A Day in June

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “Looks like we’ve come full circle,” Lisa whispers.

  The vows are short, the homily brief. He is the first in the receiving line to congratulate the couple in the vestibule of the church.

  “I just wanted to protect you. That’s why I didn’t say anything,” Danni whispers in his ear when he kisses her.

  “You didn’t think I’d have a problem with it, did you?”

  “Not about Tiffany and me, but I was worried you would think I was taking advantage of the contest. That’s why I had to quit the Chamber. Not one of the other contestants was remotely interested. I couldn’t see all our work go down the tubes. As far as everyone else is concerned, you never knew.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “So we’re good?”

  “Yeah, we’re good.” He laughs. She has no idea how good they are. Better than they’ve ever been. It’s like finding the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle that never existed. “I’m happy for you both,” he says to Tiffany.

  He has a decision to make: wait outside the church for Ryan, who will be among the last to exit, and deal with the surprised reaction of the Brackton crowd now, or beat it to the reception. He decides he needs a Moscow Mule—heavy on the vodka—under his belt before he confronts any of them.

  * * *

  It doesn’t take long for the Chamber’s board of directors attending the wedding to approach an amply fortified Eric and form a little group in the lobby of the Daffodil.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Mother Twinkle purrs. “I get so overcome at weddings.” Her shiver sends her gold shawl fluttering.

  “And just one day after the Supreme Court declared same-sex marriage legal in every state. Way to go, Eric!” Maisie congratulates him.

  “Yeah. Just dandy,” Rob Burns says, despite his wife’s tugging at his sleeve in an effort to restrain him. “Bad enough the winners had to come from home, but from the Chamber itself? Can’t wait to see how this flies.”

  “Nice move, Boulanger. You could have given us a heads-up,” Hank says. He appears amused.

  “Surprise to me too,” Eric informs them one after the other, then finally stops since they’re not buying it. He says he and Danni thought it would be better that way.

  He’s been keeping an eye out for Ryan but doesn’t see her until the cocktail hour is over and the guests are told that dinner—a buffet with no arranged seating—will be served in the tent. She enters from the direction of the ladies’ room, and he excuses himself, telling Michael and Becca to grab a table and save him a place.

  “Been hiding?” he asks.

  “Not really. I had some calls to make and—except for a few who are ignoring me, the vendors have been very sweet—sympathetic. You know—the jilted bride. Fran wanted to know if it was hard to see Tiff in my wedding gown.”

  “Is that what you are? Jilted?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Did you tell them that?”

  “What?”

  “That you were jilted?”

  “No. I assumed you did.”

  “I just said the wedding was off. Period. That’s what you told me.”

  “I told you more than that.”

  “Not much. Besides, it’s none of their business—or mine. It took a lot of courage for you to come, Ryan. I admire you.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry. I really am. For creating such a mess.”

  “Hey, looks like it all worked out for the best.” He gives a nod in the direction of Danni and Tiffany who have just entered the Daffodil, hand in hand.

  “I know you turned yourself inside out to accommodate me and Jason through our craziness.”

  “I just wanted things to go well all the way around.” He knows his hand is warming his drink, but he keeps it firmly wrapped around the glass nevertheless in an effort to steady it.

  “I appreciated it. Still do.”

  “Listen. It didn’t go sour because of what happened in the darkroom, did it?” He feels compelled to ask.

  She shakes her head. “Jason and I weren’t even back together then. Hadn’t been for well over a year.”

  Her statement takes him aback and he squeezes the glass.

  “Let me get this straight. You entered the contest when you weren’t engaged? Not even going together?”

  She nods.

  “Wow.”

  “I know. I just kept hoping Jason would have a change of heart. And he did.”

  “Wow.” He is so angry now that this is all he can muster. That and swallowing the remainder of his drink. “And you didn’t even confess when you called off the wedding.”

  “Kind of after the fact. I swear I didn’t know about Tiffany and Danni. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience.” Jaw tightly clenched, he inhales deeply.

