Twice Upon a Wedding

by Jean Stone

  The woman in front of Elaine turned around. She was a platinum blonde with a slight gullet of loose flesh and teeth that were too white for their age. “I’ve never seen one before. Have you?”

  Elaine smiled again. “Oh yes. Right here. Many times.”

  The woman nodded. “This is my first time at Laurel Lake.”

  “Not mine,” Elaine replied, and the woman smiled back and Elaine realized she must think Elaine was one of them.

  Like the sumptuous silk of her new outfit, the sensation it generated felt pretty good.

  For two days Andrew savored the time alone with Jo. He happily discovered that, on top of those lust-filled feelings, he liked her, really liked her. He liked her clear-headedness, her unwavering energy, her ability to say “No, thank you” to solicitors who called offering one service or another, yet never leaving an impression that she was rejecting them.

  He’d also thought about what Cassie had said, that he needed a life more than a magazine column. In order to attempt a life with Jo, he’d have to tell the truth, that he really was Superman and he wanted her, Lois Lane.

  He couldn’t possibly wait until New Year’s. She hadn’t said a word about the guy in her building (and he still hadn’t asked), but that didn’t mean Andrew hadn’t already lost his chance.

  Late Wednesday afternoon, he said, “I want to surprise Lily and Elaine.” It wasn’t exactly true. But it seemed a plausible excuse to get Jo out the office to a place much more quixotic. Then maybe he’d tell her the truth.

  “Surprise them how?” Jo asked.

  “Let’s go to Laurel Lake. Check up on Elaine’s progress. We can tell them about the castle. It’s across the lake from the spa.” Like other matters of the heart, Cassie surely would say his romantic attempts were pretty lame.

  “I’m sure they know about the castle,” Jo said. “It’s been there practically forever.”

  “But not as a bed-and-breakfast. And not as the perfect setting for the Benson wedding.”

  Jo scanned the screen of her computer, giving him only half her attention. It was not the behavior Superman would have liked.

  “It would be fun,” Andrew pressed on, “to surprise them. Do you think Elaine has changed much?”

  “In three days? Highly doubtful.”

  He was losing this battle and he didn’t like it. He paced to the window and looked out on to Main Street, to the antiques shops and the bookshop and the old brick town hall. He wondered how A.K., woman-know-it-all, would handle it.

  “Besides,” Jo added, “the spa is only for women. They won’t let you in.”

  Andrew jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He watched a few local vehicles and the boxy mail truck lumber by, not the big Lincoln Navigators or the zippy Miatas that drove around in season. Once Columbus Day was done, so were the tourists, at least until ski season, still two months away.

  By then Jo might be married with a half-dozen kids.

  “Unless,” Jo said, “we went by boat.”

  Andrew turned from the window. Jo shut down her computer and rested her elbows on the desk. “What?” he asked.

  She smiled. “When we were out at the castle, did you see the rowboats? I used to love to row across the lake when I was a kid. I’ll bet Martha Holland would let us use one. We could sneak onto the grounds of the spa and track down Lily and Elaine.”

  He looked at her. A rowboat ride across a lake. With Jo. Andrew would have said okay, except for one problem: He didn’t know how to swim. When he’d been a kid he’d never done the Hamptons or camp. His parents—both physicians—had taken separate vacations (his father to Ireland, where “his people” were; his mother to Vancouver the entire month of August, where she looked after an aging aunt and her half-dozen cats). When one or the other was away, Andrew visited lots of museums with whichever parent was home. Museums and galleries, but never the “Y.”

  “Oh, come on.” Jo was the one who prodded now. She got up from the desk and walked to where Andrew was, hands still in his pockets. “It will be fun. Not to mention the added excitement that we might get caught.”

  He smiled. “It’s kind of cold for boating, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Are you kidding? This is the best time of year. Not as much junk in the water—you know, weeds and lily pads. And tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day—Indian summer. Come on,” she repeated, lightly touching the sleeve of his beige denim shirt. “The new man in my life says I don’t have enough adventure. This will be an adventure, won’t it?”

