Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  Jack had settled into a routine now. Every day he got up with the birds at dawn, washed, dressed, and did the necessary chores. Then he wrote right through the day until five, when he went out for a long evening hike or a swim in the stream, and sometimes caught himself a trout for supper. At night he’d settle by the fire and revise what he’d written that day and make notes for tomorrow. Then he’d climb into his hammock and be asleep by ten. It was sort of boring, but he felt healthy and energized and the routine kept him focused. Slowly the pages were building on his desk.

  Saturday afternoons were the exceptions, when he spruced himself up a little and jumped in the pickup for a brief return to civilization. He’d gotten so used to solitude that the bustle of the small town seemed as exciting as a walk up Fifth Avenue. (Hey, a pizza place! Women! TV!) Everything took a long time because people liked to talk, and it seemed only friendly to talk back. First, Jack would check to see if there was any mail waiting for him at the post office, though there usually wasn’t, because hardly anyone knew he was here. Then he’d shop for food and supplies. In the funny little supermarket-cum-grocery store he resolutely ignored the rack stocked with wine and beer (hard liquor was forbidden by law), in the same way as he ignored a certain look the checkout girl had given him when she asked if he was new in town or just passing through. (Down, boy!) Once or twice, as he passed the display of postcards, he’d thought of sending one to Freya—just a one-liner, a signal. But what could he say? “I’m here writing my book”: too boastful. “Thinking of you”—she’d tear it up. After shopping, he’d go to the Barbecue and Pickin’ Parlor, where he’d eat a mountain of chicken, ribs, beef, and pork, served on a wooden, pig-shaped platter with creamed corn, biscuits, and gravy. Then he’d stagger back to his truck and drive home to read Remembrance of Things Past by the fire. He had plowed his way to book five and was almost beginning to see the point of Proust.

  Today was a sizzler, even though a new bronze veil on the upper mountain slopes warned that autumn was already on its way. Jack parked the pickup on the main street and headed quickly for the shade of the post office with its clanking fan.

  “Looks like you’re Mr. Popular today,” said the man at the counter when Jack finally reached the small window, and he handed over three letters. Jack took them over to a corner, feeling curiously uneasy as he noted that his father, Lauren, and Candace had all chosen to write to him at the same time. He decided to open Candace’s letter first (pale lilac stationary, with her address written on the flap in swirly writing). He slit open the envelope and took out what was evidently a long and important communication.

  “Dear Jack,” he read. “I’m afraid that the news I have to tell you will come as a terrible shock. . . .”

  CHAPTER 33

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I am not nervous! ... How do I look?”

  “I’ve told you before: you look fine.”

  “Fine? Last time I asked, you said beautiful.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “The time before, you said fabulous.”

  “You look fabulous and beautiful—and radiant and serene and all the other things a bride’s supposed to be.”

  “What about my hair? I hate November: New York’s always so windy.”

  “Your hair is perfection. We’re in a cab, remember?”

  “What if he isn’t there?”

  “He’ll be there. Stop fiddling with your bouquet.”

  “But I was so mean to him!”

  “And he was horrible to you. You’ve forgiven each other. That’s what love means.”

  “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “You are not going to faint.”

  “I really love him, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, God, we’re here! Did you bring the Valium?”

  The church was stuffy and the bride late. This was the third time that the organist had played “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Jack fiddled with his cuff link and stole a glance at the rows of guests dressed to kill, at all the faces familiar from childhood. Expensive perfumes clashed with the heavy fragrance of open-throated Madonna lilies. He felt hot and constricted in this ridiculous outfit. He could feel the stock around his neck pushing his chin into an aggressive tilt, as if he were about to lead the last Confederate charge against the damned Yankees.

  Still, he’d promised Candace, and he’d promised his father. He had to go through with it.

  “Okay: deep breath. Are you ready?”

  “You go first.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Take a peek. Please. For me?”

  The door to the church stood ajar. A modest aisle paved in colored tiles led through rows of seats, packed with murmuring guests. At the far end a man waited, rigid with anxiety, staring at a particularly colorful representation of the crucifixion. Freya smiled. Michael turned his head, and his face flooded with such joy and relief that her eyes pricked with tears.

  “... we are gathered together to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate ...”

  Jack caught his stepmother’s eye. She winked, and for an instant his tension relaxed.

  Yet the solemnity of the service made it hard not to take marriage seriously. Love. Fidelity. Fortitude. Endurance. It felt quite different to be up here at the altar instead of sitting among the congregation.

  “Do you, Candace Marie Twink, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband ...”

  Jack snapped to attention. His big moment was coming up. Where was the ring?

  “Do you, Michael Josiah Petersen, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife—to have and to hold from this day forward? ...”

  “I do.”

  Freya looked at his face, so proud and excited. She had never seen his brown eyes glow like this, or such a tender curve to his smile. Love was truly amazing: powerful, irresistible, unpredictable. Who could have guessed that out of all the women in the world, the right one for Michael—the only one—would be her dear friend Cat, whose face shone with the same happy confidence as she repeated the marriage vows?

