Twice Upon a Wedding

by Jean Stone

  The black/silver eyes darted sideways to her. “Bull,” she said.

  They rode in silence, Elaine’s wonderful mood sliding away.

  “I’m going, too,” Sarah suddenly said.

  “Where?”

  “Geraldine’s. Saturday night. I’ll be there watching. Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case you need help, Elaine. In case he’s a wacko.”

  “No,” Elaine protested. “I would be so embarrassed. If you show up I’ll never speak to you again.”

  Sarah paused for a moment, then said, “Suit yourself. But it’s not as if I’ll be around to protect you forever. I’ve decided that once the Benson wedding is over, Burch and I will move to New York with Jason. But don’t mention it to the others just yet, okay?”

  It occurred to Elaine that she might have missed being with her friends all these years, but she surely hadn’t missed the up-and-down roller-coaster ride that came with having friends. With her friends, anyway.

  Nor was she happy that she now had another secret she’d been asked to keep. Before her makeover, Elaine would have taken on the problems of the world and everyone in it. But right now she didn’t want to have to worry about Andrew or Sarah or anyone but her.

  This was her time.

  This was her chance.

  This was supposed to finally be about her, her, her.

  The perfect distraction came late in the day when they returned to the shop.

  Andrew handed her a small slip of pink paper. “From the post office,” he said. “They tried to deliver something while we were out to lunch.”

  Elaine didn’t ask where they’d gone or if Lily had pulled any pranks or if she were saving that for Friday. She pushed those thoughts from her mind and focused on the delivery. Then the light dawned.

  “My clothes!” she shrieked. The note reported that the packages could be picked up after four o’clock, but must be collected before five.

  She glanced at the clock: four-fifty-two.

  “If you hurry you’ll make it,” Andrew said. She blew the dear, sweet man a kiss and raced out the door, not caring if the others thought she was Benedict Arnold-ette.

  31

  The post office was housed in what was called the “new building,” even though it had been built in 1978. But Elaine supposed it was a fact that the beige brick, one-floor building had replaced the white clapboard structure that had sat there since the mid-1800s, so compared to that, 1978 was indeed new.

  She ran across the town green and dashed into the main lobby at four-fifty-seven. She scooted up to the counter. Catching her breath quickly, she said hello to Margaret Birdy, and nodded at Mr. Clawson (Elaine never could remember his first name, though they’d served together on two parent-teacher committees), then set her pink piece of paper on the counter. Yvonne asked how she could help her.

  “I have a few packages,” Elaine said.

  The woman in the dark blue pants and light blue shirt with the red, white, and blue eagle on the breast pocket disappeared behind a wall. While Elaine waited, she wondered which outfit she should wear on her date Saturday night. She thought there was a pants set in pale gray: that might be nice.

  Yvonne returned, carrying three large bundles. “Looks like you’ve been spending time online,” the woman commented and Elaine blushed, then glanced around to see if anyone had heard.

  “There’s not much time for shopping these days, what with the new business.” It was certain Yvonne knew about Second Chances. Because Yvonne worked at the post office, she was privy to all the gossip in town.

  “I like your hair,” Yvonne added.

  Elaine gathered the bulky packages, said thank you, and maneuvered her way back to the front door, wishing she hadn’t scampered across the common when she might have still arrived before five if she’d driven the van.

  “Let me give you a hand with those,” a familiar voice said. From the corner of her eye she’d seen a man approach from the annex where the post office boxes were; she hadn’t expected it to be Martin.

  “Oh,” Elaine said. “Martin. Well, thanks.”

  He took the packages from her, seemed to realize they were heavy, then laughed and handed one of them back. “Guess there was a reason I was late getting the mail today,” he said.

  Elaine remembered that Martin picked up the mail for his car dealership every afternoon at two. It was one of those predictable qualities of his that had made a future with him seem humdrum compared with the ever-changing maelstrom of her former college roommates.

  They walked outside and Elaine explained that her car was in the lot at Second Chances.

