* * *
“Next week is our anniversary,” Stacy announced as we ate our Dover sole. “We’ve been married twenty-four years.”
“Congrats,” Patrick said.
“Lovely,” my mother said.
“Jill and Mark have been married, what? Twenty-six years? Twenty-seven?” I said.
“Twenty-eight,” Jill said.
“How did that happen?” I asked. “How’d we get so old?”
“Just lucky,” Patrick said.
“Lots of marriage longevity here,” Stacy said. “Good karma for a wedding.”
“I’m skewing the karma,” I said. “Maybe I should find another table, the one for the longevity challenged.”
“Not to worry,” Michael said. “Your record’s about to change.”
Stacy raised her glass. “Yes,” she said, “congratulations, you two.” We all clinked glasses. Patrick caught my eye for a moment but I couldn’t read his expression.
I said, “May this marriage be my longest one ever.”
“May this marriage be your best one ever,” Michael said.
“And your last,” my mother said.
We all drank.
I could barely remember my first two marriages, at least not the day-to-dayness of them—they were a very long time ago, in another life. But I clearly remembered the unraveling, strand by miserable strand. One thing was sure—it was certainly less complicated being single. There was no one telling you you were doing something wrong, no one hogging the bathroom, no one to cook for or clean up after, no one who left lights on and drawers open. You didn’t have to compromise with your own self.
I hadn’t always been so cynical. There was a time when the fairy tale had been alive and well, when I thought I’d live happily ever after with the love of my life, my soul mate. The first one came in the form of husband number one, who was elegantly handsome with a generous spirit. He adored me and made me feel beautiful, and we “walked off into the sunset” of our tiny apartment to live the dream, which we did for about two years until the novelty of having sex for breakfast, lunch and dinner wore off and it became evident that we had nothing else in common. We didn’t laugh at the same jokes or like the same movies. He liked to camp; I liked spas. It was amazing, really, when I woke up to that reality.
Still, when the marriage failed I was astonished. I never thought I would be a divorced person. I was flattened. But once I recovered from the affliction of my failure I was undaunted, figuring I’d simply picked the wrong Mr. Right and the right one was still out there waiting.
Husband number two turned out to be another wrong Mr. Right.
I stopped looking for a soul mate after that. It seemed a little like looking for Santa Claus—a lovely, make-believe concept. It was ridiculous to think that someone’s soul could cleave to your own, or that you even needed that. Now I was a grown-up and more realistic, wanting a partner, a confidante, a best friend, someone to have fun with, be comfortable with and grow old with. With some passion thrown in. And Michael fit that bill. Mostly.
I wasn’t 100 percent sold on the whole concept of marriage in general anymore, yet here I was about to try again. Was that hopefulness or folly? Or equal shares of each? Around me, the conversation had continued. “Married men live longer than single men,” Fletcher said. “Did you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah, we know, but they’re a lot more willing to die,” Stacy said.
They seemed solid and happy, touching each other occasionally, feeding each other tastes of their food, and they’d been together a long time. But how do you really know what goes on in a relationship?
Patrick turned to my mom. “What’s the secret of a long, happy marriage?”
“Oh, well,” she said, a little flustered. “I guess I’d say compromise, patience, luck.” She looked around at the expectant faces. “Empathy, respect. That all helps,” she added and sat back.
“Laughter,” Jill said.
“A husband who doesn’t snore.” Stacy.
“A great pot roast.” Mark.
“Agreeing with everything your wife says.” Fletcher.
“Oh yeah, as if you practice that,” Stacy said.
“I do,” he said.
“Do not.”
“Do, too,” he said and then, “Oh, oops, I mean yes, dear, you’re right.” Stacy laughed, slapping at him.
“An endless supply of vodka is a plus,” Mark said.
Michael leaned toward me and said, “I hope you’re taking notes.”
“I don’t have to. I’m already well stocked on vodka.”