  There it was. The new man in her life.

  “You’re on,” Andrew said, because he was a man, too, and his brains were not up in his head where they belonged.

  He wondered if Cassie was too young to have her father committed.

  10

  I have one word for you,” Cassie said over dinner after he’d told his daughter of the absurd notion.

  “No?” he implored, hoping that was the answer. It wouldn’t be the first time he used his daughter as an excuse. “Sorry, but Cassie has a bad cold and I need to stay home with her.” It had especially worked well when it came to faculty functions. Who could dispute that anyone—or their cocktail party or their luncheon or, now, a ride in a rowboat—was more important than the health of his daughter?

  Cassie shook her head. “Life vest,” she said.

  “That’s two words,” he said with annoyance. He cleared the table of their now-empty hot-dog-and-beans plates. It had been his turn to cook and he hadn’t been in the mood, having decided on the way home after work that he truly was nuts. A straight man in gay clothes, a master’s degree in broadcast journalism, and a job answering phones for a bunch of wedding planners.

  He didn’t need a shrink to exact a diagnosis.

  “Dad, you can’t swim,” Cassie said.

  An image of Superman wearing a bright orange foam vest wasn’t quite what he’d imagined in all his imaginings of Jo.

  “I guess I should cancel.”

  “Cancel?” Cassie asked. “A boat ride with Jo Lyons?” She clasped her hands to her chest and rolled her eyes.

  “Very funny,” he said, then dunked the plates into the enamel pan of sudsy water, ruing the day he’d told Cassie that he had the hots for Jo. “You’ve forgotten something else. Not only can’t I swim, but I can’t row a boat, either. Mr. Macho, that’s me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dad. She thinks you’re gay anyway. It’s not as if you need to impress her.”

  He drowned the dishes with a hot-water rinse. “Right,” he replied, and then the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Cassie announced. The cordless usually was in the living room, where Cassie bolted, as if Andrew could possibly beat her to it with his hands stuck in the water and his brains—well, he already knew where his brains were located now. He scrubbed the utensils as if the silverplate needed removal.

  “Dad?” she asked as she returned. “It’s for you.” She smiled and held the phone out to him. “It’s Jo.”

  He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans. He grabbed the receiver and shooed Cassie from the room. She stuck out her tongue and went into the hall, but peeked around the corner to let him know she was watching. He laughed in spite of himself, then tried to ignore her.

  “Jo?”

  “Yes, it’s me, the adventure-lady. I called Martha Holland.”

  “And?”

  “And she said we’re welcome to borrow a boat. I’m so excited, Andrew! This will be such fun!”

  “Oh,” he said, “that’s terrific.” He ran his hand through his hair, turned back and stared at his daughter. This was the time to tell Jo that he couldn’t swim. Instead, he said, “I can’t remember when I’ve rowed a boat.”

  Cassie’s jaw dropped; her little pink mouth formed a big O.

  Jo laughed. “I’m told it’s like riding a horse. You never forget how.”

  He did not mention that he didn’t ride horses, either.

  “I told her we’d
be there around noon. That will give us all morning to take care of things at the shop. It should take about forty-five minutes to row across the lake. Hopefully we’ll find the girls having lunch.”

  “Is there anything I should bring?” Andrew asked, because what else could he say?

  “Maybe bottled water,” Jo said, “in case we get thirsty.” Then she laughed again. “That’s funny, isn’t it? To bring water when we’ll be surrounded by it?”

  Andrew agreed that, yes, that was funny. Then he clicked off the phone, turned his back on his daughter, shoved his hands back into the sink, and pretty much wished he was living on Mars.

  Jack Allen had been gone three days. Not really that long, Jo supposed. After all, it was probably foolish to think he would fly to Brussels, turn around, then fly back.

  Still, it would be nice if she knew when he planned to return.