  Freya felt humbled. How little she knew of human nature. Here were two people she could have sworn would dislike each other on sight; yet they had slotted together like a key in a lock, opening the door to a new future together. It looked so easy. If only—

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  A chorus of uninhibited sobs broke out behind her. That would be Cat’s mother and the other da Filippo women. Italians were so emotional. A cascade of glorious, liquid music poured from the organ loft. Freya ducked her head and glared at the tips of her exquisite new shoes. Just for a moment, she was feeling rather Italian herself.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Madison.” Jack bent to kiss the bride.

  Candace smiled at him triumphantly. She was practically airborne on a waft of gauzy white material—veils and trains and other stuff he couldn’t name. There was no sign of the tongue stud today.

  “Come on, everybody.” Jack winced at the commanding boom of his father’s voice. “Let’s go back to the house and celebrate!”

  “Sweetie, how can I ever thank you?” Cat threw her arms around Freya, high as a kite. “You’ve been wonderful.”

  “Don’t be silly. I just—”

  “No, she’s right.” Michael gave Freya’s elbow an appreciative squeeze. “We’d never have gotten all this organized without you.” He gestured at the roomful of guests, already attacking the party food. “You’ve done a great job.”

  “Fantastic!” agreed Cat.

  “Really incredible,” Michael added.

  “Nonsense. Thank you for giving me the chance. I’ve loved doing it.” Freya smiled. She hadn’t done this much smiling for months, and her cheeks ached.

  They all stood beaming at each other until Freya pretended to remember that there was something vital she must check, and managed to shoo Michael and Cat aw
ay to join their guests. She watched them go with mingled affection and relief. It wasn’t that she minded that Cat and Michael had fallen in love. She didn’t mind that Cat had moved into Michael’s apartment and was sleeping in the bed only recently vacated by herself. She didn’t mind helping Cat to choose her outfit, compile her wedding-gift list, order the flowers, arrange the reception. She didn’t even mind being a bridesmaid—at least they hadn’t made her wear a stupid garland on her head. It was just a little ... painful. There was still a slight awkwardness between the three of them, though they did their best to pretend otherwise. The story of the shortened trousers was now a hilarious joke. Ha, ha! Freya’s bedroom revelations had been wiped from memory. They all agreed that it had been quite miraculously providential that Cat had been able to take advantage of Michael’s spare ticket for the Ring Cycle.

  Freya was glad now that she had gone back up to Cat’s apartment that terrible, rainy night, though it had taken every scrap of courage she possessed to put her own misery aside, and absolve Cat and Michael of guilt. She was proud of herself for behaving so well. In fact, she had behaved bloody brilliantly for months and months. She had spent hours of overtime with Matt Scordano, encouraging him, bullying him, persuading him to think about his work and not the velvet mafia of critics—with the result his show had been a colossal success, both financially and critically, and Lola Preiss had finally stopped questioning Freya’s every decision. On the home front, she had finally signed a rental lease on a long-term apartment in Tribeca and redecorated it herself. Last month she had christened it with a huge dinner party for Cat and Michael and their separate groups of friends, though she nearly had a nervous breakdown over the cooking—not to mention reencountering those friends of Michael who remembered her as the girlfriend. It was a lovely apartment with a proper doorman, a sunny aspect, and spacious views; it even had a small spare room for her father, who was coming to visit next month. At a personal level, although Freya had told Cat about Jack and Tash—and Cat had denounced Jack in a very satisfying, robust manner—she hadn’t gone on and on about it. It seemed selfish to wallow in misery when Cat was so happy; Freya had made a big effort to redirect her energies into showing how delighted she was for her friend.

  And she was delighted. She’d loved being swept into the heart of the da Filippo family, who were openly jubilant at having got Cat married at last. It was fun to be here at the center of a party that had taken off with such a roar of good humor. Italians certainly knew how to enjoy themselves. A small band played brassily in one corner. Everywhere she looked there were cakes oozing with cream, dredged with sugar, soaked in marsala, studded with almonds and dried fruit. There were cratefuls of asti spumante, emptying at a terrifying rate. The room was above a restaurant in Little Italy, owned by Cat’s fourth cousin’s brother-in-law’s son. Already it was packed to capacity with wolfish uncles and dyed-blond aunts, children in velveteen suits and frilled dresses, even a little dog that looked like a floor mop and was called Pookie. The now-legendary Blumbergs were here, of course, beaming at everyone and holding hands, a walking advertisement for marriage.

  Whoops! There was Mrs. Petersen, in navy blue. Freya changed direction smartly. It had been decided to skate over any connection between the deranged ex-girlfriend who had pretended to be a Spanish-speaking cleaner and the Englishwoman acting as maid-of-honor. As it was, Mrs. Petersen had suffered one of her worst attacks ever on learning that her beloved Mikey was marrying a woman she hadn’t even met, let alone approved: a career woman (feminist), a New Yorker (hard), in her thirties (after Mikey’s sperm), from an Italian background (Catholic!). Even though Cat treated her like an empress, begged for permission to call her “Mother” and lavished praise on her son, Mrs. Petersen maintained an expression of noble martyrdom—that faltered into a quizzical frown every time she caught sight of her new daughter-in-law’s best friend. So far Freya had resisted the temptation to click her fingers and shout “Olé!”