  “Why’d you even come here today? You should have quit while you were ahead.”

  “I wasn’t going to. But I wanted to for Tiffany. I haven’t been the best roommate lately. And I’m trying to be more honest with everyone—including myself. It’s not like I go around doing this kind of thing all the time. I wanted to formally apologize. The contest just got me at a vulnerable time, and I grabbed onto it.”

  “Today’s about Danni—and Tiffany. Not you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you played us like it was all some joke. Just a bunch of little ol’ country folk. No biggie.” He can feel the heat rising within him. He really needs another drink.

  “I wanted so badly for something to work. It was selfish. But I didn’t think of you all in a bad way—I liked you. You were so nice it made me want it to work out even more. I didn’t know how to get out. And then Jason showed up. I regret it, and I’m sorry. I guess I lost myself inside of someone else. But hey, Tiffany and Danni met.”

  “You think this contest is the only thing going on in these people’s lives here? The only thing they have to deal with? You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I don’t know what else to say, Eric. I made a mistake. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

  “Yeah. Falling for you, for one.”

  “When you thought I was engaged.”

  “Right. Big mistake. I guess you’re here with friends of Tiffany’s?” The eyes are squinting but he’s not smiling.

  “No. I came alone. I don’t really know Tiff’s friends well, or her family. I don’t plan on being here long. I wasn’t even going to stay for the reception, but I wanted to talk to you. Apologize in person.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” He might as well offer while he gets his own.

  “A dirty martini would be great,” she says as she walks with him to the bar. “Jason’s a priest, you know. I mean, he’s been in the seminary. Gone back to it.”

  “Have to say I’m not that surprised.” Good people, complicated circumstances. Soon gone for good. He can see through the French doors leading into the tent that the tables are full. “My friends saved a table. I think you’ll recognize them.”

  Michael has kept an eye on Eric and reserved two seats.

  Ryan sits between Becca and Eric, spending most of her time chatting with Becca, who makes an effort to put the only other female at ease. Three young men from Tiffany’s family occupy the remaining seats at the table, and Michael makes attempts to engage them in conversation—about sports, school—but the teenagers from New York City are not very interested in socializing.

  They go up to the buffet when signaled. They sip their champagne and clink glasses when the toasts are made. They eat. They do not talk. They clap when the cake is cut. Michael and Eric bring back two plates of carrot cake, two plates of chocolate cake, and four cups of coffee from the dessert table. Michael doesn’t suggest they take some out to Bicycle Girl, who stares in at nothing in particular from outside the tent. The dishes are cleared and Rich Rinaldi announces the first dance. They watch Tiffany and Danni float around the p
ortable plywood surface and kiss. Ryan gets up to leave: she’s staying with friends in New Hampshire and wants to get on the road before dark.

  “Don’t forget your favor,” Becca says, handing her the small silverfoil box of chocolates tied with a lavender ribbon. Inserted beneath the ribbon is a smooth rose heart-shaped stone with a tag attached stating what it symbolizes: Romance, Passion, Positive relationships with others. Compliments of Mother Twinkle.

  Becca stands and, despite her substantial belly, gives Ryan a warm embrace.

  “Nice meeting you,” Michael says, taking her hand in both of his.

  “Bye,” she says to Eric.

  “Drive safely,” he tells her.

  Chapter 30

  Wednesday, July 2

  IT WASN’T THE same-sex marriage that made the Brackton Is for Brides Contest a disaster. That, as Eric had initially envisioned, turned out to be the good part: Taking place on the heels of the Supreme Court decision, the media was all over it. While Tiffany’s prominent Big Apple parents placed the announcement in the Sunday New York Times, the newspaper bumped it up to the Style section with full-blown half-page “Vows” coverage of the courtship. In a phone interview, the pair was discreet enough to say that they had met on the ski slopes, not wanting to expose Ryan and Jason as the couple who had broken their engagement. The paper ate up the suspense and irony of the local gal and organizer of the contest secretly saving the day for the town in time to celebrate a landmark decision: A great twist to the perfect ending; the couple could not have timed it better.

