Twice Upon a Wedding

by Jean Stone

  Elaine turned the pages. Was the recipe there? If it was, could she possibly make it as good as her father had? As delicate, as original, as melt-in-your-mouth?

  She remembered that first time he’d made it, and how she had stood, barely tall enough to peek over the counter, holding her breath as he peeled back the first layer of lacey chocolate and sculpted it into a delicate creation that looked just like a bride’s veil with gentle folds and scalloped edges.

  “Daddy, it’s so pretty,” Elaine had whispered.

  Her father had smiled. “It’s all in the proper balance of the ingredients,” he said. “And a touch of my magic.”

  She sighed with the memory, then turned another page. Praline Pie, Pear Custard, Orange Meringue Cookies.

  Then Elaine had another idea. Why not have Sarah create a tiara . . . a duplicate of the one Irene would wear . . . or to the one she had worn at the first Benson wedding?

  The glittering tiara could top the wedding cake; the white-chocolate veil could cascade along the sides and down the back. Guests could break off small pieces of chocolate throughout the reception. Talk about a photo op. The media would love it.

  Elaine wondered if she was becoming a wedding planner after all. If only she could find the damn recipe.

  And then, there it was.

  White Chocolate Lace Bridal Veil, her mother’s penmanship read. Created by Robert McNulty of McNulty’s Restaurant, Saratoga Springs, New York. August 23, 1967, for the wedding reception of Miss Caroline Blakely and Mr. Howard MacBride.

  He had created dozens of “veils” after that. And now, Elaine could revive the tradition, with a new twist, a crowning glory that would turn an ordinary wedding cake into a truly decadent dessert.

  There was only one problem: the proper balance of the ingredients—the right amount of butter, the right amount of cocoa and sugar . . . and, of course, the magic. Could Elaine recapture it? And, if it was possible, did she have the time?

  She glanced at the clock. Seven-twenty-five. If she hurried, she might make it to the gourmet shop in Pittsfield. If she hurried, she might just pull this off. Wouldn’t Lily and the others be ecstatic?

  Unsnapping the three rings, Elaine pulled out the recipe and tucked it into her bag. Then she grabbed her keys and headed out the front door, just as her thoughts settled on another idea: Should she—could she—possibly ask her father to help?

  33

  The West Hope train station looked the way it might have looked fifty or a hundred years ago: a small, redbrick building; slatted, wooden benches; a stack of morning newspapers propped up in a corner. Even the man behind the lone caged ticket window wore a stiff, round, short-brimmed hat and a charcoal-gray vest whose buttons were connected by several gold links no doubt attached to a pocket watch. Andrew could have sworn he’d seen the man in movies from the forties.

  The man said yes, the ten-twenty-six from Manhattan was on time, which meant Irene would arrive in seven minutes. It was Saturday morning: the women at Second Chances thought she wasn’t arriving until Sunday night. They did not know she was coming early to spend time with Andrew and Cassie.

  He shivered in the cold brick building. How he was growing to hate every one of his lies! He walked outside to the quiet platform and stood facing south, trying to forget that he’d quietly told Lily after their lunch that he was not interested in Damien, or anyone right now, thanks anyway . . . trying to forget that she’d tut-tutted him and said perhaps he might at least give Damien a chance.

  Lily hated taking “no” for an answer, which left him only with the hope that Irene’s visit might sidetrack her.

  He stared at the horizon capped by the gray November sky, at the path of steely railroad ties bordered by barren, between-season trees. Even in its bleakness the Berkshires held a certain beauty, as if lying in repose, awaiting the shroud of winter whites and the crackle of applewood in big stone fireplaces.

  And this year, awaiting the New Year’s gala of the Benson nuptials, the Re-Wedding, as Andrew liked to think of it, the event that couldn’t get there quickly enough, so the lying would finally be done.

  He put his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket and he waited. He looked forward to seeing Irene.

  She had, after all, been his first lover.

  It had happened quite by accident one spring break night when Andrew was seventeen and John and Irene had secretly been separated several months.