Tuxedoed waiters cleared our plates and refilled our wine. The violinist played something indistinct in the background.
Patrick said, “I sat next to a couple on the plane who bickered the whole way up here: he hadn’t packed the right clothes, she should have gotten her mom to stay with the kids, why didn’t he tell the flight attendant she wanted extra ice, they should have gotten a suite … that kind of thing. God, it was painful. And then when we were landing they told me they were going on an Alaskan cruise to celebrate their fifteenth anniversary.” He shook his head. “Hard to know what makes a marriage work.”
Michael said, “I think being with the right person is the key. Maybe that couple on the plane likes to argue, maybe it energizes them, who knows? But if you’re with the right person, you just mesh in whatever way works for you. It may not look ideal from the outside, but that’s not for us to say.” His tone was a little pompous, as if he were some big marital guru.
Patrick didn’t seem to notice.
“Amen,” he said.
“Well, if you want the secrets of an unsuccessful marriage, I’m your girl,” I said.
“Then here are the secrets to a successful one,” Jill said. “Don’t do what you did before.”
“She’s not. She’s marrying me,” Mr. Matrimony said.
Wasn’t there something else to talk about at a wedding besides marriage? I wondered what Patrick was thinking, what he thought about me and Michael as a couple. And I wondered if this truly would be my longest, and last, marriage.
The band announced the bride and groom’s first dance and the couple floated out on the dance floor as the guests applauded. I felt inspired and moved by their shimmer. Christopher took Danielle in his arms as the band played “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.” His face was set in concentration and you could almost hear him counting his steps for the first few moments, but Danielle followed effortlessly. Then Pete cut in, taking his daughter in his arms, and Chris went to dance with his mother. We all watched until the band invited everyone to join them. Stacy grabbed Fletcher’s hand. “Come on,” she said, waving us all forward. I always had to plead to get Michael to dance with me, so imagine my surprise when he popped right up and guided me to the dance floor, leaving Patrick and my mother behind. I watched them over Michael’s shoulder, deep in conversation, heads bent toward each other. I fantasized that Patrick was telling my mother that he intended to steal me away from Michael.
“Nice wedding,” Michael said, vaporizing the imaginary conversation in my head.
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Good food. We should find out what caterer they used.”
“Why?” I asked, watching Patrick lead my mother to the dance floor. She rested her hand on his shoulder and smiled, shaking her head. Patrick took her other hand and they moved, slowly.
“Duh…” Michael said, like a fifteen-year-old girl. “For our wedding.”
The song ended and the band went into “Celebration.” The older people who hadn’t had the requisite amount of liquor left the floor and the rest of the younger people poured onto it. Michael shook his head and shrugged, cutting his eyes toward our table. His dancing skills, such as they were, were limited to slow dances, rhythm not being one of Michael’s strong suits.
“Look at you!” Stacy said delightedly to Fletcher who was doing some fancy footwork as Michael and I walked away. Fletcher took Stacy’s hand and spun h
er around, and she threw her head back and laughed. It was nice, I thought, when you could be surprised and enchanted by someone you’d been married to forever.
My mother and Patrick were still dancing, too slowly for the music, and as we got close to them she threw up her hands and said, “No more,” and latched on to Michael’s arm.
“Stay and dance,” Patrick said to me. Michael looked at him. “Do you mind?” Patrick asked him, without a trace of irony.
Michael hesitated only briefly before he said, “Of course not,” and ushered my mom to the table.
The music thumped loudly as Patrick and I danced through several songs, waves of nostalgia washing over me. The former Patrick and Libby danced in my mind, young and strong and in love. Patrick’s eyes flashed as if he were seeing the same image.
When the band started playing “Hot Hot Hot,” he said, “Come on,” put my hands on his waist and started a conga line. Soon a long procession filled in behind us and we snaked around the room while Michael sat drinking beer. When we passed him I put out my hand for him to join in but he shook his head and we slithered on by.