  “No problem,” Martin said. “It’s a nice evening for a walk.”

  She fell into step beside him. Two years of dating had left a layer of familiarity, a comfort zone of sorts.

  “How are the kids?” he asked. Martin had given Kory a summer job to help out with college expenses. He’d offered Kandie an office job, but she’d curled her lip and made it quite clear that a pre-law student did not “do well” around the scents of oil and grease. Karen had liked Martin, though sometimes she seemed to feel guilty about it, as if she were cheating on her dad.

  “They’re fine,” Elaine said and nodded. “Yes, they’re all fine.” They walked a bit farther. “How did you make out with the zoning board?” she asked. It had been the last big event in Martin’s life, or rather, in Martin and Elaine’s life as a couple. He’d been trying to get a variance for a lot to offer Jeeps, a complement to the Chevys he already sold.

  “Good. Fine. We’ll break ground in the spring.”

  Elaine nodded. They crossed the green, now lit only by the lampposts.

  “How’s the business going?” Martin asked.

  “Good,” she answered. “Fine.”

  He gestured to the packages. “Bought yourself some new clothes for the new job?”

  He didn’t say it to be mean; Martin wouldn’t know how to be mean.

  “Yes,” she said. “A working woman’s wardrobe isn’t the same as someone who stays home.”

  Martin nodded. “I like your hair,” he said. The words were the same Yvonne had said, yet somehow they meant more.

  “Thanks,” Elaine replied.

  “So,” he said, “it’s going well?”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached Elaine’s minivan, she opened the back door, set the package that she’d carried on the seat, then took the others from Martin and arranged them there, as well.

  “Thank you, Martin,” she said, and he responded with “You’re welcome, anytime.” Then he raised his hand as if tipping his hat and said good night and turned to walk away.

  “Martin?” Elaine asked. “Can I give you a lift to your car?”

  “No, thanks,” he said with a smile. “It’s a nice evening for a walk.” She wondered if he knew that he’d said that already.

  She smiled back and waved and wondered why—with a new date to think about and a pile of new clothes—she felt disappointed.

  32

  Ceremony.

  Gowns.

  Tuxedos.

  Flowers.

  Minister.

  Music.

  Attendants.

  There hadn’t been time to figure out the damn food.

  Just before Lily’s “surprise” lunch at The Bear Claw Tavern Friday, they reviewed the list to make ready for Irene. Monday, after all, would arrive in a flash.

  By some minor miracle, the women kept straight faces when Andrew offered to be Irene’s chauffeur while she was in town. He said he’d start by picking her up at the train station Sunday night. Jo thanked him and said she hoped it wouldn’t interfere with his weekend plans.

  No, he’d said, it would be fine.

  Jo knew she’d be able to remain composed as long as she didn’t make eye contact with him. She had, after all, been well trained at keeping her chin up, stiffening he
r upper lip. She’d learned to cope by pushing down her feelings, hadn’t she? She’d learned to cope by attending to her work.

  This week, however, had been a challenge. The disappointment of Jack Allen, then Andrew’s lies, compounded by the complicated emotions of being in the house all alone at night, with no one to talk to except the memories, and nothing to focus on except fathers and daughters, had simply been too much. She’d tried to work in the evenings, but the distant voices stole her attention.

  I’m sure your father meant to visit on your birthday.

  Grandpa will take you to the father-daughter dance.

  That’s all, honey. There are no more gifts.

  The last remark came one Christmas morning when Jo had gone behind the twinkling tree, not out of greed, but because she just knew there must be a gift there from her father, the man who had left them all. But her mother had been right, there were no more gifts.

  Years ago Jo had scoured the house, looking for evidence of her father’s existence: a photo, a love letter, something. But Marion had wiped the house clean, as if a crime had been committed and the evidence skillfully destroyed.

  The way Andrew had tried to camouflage any evidence of a prior life, too. She suddenly wondered if Cassie were his niece, or if she were really his daughter.

  Clenching her jaw and wishing for a way to make the hurt just go away, Jo decided to pretend that Andrew wasn’t in the room.