  That the crutches she sported were the result of the very activity that had brought the women together only added another layer of icing to the cake of irony. There was an expansive pastoral backdrop shot of the two women, not unlike those featured in Vermont’s Book for All Brides, compliments of wedding photographer Sarah Bentley. The day after the piece ran, the phones at the Daffodil House and the Brackton Inn rang off the hook with requests for reservations, in addition to an unprecedented number of hits on their websites.

  But it is not only about the money in small towns that breathe and bleed along with their inhabitants. In communities like these, everything is personal. News of the New York Times Sunday spread followed local reports, of course, from the Rutland Herald down to the Brattleboro Reformer, that went as far as to say that the couple prevented what would have been a crushing financial and emotional blow to the town: not a lie by any means, but a painful insult all the same, one that Rob Burns had called on the day of the wedding. With deeper investigation, the Burlington Free Press touted the fact that the winner had not only been a member of the Chamber’s board of directors but its longtime president and a close friend of Eric Boulanger, originator of the contest. How clever of that hamlet, they intimated; how desperate and dishonest, the town of Brackton’s residents interpreted.

  The deepest injury came from the Rutland Herald and local television shows that followed another lead they couldn’t ignore. Every family has its rotten apples, and Tiffany’s was no exception. The wait staff at both inns shared stories about guests and their condescending comments: The Daffodil House was cute, rustic, a wannabe for the Vanderbilt mansion, and the recently renovated Brackton Inn simply tacky, with décor no better than that of a 1950s Sag Harbor cottage. Mark Goldman, it was rumored, had offered (in his best New York accent) to drive one of the rude women back to the Upper West Side early, assuring her that he knew the way, upon hearing her complain that she couldn’t get hold of any Uber drivers because there were none here in the sticks.

  Most guests were more gracious, labeling everything so charming, their repetition of the word damning. Tiffany’s great-uncle, whether due to dementia or kleptomania, was caught taking bottles of wine from tables and burying them under thick white towels—an upscale Scandinavian hotel’s logo embroidered on their corners—in the trunk of his BMW. Thanks to him, such amenities as mouthwash, pain relievers, tampons, safety pins, breath mints, and other sundries arranged in white wicker baskets disappeared early in the evening, along with rolls of toilet paper from the restrooms at the Daffodil.

  It was the cousins, however, the Park Avenue bad boys, the trio of two high school seniors and one college freshman who had sat at Eric’s table, who delivered the greatest insult to Brackton, the coup de grâce that would put an end to any future Brackton Is for Brides contests. Seeking to extend the party beyond the neighborhood’s noise code deadline, the boys, already infused with alcohol they had illegally stashed away in their hotel room, strolled into town shouting their intention to find some action in “this shithole.”

  All they found open was Baby’s Bar and Grill, where they engaged in a game of pool. When Jimmy Goulet refused to serve the plastered teenagers with their fake IDs, the youngest boy and member of his high school wrestling team jumped the bar, secured him in a headlock with his left arm, and began pummeling his face with his right fist. The attempt to pull him off by the only other two men in the bar drew the remaining cousins into the fray. By the time the patrol car came by, the scene resembled one in a bad western. Jimmy was taken to Rutland Regional for stitches and the boys were thrown into lockup, only to be rescued soon after by their lawyer uncle, who was no less angry with the police than with his nephews. Hefty payments to Jimmy managed to get the assault charges dropped, but they could not prevent immediate coverage of the altercation by the local press and television news. The boys were in town to attend the wedding of their cousin to former member of the Brackton Chamber of Commerce and winner of the Brackton Is for Brides Contest, Vermont newspapers and local anchors stated.

  * * *

  “An outrage.” “A damned shame.” “A fool’s folly.” “A good attempt.”

  Opinions at the Chamber meeting following the wedding fly around the room like bullets.