Sweat dripped down the back of my dress and frizzed my hair. When the band went into “Philadelphia Freedom,” a song we’d danced to in high school, Patrick and I grinned at each other.
“Whew,” he shouted over the music, “I haven’t danced like this in years. Maybe since this song was new.” His hair was damp on his neck and his crisp shirt was wilting, but his neon smile made something bloom inside me.
“Okay, uncle,” he said when the song ended. He put up his hands as if he were under arrest. “I need a break, babe.”
Babe.
He guided me to the table with a hand on my back. “Thanks for the loan of your fiancée,” he said to Michael. “She about wore me out.”
Michael glanced at him, then took a swig of his beer. “You two ought to try out for Dancing with the Stars,” he said.
“Oh, I love that show,” my mother said. “But those dresses the girls wear are so revealing.”
I laughed at my mother and ignored Michael, who obviously had more than a few beers under his belt.
Pete came to the table waving a box of cigars. “Come on, guys,” he said. “Time for a cigar and brandy in the bar.”
“Cool,” Patrick said and got up, but Michael didn’t move.
“Come on, Michael,” Pete said.
“Nah,” Michael said.
“Come on, man. It’s male-bonding time. Let’s go get Fletch and Mark off the dance floor before they keel over.”
“Yeah, let’s go save them with cigars and liquor,” Michael said, and reluctantly got up.
“I don’t think Michael needs brandy,” my mother said when they’d gone.
“He doesn’t need a cigar either, but I suspect he’ll do both.”
“He’s not very happy about Patrick being here.”
“I know. What do you think of him?”
“Patrick? He’s charming, of course. I have no memory of him from your high school days.”
“You probably blocked it,” I said. “Dad would have, too. Back then Patrick was kind of a tough kid with long hair, and you know how Daddy felt about long hair on boys.”
“Well, he certainly turned out well, didn’t he?” She smiled.
“Yes,” I said. “He certainly did. You think Daddy’d like him today?”
“Oh, I think so.”
I pulled my hair up in back and wiped my neck with a napkin.
“Daddy was crazy about Michael,” I said.
“Daddy liked him a lot,” she said, but something in her tone raised my eyebrows.
“That didn’t sound very convincing.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “Michael’s a good man. And he’s never been afraid to show how much he loves you. Your father liked that. And he liked how responsible Michael is. He was glad you finally found someone stable and kind. He didn’t like to think about you being alone.”
I could picture the pleasure on his face when we announced our engagement and it made my eyes sting. I wished he were there with us, talking.
“I hear a ‘but,’” I said.
My mom scanned the room, likely looking for someone to come rescue her. When no one appeared, she picked up a fork and took a tiny bite of a miniature cream puff we’d gotten from the dessert buffet. “Have some,” she said.
“No thanks.” I waited patiently. Well, maybe not so patiently. I crossed my legs and swung my foot like a metronome, and ran my finger around and around the rim of my wineglass. I wanted to know and yet I didn’t. Dread settled inside me. It seemed she was going to say a terrible thing.
“Libby, settle down,” she said.
“Come on, Mom. Just say it. It’s starting to feel like something really awful.”
I stuck my finger in the cream puff and licked a bit of custard off of it, just for something to do.
“Oh, it’s not awful. For heaven’s sake. But sometimes it just doesn’t matter what route you take when you’re going to the fair, it just matters that you get there. Do you know what I mean?”
“The fair?” I said.
“What I’m trying to say is, I’m not sure it was Michael as much as someone.”
Someone? As in anyone? As in a warm body?
I peered at her but she watched the dance floor intently, fingering her napkin. I waved at a waiter and he came scurrying over and topped me off. I took a swallow, put down the glass and waited. She knew I was looking at her.
Sophie saved her by returning to the table with a plate laden with petit fours, tiny éclairs and shot glasses filled with pillows of chocolate mousse. “Look what I scavenged for us,” she said, flopping down in an empty chair and spooning up some of the frothy mousse. “So what are you two talking about?”