  She tossed a frozen dinner into the microwave and wished she were better at the man-woman thing. How did it happen that other women could casually flirt, casually date, casually slip in and out of relationships with the seamless ease of a model changing her clothes?

  Lily was like that. Elaine and Sarah were not, but they both had the experience of long-term relationships with men that were present, not long-term fantasies like Jo had wasted on Brian.

  She supposed it was because of her father.

  “You’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world,” he’d said when Jo would come in from playing outside and was covered in dirt and her hair was all tangled.

  “You’re the smartest girl in the whole wide world,” he’d said when she brought home her report card and it had all A’s.

  “You’re the nicest girl in the whole wide world,” he’d said when she made Christmas cookies and took them to shut-ins like Mrs. Halsey on Park Street and Mr. Turrell on Dwight.

  But it hadn’t mattered that Jo was pretty or smart or nice. Her father had left anyway, and not said good-bye. In the few cards or gifts he sent those first years he was gone, he hadn’t explained why, if she’d been so perfect, she hadn’t been good enough to keep him at home.

  So she’d spent a lifetime trying to maintain his expectations, hoping it would matter to someone, at some time, aware that her demands on herself were too great, but not knowing how on earth she could stop, how she could be more like lighthearted Lily.

  Lily . . . who would not have brooded one second over Jack Allen. She would have deftly moved on, would be out in search of another new man instead of standing in her kitchen, staring at the microwave.

  The timer beeped; Jo retrieved the plastic tray and tried to focus on the next day. It would be fun to be with Andrew. He was so easy to be with, so happy, so unpretentious, with no hidden agendas or potential to betray her.

  Manicures, pedicures, even a stone facial massage, where hot stones, then cool stones, alternately glided over Elaine’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. By Wednesday night, she didn’t know if she was in a trance or just exhausted.

  Dinner was filet of sole with thin slivers of almonds, the tiniest green peas Elaine ever saw, and a delicate fan of bright orange mango slices.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to take the cooking class,” she said to Lily. “Maybe I’ll learn how to create pretty dishes like this.”

  “But you were brought up in a restaurant,” Lily remarked. “I’d think the last thing you’d want in your new life is food.”

  Lily, of course, had been raised like Eloise at The Plaza, where meals were served by white-gloved staff and snacks came only from room service. How could Elaine explain that being in the kitchen was therapeutic, comforting, like being home? “If I brush up on my cooking skills, maybe we can use them at Second Chances.”

  A tiny frown crossed Lily’s forehead. “That’s why we have caterers. Besides, if cooking is what you want, why not go see your father? He’s the master chef, isn’t he?”

  Lily might be great at helping Elaine make over her looks, her clothes, and her confidence. But some things, like the ins and outs and ups and downs of family, Lily could never understand.

  Stabbing another pea, Elaine didn’t comment.

  Lily sighed. “It’s your life,” she said, then added, “but while you’re still in my hands, I have another surprise. When we leave here Friday morning, we’re going to New York.” Lily’s eyes twinkled with her Lily-magic; her thoughts were off again on a Lily-escapade. “The limo will pick us up at eight-thirty in the morning. Then I’m taking you shopping for a new wardrobe. My treat. No argument.”

  Elaine laughed. “You are insane,” she said.

  “True enough. But in the meantime, you might reconsider switching that cooking class for another massage. I’m going to wear out your feet on the streets of Manhattan.”

  The cooking class, of course, was much safer than a massage. But Lily wouldn’t understand Elaine’s reasons for believing that, either.

  Maybe it was Lily’s mention of Elaine’s father that got Elaine thinking about family again, about her kids, about her daughter Karen, who didn’t like her now. She wondered if there were a way to salvage the relationship before it crossed the line into mother-daughter hell, before she and Karen drifted as far apart as Elaine and her father had done. No one’s fault, really, an outsider like Lily might think. It just happens in families.

  It happens, Elaine knew, because families let it.