  Andrew was finishing his junior year at Avon Old Farms in Connecticut. He’d not been home since Christmas; he hadn’t known that John had moved out of the penthouse across the hall.

  “I got a letter from him last month,” Andrew said to Irene as they walked along Park Avenue in the evening. She’d taken Andrew out for Chinese food; he’d mistakenly assumed that John would join them. “He lined up a summer intern job for me at NBC.”

  Irene nodded and slipped her slender arm around Andrew’s. “I’m sure it will be fine,” she said. “We’ll call and check tomorrow.”

  There had been many prior nights they’d eaten Chinese food together, then walked along the avenue. There had been many prior nights, but John had always been there, pointing out new storefronts that had materialized, new investment brokerage offices, new residential buildings for which he’d speculate the cost of new apartments. The void of his absence hung between the high-rise buildings like deep, unwanted chasms.

  “He’s always been like a father to me,” Andrew said. “More than my own father.”

  Irene adjusted the long, silk scarf that flowed around her neck. “I wonder if that’s what his new girlfriend thinks. That he’s like a father to her.”

  Andrew hadn’t answered because he’d not known what to say.

  Then Irene said John’s girlfriend was only twenty. “A model from California. One of those. With a fake tan and no tits and too many teeth.”

  Andrew had laughed.

  Irene had laughed, too.

  The next day Andrew went across the hall and they called the man at NBC and learned, indeed, they were expecting Andrew sometime in mid-June. Irene said he was home on spring break and asked if he could drop by for a visit.

  Later that afternoon, he did.

  After which, he went to see Irene, to thank her for her help in John’s absence.

  She’d offered him coffee.

  She’d offered him tea.

  Slowly, the hole he’d felt in the Benson penthouse began to dissipate. And for the first time since he had known her, Andrew saw Irene as a beautiful, enchanting woman, with a long, golden neck and slender, ballet dancer’s arms, and a way of looking at him that made him believe he was the most important boy—man—on earth.

  The rest of the week, he made frequent excuses to stop by. On the last night, Irene fixed him a drink. A martini, the precursor to another, more important first.

  It could have been the lights that shimmered over Manhattan. It could have been the comfort that he felt in the sprawling living room that was a mirror image of his own. It could have been the soft scent that Irene wore, or the elegant chiffon caftan she had on. It could have been that the housekeeper and the cook were both off that night.

  Or it could have been because Andrew was seventeen, with more testosterone than a bull in mating season.

  Whatever the reason, one of them (later, he could never be sure which one it was) made the first move, touched the first touch, encouraged the first sweet, gentle kiss.

  He remembered that he slid the chiffon from her shoulders. He remembered that these were the first full breasts of a woman that he’d seen in person, not on magazine pages or in R-rated movies, the first breasts he’d caressed or, God, the first he’d kissed.

  He remembered she unzipped the zipper of his jeans; she removed his man-boy manhood from its confined space; she sucked it with her mouth until he thought that he’d explode. Then she guided him to mount her, and they did what they’d done.

  It had been sweet.

  It had been wondrous.
r />   It hadn’t seemed wrong, despite that she was—eighteen? twenty?—years older. It hadn’t seemed wrong because, though John had been a father figure, Irene had never been like a mother. She’d always been John’s wife, untouchable because of that. Until John had left.

  It had, sadly for a seventeen-year-old boy, been the one and only time. He’d gone back to school; by the time the school year was over, John had moved back into the penthouse and the model apparently was gone.

  They’d spoken about it only once, when Irene let Andrew know she had not told John. It was best that way, she’d said. It was best for all of them.

  And now, Irene was on a train rumbling toward Andrew. She was his friend and mentor’s wife, his daughter’s beloved godmother, and just another one of Andrew’s secrets, though he’d take this one to his grave.

  34

  GrnHnt” meant the Green Hornet and “62” referred to the number of original Green Hornet radio scripts that Elaine’s date possessed. So far.

