On This Day

by Melody Carlson

  “Ahem,” my son is saying, trying to get his bearings, I’m sure. “Thank you all for sharing this—uh—this most amazing day with us. We are so pleased to have you here, and we hope by making this wedding into an all-day event, well, maybe we’ll get a chance to visit with everyone. Anyway, welcome! We hope you have a most pleasant day. Thank you.”

  And that’s it. People turn their attention back to their own tables and companions, and I notice that servers are beginning to bring plates of food. A relief to me, for I am feeling rather hungry after my morning walk, which was a bit longer than usual. But then, how often do I get a chance to stroll by a pretty mountain lake these days?

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Simpson?”

  I look up from stirring my tea to see that Elizabeth Anderson is speaking to me from across the table. Elizabeth is Jennifer’s aunt (her favorite aunt, I’ve been told more than once by my granddaughter), and yet my opportunities to get acquainted with this woman have been relatively few—just once in a while at holiday gatherings and whatnot.

  “I’m doing quite well, thank you,” I tell her. “I enjoyed a lovely walk this morning. I think this mountain air agrees with me.”

  “Oh, good for you. Jeannette was worried that it might be a rather long day for you, especially after your recent health problems.”

  I smile and wave my hand. “Oh, fiddlesticks. I’m as healthy as a horse.”

  “I know you’ve met my husband, Phil, before,” she tells me without even glancing at the handsome man at her side. How these young people take their spouses for granted these days. “But have you met Suzette and Jim Burke?” She nods to the couple on her other side. “Jim is Michael’s boss.”

  “Oh yes, at the law firm,” I say. “Jennifer has told me about you.

  “Mrs. Simpson is Jennifer’s paternal grandmother,” explains Elizabeth.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Jim nods and smiles pleasantly. “Your granddaughter is marrying a fine young man, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “And Michael Fairbanks is marrying a fine young woman.” I return his smile. “But then I might be just the slightest bit biased.”

  They all laugh. Well, everyone except for Jim’s wife. Suzette, I believe her name was, and she looks decidedly unhappy. Or perhaps she’s sitting on a thumbtack.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ingrid says as she slips into the chair next to mine. I’ve known Ingrid since she was in grade school. “There were some last-minute fires I had to put out.”

  “This is Jennifer’s best friend, Ingrid Campbell,” I announce to the rest of our table, just in case someone doesn’t know her. “Ingrid is the maid of honor in the festivities today.”

  “A worn-out maid of honor.” Ingrid shoves a lock of bright red hair behind an ear. “I’ll be so glad when this whole thing is over.”

  I laugh and pat her hand. “Don’t be in such a hurry, dear. Why not just enjoy the day for what it is? The splendid weather, the beautiful lake. Goodness, we couldn’t be in a prettier place.”

  Ingrid sighs and seems to relax. “You know, you’re totally right, Mrs. Simpson. I don’t know why I keep freaking over every little detail. I just want everything to be perfect, though. Jenny’s such a good friend.” Then she gets a sly grin. “Besides, she’s supposed to do all this for me before long.”

  “That’s right. When’s the big date?”

  “New Year’s Eve,” she says in a cheerful voice though her eyes seem to betray her. “Jason’s idea. I think he just wants the tax break.”

  “New Year’s Eve,” I repeat. “How romantic. You’ll always have a special anniversary date that way.”

  “I guess.”

  Now our food is being set before us, a good excuse for a break from my feeble attempts at light conversation. Calvin always told me I had the gift of gab. Oh, he meant it in the best possible way since he always depended on me to get the ball rolling in social situations. And perhaps I was better at it back then—back when he was around to encourage me along those lines. I’m not so sure anymore. As I look around the table at all the young people surrounding me, I think perhaps I’ve failed completely.

  Because the sorry truth is, no one looks entirely happy to be here. Goodness, I hope it’s not anything I’ve said or done. And if I’m not mistaken, Suzette Burke is on the verge of tears. Dear me, I would think they all have so much to be thankful for too. Their youth, their health, their spouses. I wonder how it could be that they’re not.

  O Lord, please help these young people see that they have so much. Help them not to take their loved ones for granted. Help them realize that marriage is a precious gift, a gift that will not last forever. Amen.

  I suppose it might seem strange to some folks, but I pray like that all the time—silently, in my head with my eyes wide open—even if people are all around me. I don’t fold my hands or bow my head or anything else that would give me away. In a way it’s like having my own invisible prayer closet. I just silently pray the words in my mind and my heart, and I’m certain the good Lord always listens.

  But I’m not so sure he’s heard me right, because things seem to be getting even worse now. Elizabeth looks as if she’s bitten into a lemon, and Suzette is actually starting to cry. I’m not sure why this is or whether I missed something. But that woman is definitely upset as she gets to her feet, a bit clumsily I notice, perhaps due to those high-heeled shoes, which aren’t really suitable for this outdoor luncheon, or perhaps it’s the effect of the wine, although it looks barely touched. But she tosses down her cloth napkin right on top of her untouched food and then storms, a bit unsteadily, right out of here.