  Eric sits passively, waiting for the fallout to end before he apologizes. He’s glad Danni isn’t there to take any flak. “It’s like after losing the College World Series. You tried your best. Now you leave it all on the field and hold your head high. And when you can’t hold it up anymore, hold it higher,” Michael told him.

  “I’m sorry.” Eric says.

  What else can he say: It seemed like a good idea at the time? To some of them, it was never a good idea.

  “There’s no need for that.” Mother Twinkle waves away his apology. “We were all in this together.”

  “The hell we were,” Hank bellows.

  “I’m booked for next season,” Mark Goldman says about the Daffodil House, as he sits back in his chair, satisfied.

  “Same here,” Terry Stewart says about the Brackton Inn.

  “No complaints with me either.” Rich Rinaldi gives a thumbs-up.

  “You got your wish there,” Hank tells him.

  “If you’ll remember correctly, Hank, I was originally opposed to the couple being same-sex for fear it would put them up for ridicule. But I was wrong. It’s out now. All of it. And we were a part of it. It was the right thing.”

  “We all got justice,” says Jimmy Goulet, who had suffered the most but was proud of his battle scars. “We should feel good. We went the distance. There were gains and there were losses. As Mark would say: That’s business.”

  Mark nods.

  “And my shop got mentioned in the New York Times!” Fran Costantino exclaims.

  Yet despite the acknowledgment that business will increase some, and in light of their differences of opinion as to whether or not the reputation of the Chamber has been damaged, on one fact they sadly concur: Whether or not the town of Brackton is respected or disrespected—now or in the future—is out of their control. And so they vote unanimously not to hold another contest—it simply took too much out of them—and move on to the next order of the day: the Fourth of July fireworks.

  2015

  Chapter 31

  Wednesday, April 1

  FAYE HAS NEVER completely reverted to her old self. While she no longer requires constant care, she uses a cane (tho
ugh a walker would serve her better): She doesn’t want to grow dependent even on a gilded one, however, and doesn’t want other residents to see her with it. Since Harold left his entire estate to her, she is more than financially set to stay in Apartment 31 with an Assisted Living package that provides help in keeping her medications straight and performing tasks she finds a bit too difficult to manage. Lauren and Robin insisted on the package rather than have their mother attempt anything foolish again that would land her back in the nursing care facility for good.

  Of course, Faye still attempts foolish things—she is, after all, Faye, who prefers to climb up on stepstools to change light bulbs and shower on her own. A black eye on one occasion; a goose egg on her forehead on another. She’s been lucky so far. She insisted that Ryan attach her call-for-help pendant to a string of bling. The Home Shopping Network still provides entertainment, and weekly poker games with Pearl and Tilly (to which Faye takes a cab or the Senior Transport Bus) keep her in the sagging loop. Sixteen months since her biking accident. A year since Harold’s death. Not much time to take her down, yet she’s been diminished.

  “I’m not aging well,” she tells Ryan, sitting at a card table covered with jigsaw puzzle pieces. She uses an emery board to file down the edges of a dark brown piece so she can complete the portal of a castle in Scotland.

  “Are you kidding, Faye? You’ve aged incredibly well. And what you’re doing with that puzzle piece is cheating.”

  But despite Faye’s babbling about the inconvenience of getting old, Ryan understands that Faye hasn’t really seen herself as old until now: Aging is something new to her, to be tackled from now on.

  “You look ten years younger than you are, Faye.”

  “I feel ten years older. Don’t go away. I have to piddle.” Faye heads for the bathroom. “Turn on the TV please, bubeleh? The makeup lady is on today.”

  Ryan hopes this is just a phase her grandmother has been going through. Tomorrow she’ll settle into her new situation and fully assume her old Faye persona until the next decline. It’s all Harold’s fault: his choosing to die, his giving her love and then pulling the rug out from under her for no reason. Faye was fine before he turned up. Ryan still can’t understand why Faye isn’t bitter. It will take years for Ryan to comprehend this, Lauren tells her daughter. Years for both mother and daughter—with any luck. “We were made to grieve and move on,” Lauren says. “Don’t forget that.”