  Niles Hockinsworth was shorter than the five feet eight inches he’d mentioned to Elaine, and stood almost eye-to-eye with her five feet five. He wore small glasses over his small eyes, and had on a button-down shirt and a tie. When he spoke, the left edge of his mouth twitched. But he seemed nice enough in a dull sort of way.

  All things considered, she’d rather be home starting to experiment with her father’s recipes. She’d spent the whole day shopping: She had everything she needed now except for time.

  As soon as her eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the beer signs, Elaine realized she was way overdressed in her five-hundred-dollar gray pants set. She’d never been inside Geraldine’s, never experienced the moans of the seventies country music from the jukebox or the brouhahas from the denim crowd perched on the stools. She ordered a glass of wine and was grateful that Niles had found a booth, though the split vinyl threatened to make tiny pulls in her pants—not a good enough reason, she supposed, to say that she must leave. Every few minutes Elaine squinted and scanned, hoping Sarah had ignored her threats and was seated there, at the corner of the bar, maybe, or at the booth in the back. So far, she was not.

  “George Trendle,” Niles was saying. “He wrote the first scripts. Most people don’t know he also created the Lone Ranger for radio. In fact, even fewer know that the Green Hornet was actually the great-nephew of the Lone Ranger.”

  Elaine smiled and said she hadn’t known it. Then she asked if he had any children. He said some people thought Kato was his son, but he was really his Filipino valet.

  She stared at him with wonder. Wonder at what she was doing there, wonder at how soon would be impolite to leave.

  “Oh,” he said, “you mean me. Do I have any children. I thought you meant the Green Hornet.”

  She didn’t reply. What could she say?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his small eyes to his beer glass. “I am so nervous. You’re so pretty.”

  Now, of course, Elaine felt horrible, wedged in that place between reality and pity, where no matter how weird the guy was, she felt sorry for him. Did other women feel this way on dates?

  “Niles,” she said softly, just above the refrains of Merle Haggard. “I’m sorry if I’m not paying attention. It’s just that I’m involved in a new project at work and I’m terribly preoccupied tonight.” She sipped her wine. She considered knocking the glass over—perhaps onto herself—then declaring she must go home now, that it had been nice to meet him. Later, when she was alone, under the covers, she would probably feel the disenchantment that her first mates.com date had not been Mr. Right. At the moment, however, she simply wanted to flee.

  “Maybe we should make it another time,” Niles said. “Next week? Are you free Thursday night? Or Friday? There’s a great place in Williamstown where we could go dancing . . .”

  Her thoughts swirled with images of her dodging phone calls, making excuses, trying to shake Niles Hockinsworth from her life. Are you really that desperate? Sarah had asked. Suddenly Elaine held up her hand and said, “Wait.”

  Thankfully, he did.

  She moved her glass to the center of the table and said, “Niles, it’s been nice to meet you, but I don’t think this will work. You’re a very nice man, but we are way too different.” With that she smiled, stood up, and said, “Thank you for the drink.”

  With confidence she didn’t know that she possessed, Elaine threaded her way through the local debris and calmly departed Geraldine’s.

  Outside on the step, she took a deep breath of cool, refreshing, liberating evening air, admitting only then—and only to herself—that she’d feared she’d be that desperate; congratulating herself that she really, truly, was not.

  “Good job,” Elaine heard, then turned and saw Sarah. The sneak had on a cowboy hat that concealed her long hair, tinted, eighties glasses, and a big, ugly parka.

  “You were there,” Elaine said.

  “In the booth right behind you. I’m proud of you, kid. You were right to the point, without being hurtful.”

  “When did you come in?”

  “Before you. I recognized your date from the apprehension on his face.”

  “Hey,” Elaine said, “thanks. I can’t believe you did this. Now I can’t talk to you for the rest of my life.”

  Sarah shrugged.

  “But first, there’s something I’d love to show you. I’m so excited. Can you come over to my house?”

  “Only if you tell me one thing,” Sarah said. She removed the hat and shook out her hair. “Did you really not know that the Green Hornet was the Lone Ranger’s great-nephew?”

