastening his seat belt.

  Lisa Anderson has agreed to make three tiers: one chocolate and one carrot to be sliced for the guests; one small one to be kept in Ryan’s and Jason’s freezer and eaten on their first anniversary (although all her friends have said they threw their anniversary tier out because it didn’t keep). Instead of more tiers, Lisa will make two additional sheet cakes of each type to feed the guests, since the cake will be cut in the kitchen and guests won’t know whether their piece came from the main cake or the sheet cake. “Saves time and money,” Lisa said. When Ryan told her the florist had suggested that Lisa decorate the cake with green sugar vines, Lisa had bristled and said Annie should stick to making centerpieces.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive? We can share,” Ryan says.

  “I’m good. Get some Zs. I’ll wake you if I need to.”

  “We could have stayed over.”

  “And miss Faye’s wedding?”

  “No, silly. We could have left really early in the morning.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to do that.”

  “I didn’t. Just talking.”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “How unusual.”

  “I’ve been thinking I’d like to teach—philosophy.”

  “You mean on the college level—get a Ph.D.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s a change.”

  “It’s what I’d have done to become a Jesuit. That was what I wanted for a discipline.”

  “So much more time in school, Jase.”

  “Yeah, but I’d work too. I don’t care if it takes me longer—at least until you finish law school.”

  “I don’t even know about that anymore. I just know I don’t want to be at the Law Center next year. We’re twenty-eight and we don’t even know what we want to do.”

  “Maybe because there aren’t that many jobs to choose from right now.”

  “Maybe because we have too much choice.”

  “It’ll work out. Get some sleep.” He mumbles something about a teaching job he’s heard about at Driscoll, but she’s too tired to get into a heavy discussion now.

  “Do you like the idea of flowers on top of the cake?” she asks.

  “Better than vines crawling down it, like she described.”

  “And what about having those chocolate candies for favors? I thought we weren’t going to have any favors. They’re always left at weddings I go to, and not everyone likes chocolate. Some people are allergic to it.” She fiddles around for the lever to lower the back of her seat.

  “They’ll give them away,” he says.

  “I liked the darker chocolate one with the sliver of ginger on top.”

  “The Kahlua one was good too.”

  “But we should have one milk chocolate and one dark,” she says.

  “Nobody likes milk chocolate anymore.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. The dark chocolate with the ginger on top and the milk chocolate salted caramels.” He turns up the heat.

  “Deal.”

  “The box with the lavender ribbon was nice. Matches the irises in the centerpieces,” he says.

  “Whatever. At least if there’s any left over we can eat them ourselves. The only thing more useful and ecolo
gical than chocolate would have been toilet paper.”

  He laughs. “I like Eric.”

  “That was obvious.”

  “He invited me to join his fantasy baseball league next year. I just might. We may even take in a Sox game when he gets down to Boston next summer.”

  “Does he get to Boston much?”

  “I don’t know. Says he likes Fenway. Must go there enough. By the way, good call with the pedal rickshaw.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s left, my bride-to-be?”

  “One more trip up, unfortunately, during the week to get the license and a final fitting. Fran says I have to. That’s it, babe. I know this drive is a real pain.”

  “And the DJ?”

  “You can call him. I don’t want to deal with it.”

  “You got it.”

  “What about gifts for Emily and your brother?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll come up with something. He asked me if you were going to change your name.”

  “Your brother?”

  “No, Eric.”

  “What does he care?”

  “He just asked.”

  “Ryan McDermott. It’s so Irish.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “It’s just not me. I’m not Irish. Everyone already thinks I am because of Ryan. When I was little I wanted to change my last name—it’s so long and never gets spelled correctly and nobody can pronounce it. But it’s me, and now I don’t really want to give it up. Be like taking on a whole new identity.”

  “Then don’t change it.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Hell, no. Why would I?”

  “I love you.”

  He smiles.

  “Can you believe how much we settled in one day?”

  “Yeah. Kinda blew Eric’s mind—with relief.”

  Eric, Eric, Eric.

  “I don’t know why it takes everyone over a year,” she says through a yawn.

  “Well, we did have a leg up, you’ve got to admit.”

  “Maybe two.”

  “Happy?”

  “Very. Except for the Pre-Cana thing. I really don’t want to do it.”

  “Okay. We’ll work it out. There’s one more thing—we haven’t told our parents yet.”