  She lost herself in the crowd, drinking and chatting and trying to suppress memories of the last wedding she had attended. This was Cat and Michael’s day, and she wanted it to be perfect. At one point she caught sight of the pair of them together: Cat talking animatedly, carving the air with her hands, while Michael watched mesmerized, as if a goddess had floated down on her cloud. Cat was carrying her nephew Tonito on one hip, his fat legs tucked comfortably around her waist. She glowed with happiness. Freya was prepared to bet good money that Cat would be pregnant herself within the year. She pictured Cat in the Chinese restaurant, only a few months ago, loftily insisting that she didn’t need a man, and smiled at the tricks life played.

  Freya kept herself busy, checking that the food and drink were circulating, that there were enough chairs for the older guests, and helping to fill glasses for the toasts. Then everybody gathered close, someone rapped on a table for silence and Cat’s father stepped forward. His dark eyes raked the room. “I have only one question,” he growled. “Why did it take her so long?” Freya listened with affection as he talked about Cat’s character and achievements—her big heart, her fighting spirit, her tiny forgivable flaws—until, with an old-fashioned formality that she found moving, he took his daughter’s hand and placed it ceremonially in that of her husband’s. Now it was Michael’s turn. Freya nibbled at a thumbnail, wondering how he’d measure up, hoping he wouldn’t be too ponderous and sentimental. When Cat confessed that she had first been attracted to Michael because of his wonderful sense of humor, Freya had only just managed to refrain from retorting “His what?” But now, as he began to tell the story of how he and Cat had met as antagonists in the Blumberg divorce case, Freya saw that Cat was right. People were laughing. He was funny! Love had made him confident. He even looked different, his hair shinier, his eyes brighter. Freya was glad for him, but his happiness was also the gentlest of rebukes. She had seen Michael as dependable and “nice,” but ultimately boring; it had taken Cat to light that bonfire inside him.

  Cat was hilarious. She interrupted Michael regularly—correcting his stories, chipping in with asides, once even smoothing his hair into place. He took it all with patient good humor, teasing her back, calming her down. Cat made her own short speech, naturally; this was, she announced, an equal opportunities marriage.

  After the speeches, time seemed to hurtle forward. A car had been booked to take Cat and Michael to the airport; they were flying to the Caribbean for a week of sun. There were suitcases to be taken downstairs. Someone needed to pay the band. There was a minor diplomatic incident when, for no apparent reason, Pookie bit Mrs. Petersen on the ankle. Cat and Michael slipped upstairs to change. While she waited for them to reappear, Freya noticed Cat’s grandmother sitting alone, apparently overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. She must be well into her eighties, poor thing. Freya walked over and stooped low. “May I bring you something?”

  The old woman took her hand gratefully and drew her into the next chair, glad of someone to talk to. In her eccentrically accented English she told Freya what a marvelous party it was, how handsome she thought Michael, how lovely Cat looked in her wedding suit. Freya smiled and smiled. She agreed that everything was quite, quite wonderful.

  Mrs. da Fillipo stroked Freya’s hand while they talked. Her own were small and incredibly fragile, the skin soft as worn velvet.

  “You are not married?” she asked.

  The question took Freya by surprise. She looked down at her ringless fingers, suddenly jolted out of the comfortable mundanity of small talk. “No,” she said shortly.

  “Someone special?”

  “No.”

  “But why not? You are so pretty.”

  Freya tossed her head. “Men aren’t everything.”

  “That depends on the man.” The faded eyes peered shrewdly into her own. “You have never been in love?”

  Freya felt her lip tremble. Please stop! “Oh, love.” She shrugged. “It’s such a silly word. I mean, how can you tell?”

  The old woman smi
led and patted her hand kindly, as if they both knew Freya was talking nonsense. “The first time I saw my husband,” she said, “was at his engagement party to someone else. But that didn’t stop me.” She chuckled. “A woman always knows. And when she knows, she must act.”

  “But ... it isn’t always easy to know what to do.” Freya dropped her flippant tone and met the old lady’s gaze frankly.

  Mrs. da Fillipo gripped her hand tight and leaned forward urgently. “You must follow your heart. You must. Gianni and I were married for fifty-six years. I miss him every day.” Her kind, creased face clouded with sorrow. Freya swallowed hard.

  “Oh, look!” she said brightly, pointing at Cat and Michael, who had reappeared in casual holiday clothes and were making their sentimental farewells. Cat came over to say good-bye to her grandmother, and Freya gave up her seat to allow them some privacy. She wandered aimlessly through the crowd, trying to regain her equilibrium, and found herself face-to-face with Michael.