“No rush,” she said. “I just wanted to get a drink.”
“Can I join you?”
“Suit yourself.” She edged closer to the bar and was aware that Ennis remained where he stood. So she had been a bit harsh. But, really, what did he expect, foisting himself on her? Gretchen turned her back on him.
The next few months, she knew, were not going to be easy. Justine was going to need professional help. But having it all out in the open—well, that alone was a monumental relief. Gretchen deeply believed in her own ability to get Justine what she needed; she would not fail her. And simply having said those words earlier—to her sister, her family—made everything seem to shift and realign in Gretchen’s vision. How had she not seen it before? All that time, years and years really, of thinking of herself as the freighted, judgmental less than instead of the neutral, embracing different from.
But no more. Things were going to change. In fact, in her mind they already had. She had decided that next week she was going to quit her job. That book with Ginny would never, ever be written, at least not by her. She had some money saved, and, yes, she could ask her mother for help. Her next job was going to be something that engaged all of her. Next she planned to call her old college friend Wendy Jones, who was pretty high up in the psych unit at Columbia-Presbyterian; Wendy would be able to provide her with some names of therapists for Justine. And Gretchen was going to stop obsessing about her weight. It was such a bore to think about it all the time; she had better things to do.
There were dozens of people milling around the bar; Gretchen was relieved that her father was not one of them. And she could see the receiving line snaking around the rose hedge. She did want to congratulate her sister, but she decided to wait and do it in a more private way. A waiter materialized carrying several glasses of champagne clustered congenially on silver trays. No need to stand at the bar waiting after all.
“Thank you,” said Gretchen, helping herself to a glass. Lifting it to her lips, she took a big sip. And smiled. God, but that was good. And she felt the first stirring of a buzz already. By the time she had finished the champagne, the buzz had settled pleasantly around her, emitting tiny pops and fizzes of sensation.
Weaving only the slightest bit, Gretchen found her way to her table, where glass water pitchers and crystal goblets sparkled against all that white; each white bone china place setting was adorned with a place card of heavy white vellum surrounded by a few smooth, white oval stones. The flowers—white roses, freesia, lilies, and a few gardenias—spilled up and over the clear glass vase.
She saw no sign of Ennis (good) or her girls (not so good). There was, she knew, a teen table; a couple of Ohad’s relatives would be sitting at it along with Justine and Portia. Maybe Ennis was with them. Gretchen downed the rest of her champagne and was inspecting the inside of the empty glass when another waiter appeared to take it away and replace it with a fresh one. She took a big sip from glass number two and sat down with a little thud. She’d nearly missed the chair.
“Need some help?”
Gretchen looked up to see a man hovering above her. He had nice blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. His graying brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail.
“I’m okay,” she said.
“You looked a little wobbly for a minute there. I thought you were going to topple.”
“I really can’t hold my liquor,” she said, gesturing to the champagne.
“Well, I’ll be here if you need me,” said the man, sitting down. “I’m Mitch; this is my table.” He extended his hand.
“Hello, Mitch-this-is-my-table. I’m Gretchen-pleased-to-meet-you.”
“The bride’s sister?” he asked.
“How did you know? Striking family resemblance?” Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass.
He considered her for a moment. “Uh-huh. Definitely some. But my mother, Celia, is a good friend of Lenore’s. She’s been a widow for decades, so I’m her escort. And she gave me the lowdown on the guests before I arrived. Many times, in fact.”
“That explains it. My grandmother probably drew up a detailed family tree and circulated it among the guests. She thinks weddings are the perfect places to make matches.”
“My mother too,” said Mitch. He reached for an olive that sat in a small crystal bowl on the table.
“What is it about that generation?” Gretchen asked, helping herself to an olive too. The saltiness cried out for another sip of champagne. “They can’t help themselves. But I hope I’ll be more circumspect when it comes to my own daughters. Stay out of their love lives, you know?”
“How many and how old?” When Gretchen looked puzzled, he added, “Your daughters.”
“Right!” she said. That champagne really was making her a bit fuzzy. “Two, and fifteen. They’re twins.”
“Nice,” he said. “I’ve got one. Daughter, that is.”
“How old?” She tried not to guzzle the champagne.
“Fourteen. I don’t get to see her much though. She’s in Chicago.”
“Chicago,” Gretchen said reflectively. A fourteen-year-old daughter living in another state probably meant he was divorced. She sat up straighter and brushed her hair off of her face. “I’ve never been there,” she added.
“Me neither,” Mitch said.
“Not even to see your daughter?”
“She comes to New York to see me. She says she prefers it that way.”
Gretchen busied herself with another olive.
“What about your daughters?
“They live with me,” she said. “But their father lives somewhere else.”
“Divorced?” asked Mitch.
“Separated,” she corrected.
“Ah,” was all he said. But it was a knowing, even comforting ah. Gretchen decided she liked him.
The table began filling up. Teddy sat across from her, with Martine at his left; Caleb was seated on the other side of Mitch. Some cousins Gretchen had not seen in ages took the remaining chairs. She made the necessary introductions and then the waiter came by to ask whether they wanted filet mignon, poached monkfish, or pasta; orders were taken, and soon the food began to appear.