  Her husband looks perfectly stunned, as if he hasn’t the slightest clue about what’s undone his pretty wife. Perhaps it’s simply a case of hormones. I can remember falling apart over the silliest little things sometimes. Then later I would look at the calendar and realize it was simply my monthly cycle playing havoc with me again. Oh, we didn’t have a special name for it back then or even those initials; we just took it all in stride. Fortunately, everything changed for the better after menopause. Thank God for menopause! Maybe that’s what poor Suzette needs—a good case of the menopause.

  Chapter 4

  ELIZABETH

  Oh brother, was it something I said? I try to replay the trivial conversation just before Suzette threw down her napkin and burst out of here. Now I see my sister looking at me from the head table. It’s obvious she’s noticed something amiss over here. I give her my best innocent look, but she sends me a pointed glance in return. And her look is meant to inform me that it’s suddenly become my responsibility to go and find out what’s wrong with Suzette Burke, the wife of my niece’s fiancé’s boss. Like I need this today. Oh, the varied and many complications of life!

  So I excuse myself to no one in particular and set off to see if I can help the poor woman. Or, worst-case scenario, to discover whether unthinkingly I said something to unnerve her like this. Heaven knows, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth. What were we talking about anyway?

  I replay the last scraps of conversation as I hike toward the main lodge, where I assume she has headed since I don’t see her anywhere near the lake or the trails. Besides, she didn’t exactly have on hiking boots. What possesses a woman to wear shoes like that to an outdoor luncheon on a lawn? Not only are they inappropriate, I’m guessing they cost a small fortune as well.

  Then it hits me. “What do you do?” was what I had asked her. No big deal, really. Just making small talk in order to avoid conversation with my husband since I feel certain I’d have told him to go jump in the lake.

  “Do?” she shot back as if I were subjecting her to the Spanish Inquisition.

  Then I distinctly remember restating my question, I thought in an inoffensive way, since I fully realize that lots of women choose to stay at home, and this by no means is a reflection on their value as human beings. “I mean, do you work outside the home?” I asked in a polite tone. But when she didn’t a
nswer me and instead stared blankly across the table, I continued, stupidly perhaps. “I mean, do you have a career or children or hobbies?”

  “No,” was all she said. And shortly after that she stood up, threw down her napkin, and struggled to march off in those four-inch heels. It was actually a rather amazing feat that she managed to stay upright at all, especially after consuming a glass and a half of wine. Not that I was counting exactly. I guess I was just distracting myself from obsessing over what was going on between Phil and me. I felt relieved that I’d managed to avoid him for most of the morning–well, until this luncheon began.

  “Suzette,” I call. It turns out she’s heading to the ladies’ room inside the lodge. She doesn’t even look back at me, and suddenly I wonder what on earth I am doing, following her into the bathroom like this. She’ll probably think I’m stalking her. But actually I’m fairly worried about her. My imagination has gone into overdrive, and I have already conjured up images of poor Suzette. Perhaps she’s experienced some sort of heartbreak. Maybe she lost her only child and is barely over her grief, then someone as insensitive as I am throws it all back in her face by asking what she does. I am so tactless sometimes.

  “Suzette?” I say in my most gentle voice when I find her standing over the sink, crying even harder now. “Are you okay?”

  She reaches for a tissue to blot her wet face. “I-I don’t know.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Did I say something—”

  This causes her to burst into fresh tears, and the next thing I know, she throws her arms around me and begins sobbing uncontrollably on my shoulder. I try to soothe her in the way I would comfort my sister or niece. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Go ahead and have a good cry if it makes you feel better.”

  Finally she seems to be pulling herself together. She steps back and goes for a fresh tissue, then examines her ruined makeup in the mirror. “Ugh!” she says. “I look horrifying.” Then she opens up a lovely handbag that looks like authentic crocodile or something reptilian and attempts to repair her damaged face.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I say as I watch her, suddenly feeling useless.

  She turns and looks at me. One eye looks fairly normal, but the other still has a raccoonlike ring of smeared mascara. “Okay?” she echoes in an unsteady voice.

  Oh dear, here we go again. “I mean, are you feeling a little better? I know it can be therapeutic to have a good cry. Are you feeling a little—”

  “I feel totally miserable,” she says with a sniff. “I’ve never felt worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Is it anything I said … I mean, is there anything I can do to help?”

  She looks at me with a surprised expression, almost as if she’s not even sure who I am or why I’m here. “No, no … of course not. It wasn’t you … Uh, what is your name again?”

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Anderson. I’m Jenny’s aunt on her mother’s side.” All right, I feel incredibly stupid and a bit irritated that she can’t even recall my name. What on earth made me think I was the cause of this, anyway? And why am I still standing here?

  “Right. Jenny’s aunt. No, no, it wasn’t your fault. The truth is, I’ve just discovered that my husband is … is having an affair.” Her face twists up, and I’m afraid she’s about to start crying again. “With his secretary!”

  I blink. “His secretary? Goodness, are you sure?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … But with his secretary? I guess it just seems so, well, cliché … and I wonder … I mean, I didn’t know that bosses and secretaries, well … Aren’t there sexual-harassment policies to prevent that sort of thing?”