  “Let’s focus on the ceremony with Irene on Monday,” she said. “Tuesday and Wednesday we can do the reception. That will leave Thursday for anything we’ve left out, or anything she wants to change.” Irene needed to be back in the city Thursday night. “We’ll give her a few options, then our recommendations. As long as she’s okay with the major things—the castle, the white-and-silver theme—we should be all set.”

  The room was silent for a moment, then Lily let out a sigh. “I’m worried about the food,” she said. “She’s going to hate the food.”

  All eyes traveled to Elaine’s desk, where her father’s binders sat untouched. Elaine had been so busy—they all had been so busy—there hadn’t been time.

  “I’m sorry,” Elaine said. “I can take them home this weekend . . . but I don’t know how to convince a caterer to make something that isn’t theirs . . . and I’m not sure it would be fair to give away the secrets of my father’s creations.”

  “Don’t worry, Elaine,” Jo said. “We have menus from the best caterers between here and Boston. I’ll bet we can get them to drive out here with samples. It’s the Benson wedding, after all.”

  Lily stood up and paced the room. “And I say the menus are all too ordinary, too predictable. I have friends like Irene Benson. Believe me, predictable is not a word she’d want to equate with anything, let alone the food. I think Elaine should cook for her.”

  For a moment no one, Elaine included, said anything. The full thrust of Lily’s words began to slowly take some kind of shape.

  “Me?” she asked.

  Lily rubbed her small hands together, her eyes lit up. “It’s perfect,” she said, gesturing toward the cartons. “They’re your father’s recipes. You cook them, we serve them, we claim a link to the famous McNulty’s of thirty and forty years ago. Irene will be charmed.” She spoke a bit maniacally, as if she’d been ignited by another spark of payback against Andrew.

  “But my father was the chef, not me.”

  “At least give it a chance, Elaine. We can present it as another option.”

  “And if she likes it?” Sarah asked.

  “Then Elaine will become a caterer.”

  “No,” Elaine replied. “I only know how to wait on tables.”

  “Oh, come on,” Lily joked. “You’re the one who’s wanted a new life. And the restaurant business is in your blood. Besides, how far wrong can you go with your father living only a hundred miles or so up the road?”

  Jo supposed that Lily had a point.

  “We’ll make Irene wait until Wednesday night,” Lily continued. “Then we can all go to Elaine’s house for dinner!”

  No one objected, not even Jo, who was too tired from pushing down feelings to argue.

  Lily slapped the desk. “Consider us done for the day.” She circled the room. “Ladies? Andrew? I believe we have a date for a well-deserved lunch. I understand the tavern makes a roasted veggie gumbo that’s totally divine.”

  The Bear Claw Tavern was out by Sarah’s log cabin, in a village on the outskirts of West Hope, a universe from civilization. The dark interior was wood, wood that ran along the walls, wood that ascended to the peak of the cathedral ceiling. Symbols of the Berkshires were hung all around: cross-country skis, buck and bear heads, snowshoes.

  It didn’t seem to Andrew like a place Lily would have selected. There was no maître d’; there was no linen.

  “Now,” Lily announced, after the waiter had taken their order and gone to fetch the Chardonnay, “I wanted to have this little celebration because we’ve been working so hard.”

  Yes, well, Andrew supposed they had been working hard. Including Elaine, who’d chosen not to join them, but had gone home to plunder her father’s recipes because Lily had pretty much backed her into that corner.

  Jo smiled.

  Sarah smiled.

  “And,” Lily added, “I thought it was time for Andrew to have more in his life than a bunch of niggling women and a little girl, sweet though she is.”

  Andrew wasn’t sure if he should smile in return, or if he should excuse himself and leave. There was something unsettling about Lily’s demeanor. He placed his palms on top of the pine table and lightly drummed his fingers and his thumbs.