  After dinner she tried to ease her glum mood with a swim in the indoor pool. It didn’t help. She thought about her father; she thought about her daughter. Clearly, the spa afforded too much time for too much thinking. Staying busy had always proved less painful. Like she’d heard on a talk show one afternoon, Elaine had become a human doing instead of a human being.

  Except for the periods of depression following the dumping by Lloyd and the ouster of Martin, to be had not been an acceptable state.

  When her mood didn’t elevate, Elaine hauled herself from the water, wrapped the thickest towel she’d ever seen around her special-issue, Laurel Lake tank suit, stepped into the complimentary flip-flops, and went back to her room, feeling guilty that Karen might have eaten a Big Mac for dinner and probably sat alone now, listening to CDs.

  After a quick shower, Elaine sat on the bed and knew she had a choice: strengthen the bond with her daughter, or let it grow weaker and weaker. She picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. In four rings, Karen answered.

  “Did you have your music on, honey?” Elaine asked.

  “No. I was watching TV.”

  “Anything good on?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not baby-sitting tonight?”

  “No.”

  Of course Karen wouldn’t ask how Elaine was doing. Elaine sighed. “Would you like to come clothes shopping in New York? With Lily and me?”

  “Shopping?” At least it was a word she recognized.

  “We’re going Friday. Lily rented a limo.” Lily’s world attracted most every teenage girl. “You could take the day off from school.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  It didn’t matter whether it was the prospect of new clothes, a ride in a limo, or the day off from school. It was Elaine’s first step toward rebuilding her family, and it felt better than a thousand facials or a million massages.

  11

  I’m beginning to think I should be writing this column about the trials of a man, not a woman, looking for love.

  Andrew had barely slept through the night. He arose way too early, took extra time shaving, put on his most comfortable jeans and a new flannel shirt that was solid navy and Cassie had said brought out the blue in his eyes. He’d trundled downstairs and made pancakes for Cassie. (“On a weekday, Dad? Wow.”) He watched from the window as she skipped to the big yellow school bus, then he sat down at his laptop. Baring his soul to his readers might help quiet the commotion going on in his gut. It also might help to kill time.

  I felt this way once, he continued. I was in over my head, out of my league, but I married her anyway
and had a few years of heaven, then—bang!—it was done. Done for her, anyway.

  He thought about Patty, a luxury he rarely allowed himself lately. Besides, with Jo in his thoughts, Patty had moved to the proverbial back burner, the bottom of the list, no longer a priority.

  If only Cassie didn’t resemble her so much.

  He’d been startled when he’d seen Patty’s picture in the latest issue of Buzz. She was romping on a beach at her new home in Australia with her cowboy husband and their bouncing baby boy. They must have moved to the coast from the outback. Andrew had almost asked John why the hell he’d allowed the photo to be printed, why he’d given one inch of PR to the woman who had ripped up Andrew’s life and Cassie’s, as well.

  Not long ago he would have; hell, he might even have told John what he could do with this job. But Andrew had merely grimaced, turned the page, and reminded himself he was lucky he had Cassie. The other guy had Patty and their baby named Gilbert, of all names, and good riddance to them all.

  He’d also reasoned that John had known the photo would help sell magazines, because Patty could still create a sensation in her perky, ego-driven, own special way. Not to mention that, after all these years, John would probably have expected that Andrew had rid himself of her debris.

  Well he had, and to prove it, he hadn’t ditched the copy, but slid it under the old couch with the rest of the issues that held his “Real Women” articles, his private stash of the famous men’s tutorials best left unseen by the eyes of an eleven-year-old girl. The issue and the photo were safe there: Cassie didn’t vacuum, Andrew did, so she didn’t know what was filed along with the dust.

  Besides, he reassured himself, he was a professional. His job was to write about real women. It was not to create a forum for him to vent his frustrations with the opposite sex.

  Glancing back at the laptop, he clicked on his mouse and highlighted his words. Without further reflection, he hit the DELETE button and shut down the power.