Gretchen ate hungrily and with pleasure; she’d ordered the fish, which came with roasted beets and quinoa. But she didn’t hate herself for her appetite; she just surrendered to it, and as a result, she ate less than when she was constantly battling it. She had bread, but only one piece, and when the dessert came—lime mousse, butter cookies in the shape of wedding bells, petit fours iced in silver and white—she had just a taste of mousse before putting the spoon down. She did allow herself another glass of champagne, though she decided that would be her last drink of the evening.
Mitch was asking her about living in Brooklyn—he lived in Chelsea—when she felt bold enough to inquire, “So what went wrong in your marriage?”
“There was another man,” he said, not appearing to be offended by her question.
“Your ex-wife had a boyfriend?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid the one with the boyfriend was me.”
Gretchen didn’t get it for a second. And then she did. “So you’re…”
“Gay, yes.”
What, you too? Gretchen wanted to say, thinking of the sexy guy she’d met earlier while swimming, the one she and Caleb had caught kissing Bobby. What were the odds that two attractive men, both encountered on the same day, would turn out to be gay? But all she said was, “Your ex must have been surprised.” She felt a slight seep of disappointment spreading like a stain.
“Not really,” he said. “I’d felt that way for a long time, and she knew it.”
“Then why…?”
“We were best friends. I wanted to be married, have kids. She said she accepted me, but really she believed she could change me.”
“She couldn’t, though,” Gretchen finished.
“No, she couldn’t,” said Mitch.
“Couldn’t what?” asked Caleb.
> Mitch turned to look at her brother, and in that quick glance Gretchen felt the current pass between them: a mutual acknowledgment, a kind of recognition.
“I was telling your sister about my ex-wife,” Mitch said.
“You can tell me too,” Caleb said, leaning in closer. “I’m all ears.”
“Would you excuse me?” Gretchen said to Mitch. But Mitch was so absorbed in something Caleb had said that he failed to hear. Gretchen pushed back her chair and steadied herself against the table. She was not drunk, but when she’d finished the champagne, she had ignored her own decision to stop drinking and had moved on to white wine, so she felt a bit woozy as she made her way over to the teen table. Justine and Portia were both there; Justine was talking to one of Ohad’s many relatives. Satisfied that the girls were all right, she went off looking for Lincoln. She found him seated at the bride’s table, along with her mother, Don, Lenore, and some more of Ohad’s relatives. And it looked, amazingly, like everyone was getting along.
“Gretchen!” Lincoln called out, extending his hand. Gretchen moved closer and took it. “You look terrific.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said. “So do you.” She was puzzled but pleased by his effusive greeting. She could not help but glance at his glass. It looked like it held Coke, but you never knew.
“I decided to stay an extra couple of days,” Lincoln was saying. “Your mother says she can get me an appointment with her dentist on Monday, and I was able to change my ticket with no charge. So I thought we could get together, just the two of us. Lunch, dinner—whatever works for you.”
“Okay,” Gretchen said, surprised. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
“Honey, Angelica’s about to cut the cake,” Betsy said. “Do you want to have a seat?”
Gretchen was just about to slip into an empty seat when a flock of the Israelis—she had trouble distinguishing them, and they really did look like a flock of dark, sleek birds—converged upon the band for what appeared to be a very urgent conversation. After a minute the band started playing “Hava Nagila,” and in the space that had been cleared for the wedding cake, the Israelis joined hands and began to do the hora.
This had not been part of the plan; Gretchen was sure of it. She looked over at her mother; clearly Betsy was as surprised as she was. The cake on its chrome-and-glass trolley waited in the wings while the dance quickly took on a life of its own, with guests rising from their seats, as if they’d been summoned, to join in. Tables and chairs were pushed back; the music got louder.
Gretchen did not join the dance; instead she sidled over to where her mother stood, and the two of them watched together. Lincoln and Don were dancing side by side; who would have expected that? Caleb and Teddy had joined in and lovely Marti looked as if someone had uncorked her. Angelica was dancing too, her dark hair flipping back and forth, when two of the men dancing on either side suddenly lifted her in a movement so fluid and graceful that it seemed choreographed. They steered her toward an empty chair, and after she’d sat down, they raised the chair high in the air; others quickly stepped in to help them. Everyone cheered and clapped as she was paraded around the floor. Looking game, if mildly alarmed, Angelica clutched the bottom of the chair so she wouldn’t fall off.
“This wasn’t planned, was it?” Gretchen asked Betsy.
“Are you kidding?” Betsy said. “The hora is hardly Angelica’s idea of a good time.”
“She looks like she’s having fun,” Gretchen observed.
“She’s adaptive,” Betsy said. “She may be controlling, but she can roll with the punches when she has to.”
May be controlling? Who was her mother kidding? But Gretchen did not say anything. When the chair was finally set down again, Angelica was out of breath and smiling. Then it was Ohad’s turn in the chair, and finally Lenore was the one lifted up, up, and up. She seemed thoroughly delighted as she waved to the cheering crowd.