  Elaine grabbed Sarah’s hat and put it on her head and pressed her fingers against her eyes like a mask. She laughed, realizing it had been a pretty cool thing that Sarah had showed up.

  Irene sat in silence in the kitchen, drinking tea. It had been a long day for her, of that Andrew was fairly certain, if the length of days could be measured by the quantities of shopping bags and the quickness with which she’d shed her heels and rubbed her feet when they got back to the cottage in the evening.

  It wasn’t until after pizza, after seven games of Sorry!, after Cassie went to bed, after Andrew rescued his extra bedding from the linen closet and began to make up the couch for himself (Irene would sleep in his room—he didn’t dare bring her to The Stone Castle until tomorrow night, for fear someone would see them), he began to ponder what the heck was wrong with her.

  She’d looked fine—lovely, actually—and she’d seemed fine when Andrew had met her at the station in the morning. She’d had on a classic camel coat, her black-and-silver hair tied back with a colorful red sash, her pale blue eyes set off by the light tan on her skin. She’d kissed his cheek as she always did, as if they were, had only ever been, the best of friends. Her scent was light, familiar, good. It had occurred to him she was past sixty now; no matter when he saw Irene, she’d always be beautiful to him.

  “Are you looking forward to the wedding?” he’d small-talked once they were in the car. “The women are working hard.”

  She made a gesture with her hand as if it didn’t matter. “Whatever they do will be fine,” she said. “I’m not fussy, Andrew.”

  He laughed a hearty laugh. He could have reminded her of his college graduation, when she and John had been “more than happy” to handle the party arrangements because both of Andrew’s parents had been on call. She’d alienated the caterer—“The lady don’t stop hovering!” Nicholas Cantini screeched and fled the penthouse, leaving Irene to order takeout from the deli down the street. He could have reminded her of his mother’s, then his father’s funerals, when she’d orchestrated lavish affairs as if the two doctors had been heads of state. He could have reminded her of Cassie’s christening, but there’d be no point in that because that would only bring up Patty, and the two had never seen eye-to-eye.

  “They’re working hard, but I don’t think they’d mind a little challenge,” he’d said. “Don’t make this too easy on them, or
they might guess you’re a friend.”

  She’d smiled through closed lips. “Tell me the details of your little scheme.” She winked a prankish wink.

  He hated the word “scheme.” He hated any reference to his wretched sham. “Elaine is the only one who knows anything. And everything. Lily has forged a new mission, of finding me a man.”

  Irene laughed, as he knew she would.

  Andrew shook his head. “But let’s not worry about them right now. I have a little girl who needs to see her Aunt Irene and who can’t wait to go shopping. And to tell you the truth, I think she needs some woman-talk.”

  Irene had turned her head to look out the window of Andrew’s old Volvo. She looked out of place when not seated in a limo. “I should see Cassie more often,” she’d said.

  He’d taken a left and then a right into his driveway and there was Cassie, standing in the front yard, waving at them like crazy.

  That had pretty much been the extent of his one-on-one with Irene. It wasn’t as if he’d said anything to piss her off. Had he?

  All day he’d thought about them at the mall. He pictured them leafing through clothes racks. He pictured them trying on horrible hats and gawdy costume jewelry, just for fun. He pictured them having lunch, with Irene showing Cassie all the niceties of manners. He said a thousand prayers that they wouldn’t run into Lily, Elaine, Sarah, or Jo.

  Mostly, Andrew pictured Cassie and Irene laughing. All of which was why Andrew had been so surprised when he picked them up and sensed a peculiar pall in the air, as if Cassie’s mood had leaked into Irene.

  You didn’t raise your kid for ten years and not pick up on a bad vibration.

  You didn’t know a woman thirty years and not sense when something was wrong, though he wouldn’t say that in his column.

  What the heck had happened?

  He stuffed the pillow into its slightly wrinkled case. And then, the way he’d sensed that something was indeed wrong, he knew Irene was standing behind him.