  A tall man—not the waiter—suddenly appeared with four large-bowled wine glasses. “Good afternoon,” he said to them all, then his eyes landed on Lily. “It’s nice to see you again, Lily. Thanks for bringing your friends.” He was a handsome man. He looked about forty, give or take, with slick black hair and light gray eyes. He wore a black turtleneck and tight black jeans.

  He poured the wine for Lily to taste.

  She tasted. She nodded. He half filled the other glasses while she introduced him to Sarah and Jo. Then she turned to Andrew.

  “And most important of all, this is our Andrew,” Lily said. “Andrew, this is Damien, who has simply been dying to meet you, haven’t you, dear?”

  Andrew supposed he should have known that sooner or later it would happen, that one of the women for whom he worked (of course it would be Lily) would have thought it such a hoot to set him up. With a man.

  He extended his hand to the wine steward named Damien, reminding himself that he was neither born nor raised into prejudice of any race, color, religion, or sexual orientation. Still, when Damien’s broad hand met his, Andrew tried to pump it like Gunter at Laurel Lake.

  His eyes moved to Lily, then Jo, then Sarah, all of whom, he expected, thought this had been a great idea. “Oh,” was all he said. Then, “Well.” One uncomfortable moment led to two. He wondered if the warmth in his cheeks meant they had turned scarlet.

  “You must order the gumbo, Andrew,” Lily said. “If you find it as delicious as Frank and I have, I’m sure Damien will be delighted to bring some to your house. Say, Sunday afternoon?”

  Andrew’s smile was as unmoving as if his lips were stuck to a metal flagpole in the middle of winter. “Sorry,” he said, “but Sunday Cassie has a competition.” He tried not to act impolite. He tried not to act pissed.

  “Another time, perhaps,” Damien said, and gave a slight bow.

  Andrew nodded and quickly ordered the gumbo. The rest of the lunch went by in a blur. Andrew wished Cassie was there. He would have felt safer, though she might have said later that he deserved it, and she might have reminded him to end this charade before anyone was hurt.

  Lily might have been happy with her bit of vengeance, but Jo was embarrassed watching Andrew be embarrassed. She wanted to fast-forward to the Benson wedding, when all truths would be told, when this f
inally would be over, and she wouldn’t have to look at him or think of him, or wonder why he’d done it. To them. To her.

  Cilantro Carrot Soup.

  Grilled Romaine Salad.

  Veal Medallions.

  Toasted Basil Pasta.

  Elaine sat at the small desk in the kitchen Friday night, clad in the Springfield College sweats, digging through her father’s recipes, perusing a cross section of temptations that might please Lily, which would then be good enough for the bride-to-be. She was beginning to think that the strength of a second-wedding planning business—or, she supposed, any wedding-planning business—hinged on a bunch of lists.

  She would work until midnight. Then she would stop worrying about this, take a hot bath, and go to bed.

  Tomorrow she’d start shopping. She’d go to the gourmet shop in Pittsfield where she’d find the freshest ingredients, the finest-quality selections. Then she’d race home and get ready for a date with a man whose name she didn’t know.

  Hopefully, she’d have enough time.

  Thumbing through more glassine-covered pages, Elaine studied the ingredients. She wrote out more lists. Through it all, she thought between-the-lines thoughts about Andrew and what had happened at the lunch she couldn’t bring herself to attend. She thought about her date, and tried to summon some excitement about the potential for love. And with each page she turned, she thought about her father.

  Was he truly happy with Mrs. Tuttle? Or was she better than nothing, a loneliness cure? Whatever the reason, he had a new life.

  But so did she, or at least she almost did.

  Why did she find his so disturbing?

  “Kids don’t like change,” she remembered Andrew had said about Karen.

  “No kidding,” she said out loud and hauled another fat binder onto the desk. The small square of paper tucked into the spine read “Decadent Desserts,” her mother’s hand-lettered title for her father’s favorites.

  Elaine inhaled a deep breath and opened the notebook. Then she remembered the White Chocolate Lace Bridal Veil, the pièce de résistance her father had crafted for Caroline Blakely’s “hoity-toity” first wedding.