  She sniffs, then blots her nose. “She’s not actually a secretary. She’s Jim’s legal assistant At least I think that’s what he calls her. And policies? Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But he does have a marriage license. That’s a bit like a policy, don’t you think?”

  Well, I’m not sure what to think. Most of all I’m wondering how I got myself into this situation. Furthermore, how can I get myself out? “Yes,” I tell her, “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Well, yes,” I say with what I hope doesn’t sound like impatience. “I introduced you to my husband. Remember?”

  “Right. The good-looking man with you.”

  I consider this but don’t offer my opinion. I realize that Phil’s an attractive guy. But then looks are only skin deep.

  “How long have you been married?” she asks.

  “Oh …” Why are we talking about me now? Despite myself, I answer. “Almost twenty-five years.”

  “So you’ve probably never been through something like this. You’re probably perfectly happy and—”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  She looks more closely at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean looks can be deceiving.” Now why did I confess this to Suzette? She’s the kind of woman I might best describe as a flibbertigibbet. Although I’m not entirely sure what that is, it seems to fit her.

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” she says suddenly and passionately. “I can tell you’re an understanding person. I can tell you’ve got a big heart. Oh, please, come and let me buy you a drink.”

  “But I … uh … What about the lunch?”

  “They’ll never miss us,” she assures me as she closes her purse and grabs me by the hand. “Come on. I desperately need someone to talk to. And I’m sure you’re the one. It’s like fate or providence or maybe just good luck. Come on, Elizabeth. We girls need to stick together.”

  And so I find myself sitting in a darkened bar tucked off in the corner of the lodge as I listen to Suzette confessing about how she “literally stole” her husband from his first wife and how the exact same thing is happening to her today. “Just like karma,” she says finally.

  I shrug. “They say what goes around comes around.”

  “That’s what scares me …” She sighs and shakes her head. “But, seriously, do you have any idea how it feels to discover that the man you love with all your heart is cheating on you?” She polishes off her martini.

  I nod and take another obligatory sip of the red wine she purchased for me after she assured me it would do me good.

  “You do?” She looks incredulous now and almost happy. “You really do, Elizabeth? Tell me the truth, is your handsome husband having an affair too?”

  I sigh and consider her question. Is he? I wonder. Is he? Then I shrug again. “Maybe … Who knows?”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Everything? Like the way he got down on one knee to propose to me in college? Or the way he cried when our first son was born? Or the way he used to bring me flowers for no special reason? Or the way he promised that he would love me forever, for better or for worse? I feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

  “What do you mean by everything?” I finally say as she waves the waiter over to refill our drinks.

  “I mean how did you find out?” she says with what feels like far too much interest. “When did you first suspect he was having an affair? What did you say to him?”

  I hold up my hand to stop the flow of questions. “The truth is, I don’t really know anything for certain. I just have this feeling.”

  “But where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right?”

  “Maybe …”

  “Come on, Elizabeth. I told you my story. It’s your turn now.”

  So I begin. And perhaps the truth is that I’m relieved to actually say it out loud, to get these doubts I’ve hidden into the open. Is it a mistake to tell someone like Suzette? Who can be sure? Perhaps it doesn’t matter, since the truth always comes out in the end anyway.

  “There’s a young woman who moved into our neighborhood about a year ago. Delia Underwood. Very pretty and friendly. She bought a house down the street with the settlement she received from a bad divorce. I heard the husband was abusive. Anyway, we’ve been friendly to her, a
nd I’ve even watched her cat when she’s been gone.”

  “And?” Suzette looks hungry for something more.

  “Well, Delia took up running as a form of therapy. And not long after that, Phil took up running too.”

  “Aha,” says Suzette in a tone I find slightly offensive.

  “But Phil used to run,” I say quickly. “He did cross-country in high school and college. And he ran for exercise for years. He’d just gotten out of the habit the past ten years or so. But in January he decided to take it up again.”

  “In the middle of winter?”

  I sigh. “He was worried that he’d put on weight during the holidays.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Right. Anyway, I didn’t think a thing of it. But then he started getting more into it …” I pause to take a sip of wine. “And he started buying new running clothes and shoes and things, like he was getting really serious, you know? Sometimes I catch him looking at himself in the mirror, sort of like he’s admiring his improved physique. You know what I mean?”

  Suzette nods as if she really does, and maybe it’s the wine or the day or the mountain air, but like an idiot I just keep on talking, going on and on until I am almost completely convinced that my suspicions are right—that my husband is indeed having an affair with the beautiful young woman who lives down the street.

  “And why wouldn’t he be attracted to her?” I say in conclusion. “She’s young and gorgeous, and I’ve seen them talk. When he says something—anything—she opens her eyes wide and really seems to listen, like she thinks he’s God or something!”

  Suzette nods and pats my hand. “I do understand, Elizabeth. Trust me, I totally understand.”

  And now I am crying. It’s as if the tables have suddenly turned, and it’s my chance to blubber and sob. And to my surprise, Suzette proves an empathetic listener.

  “All men are alike,” she finally says.

  I wipe my wet cheeks with my soggy cocktail napkin. “Yes, you may be right.”