Jill was right behind with her own plate overflowing with chocolate-covered fruits.
“Mom just dropped a huge bomb on me,” I said.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t.”
“You certainly did.”
“What?” Jill said.
“All this time I thought Daddy thought Michael was my Mr. Right, and Mom just told me he didn’t.”
“Oh, Libby, that’s not what I said.” My mother crumpled her napkin and dropped it on the table. “He liked Michael, I told you that. Did he think he was Mr. Right? I don’t know. But he thought he was right enough.”
“Right enough? What the hell is right enough? If he walks upright and doesn’t drool, is that right enough?”
Jill laughed. “Right enough’s not such a terrible thing,” she said.
Easy for Miss Perfect to say.
“It sounds terrible to me,” I said. “It sounds like I’m such a loser that I should just marry whoever will have me.” A loser? Even I could hardly believe what I was saying. But it felt as if my beloved father had been disappointed in me and now I’d never have the chance to make it up to him. Unbelievably, tears welled up in my eyes.
“No more wine for you,” my mother said. Sophie laughed, and I glared at her until she stuffed a large hunk of chocolate-covered apricot into her mouth.
“Have one,” she said around the mass. “Delicious.” The word came out like “delithoth.”
I reached up to stop a tear from making a track through my makeup.
Jill plucked my wineglass and moved it out of reach. “Okay, really, enough wine, enough crazy talk. Honestly, Libby—what more do you want? So what if Dad didn’t think Michael was Mr. Right? Since when did that ever matter to you?” She looked at Mom. “Right?” Mom nodded, a scrap of a smile wafting around her lips.
Sophie said, “Did you ask his permission to date Patrick? And that guy with the purple hearse … what was his name?”
“Vincent,” my mother said, causing us to swivel our heads and stare in stunned silence. “Well,” she said, looking around, “he reminded me of Vincent Price, and that car just reinforced it.”
We all laughed. “I didn’t even remember his name,” I
said. But Sophie was right; my father’d had no use for him and it had mattered not a whit to me.
“And how about that guy who looked like George Chakiris?” Jill said. “Daddy just loved him.” She rolled her eyes. “And weren’t you engaged to him?”
“Okay, enough,” I said. “We’ll be here all night if you’re going to go through the entire list.”
“We’d need a database for that,” Sophie said, “and I left my computer at home.”
She looked radiant. Her hair was freshly highlighted and cut the way she’d worn it in high school, short and casual. She looked the same to me. Ageless.
“All right, all right,” I said. “I get the point.” The tension in my neck was loosening ever so slightly.
“Libby,” Mom said. “Daddy just wanted you to be happy. He thought people weren’t meant to be alone, that’s all. You know how he felt about you. You were the apple of his eye.” She remembered Jill then, and patted her hand. “Both of you,” she said.
“I was no apple. Libby was the apple,” Jill said. “I was the egg.”
“The egg of his eye?” I said and started laughing. Jill laughed, too. Then Mom started, and Sophie, and pretty soon people were watching us, unable to keep smiles off their own faces. Each peal of laughter caused another and it bounced around the table, and we couldn’t stop for several minutes; every time we looked at each other we’d start up again, until we were all wiping tears from our eyes.
What an odd evening this had turned out to be: my mother telling me my father didn’t care who I married as long as I married; my fiancé and my high school sweetheart somewhere smoking and drinking together, saying who knew what to each other.
The tide of my emotion had subsided but I felt disoriented, as if I had just realized the bus I was on was going in the wrong direction. It was true I’d never before required my father’s seal of approval for any man I was with, from the time I was young. I’d never lived my life the way my father thought I should, but even if my decisions had troubled him he always encouraged my independence. Didn’t he always tell me to follow my heart, whether it was about a man or a career or where to go on vacation? So why did I have this idea now that I should live a life he had engineered? Did I think that then the hollowness inside would go away?
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