It took several minutes for everyone to settle down and for the tables and chairs to be restored to their previous positions. Angelica, still flushed, started moving toward the large, pale, five-tiered cake—covered in buttercream frosting and dotted with candied violet petals—that was being wheeled in. Ohad was right behind her.
But then she paused and put her hand on Gretchen’s shoulder as she passed. “I think we should talk,” she said. “It won’t be until after the honeymoon though. I hope that’s all right with you.” Angelica asking Gretchen if something were all right with her? Asking, not telling, demanding, ordering? Was anyone else registering or even listening to this? She ardently hoped so.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Just fine.”
Angelica kept moving until she reached the cake. She posed with the knife; Ohad was at her side. Gretchen was making her way back to her own table; she heard the collective sigh when Angelica cut the first piece.
“There you are!”
Gretchen turned. Ennis was standing in front of her, blocking her path.
“Were you looking for me?” she asked.
“I was. You ran away from me before.” He moved a step closer.
“I didn’t.” She stepped back.
“You did!” He looked at her and laughed. “We sound like Portia and Justine, hey? About ten years ago?”
“I guess we do.”
“I’m glad she came to the wedding after all. What did you say that got her to change her mind?” Ennis said. He was inching toward her again.
“It wasn’t me; it was my grandmother.”
“Ah,” said Ennis. “Lovely Lenore.”
Waiters began circulating with trays of sliced wedding cake; Ennis nabbed a plate and offered it to Gretchen. She hesitated and then asked, “Do you want to share?”
“With you?” He moved still closer, and this time Gretchen did not move away. Instead she offered him a forkful of the cake. “Did we do this on our wedding day?” he asked.
“Don’t you remember?” Gretchen instantly felt huffy.
“Of course,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you did.” He accepted the morsel of cake.
“You know I did,” she said in a low but intense voice. She was slightly drunk, no doubt about that, and her earlier good mood was quickly evaporating. An eddy of self-pity lapped at her: their failed marriage, their troubled daughter, the prospect of having to look for a job—again. She willed it not to happen, but she couldn’t help it: she started to cry.
“Gretchen,” Ennis said, and he tentatively put his hand to the tangle of her hair. “Ah, Gretchen, don’t.” She had stepped back as if scalded. She didn’t want him touching her; it brought back too much. And she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself either. Gretchen looked down at the plate with its barely nibbled slice of cake. “Here,” she said, thrusting it into his hands. “You eat it.” And she turned and headed swiftly for the house.
“Where are you going?” he called after her. He set the plate down and followed her into the foyer, across the marble floor, up the staircase, down the hall until she reached the door to her room. She was crying harder now, and when she turned to tell him to please, please go away, nothing came out but a small hiccup.
“Gretchen, you’re getting yourself all upset,” he said. He didn’t touch her, though she could tell he wanted to.
“No, you’re getting me all upset!” she said. “You—showing up here uninvited—”
“Your sister invited me, hey?”
“You shouldn’t have come, Ennis,” she said, pressing her back to the door. “You have no business being here with my family.”
“I am your family, remember? I’m the father of your children, and I’m still your husband. We’re not divorced yet.”
“Too bad you didn’t remember that when you were screwing Eve!”
“But that’s over, it’s done, it’s not going to happen again! How many times do I have to tell you? That baby was not mine.”
“Is that all this is about to you? The baby?”
“Well, it certa
inly seemed like a big deal. At least to me,” said Ennis.
“And to me too!” she shot back. “Believe me, I am so relieved it wasn’t yours after all.”
“Why?” he said, stepping closer. “Because it means that now we have a clean slate and can start again?”
“Only in your delusional mind, Ennis!” Gretchen said. “I told you: I’m so relieved that the girls aren’t going to have to deal with a new baby brother. But it doesn’t change anything between the two of us. You still cheated on me; you still broke my heart.”
“I want to fix it,” he said simply. “Only first you have to let me.”
“Too late,” Gretchen said. Is it? she thought. It is really? “I don’t care anymore.”
“You’re lying,” he said, suddenly cool.
“Lying?” Clutching the knob in her hand, she pressed herself harder against the door. She could fling it open, go inside, and slam it—right in his face. He would deserve it too. But she didn’t. “What makes you think that?”
“Because I think you do care. You care very much.”
“And on what exactly are you basing that statement?” She still had her hand on the knob.
“You’re still here arguing with me, aren’t you? You could have gone inside and closed the door, but you didn’t.” He looked so smug.
“You’re right. I will go inside—right now. Good night, Ennis.” She yanked the door open, but he was faster and slipped in ahead of her. They stood facing each other, a pair of boxers in the ring before the fight had begun. “I’m going to ask you to leave quietly,” she said. “And I think you will because you don’t want a scene any more than I do.”
“Do you remember that night in East Meadow?” he said, abruptly changing the subject.
“What are you talking about?”
“That night in your house in East Meadow. You had brought me home for the weekend to meet your parents.”
“What about it?” she said, wary.
“Just that they put us in separate rooms, but you snuck out and came down to find me in the den after they’d all gone to sleep. And we tried to be so quiet, not to wake them, but then that dog—”
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