Twice Upon a Wedding

by Jean Stone

  “Hello”s and “Nice to see you again”s were murmured as Lily led Damien into the room, around the table, and, of course, to the empty seat that just happened to be next to Andrew. If he didn’t know better he’d swear his chair had suddenly been backed into the corner.

  “Andrew,” Lily cooed, as Damien sat down. “Say hello to our friend.”

  Andrew did as he was told and tried not to notice that both Cassie’s and Irene’s eyes were now fixed on him with wonderment. Or was it amusement?

  He turned back to his plate, ate a few shredded beets, and knew there was only one way he could get this to stop.

  They talked about the wedding all through the evening. Irene Benson was not at all like Elaine expected. She was warm and kind and exactly the kind of person Elaine would have expected Andrew would have as a friend. It was reassuring to think he wasn’t such a cad. Andrew David, the celebrity, had apparently not been money-and-power hungry and surrounded by shallow, high-and-mighty people, at least not his friends, if Irene was an example. Elaine didn’t care what the others thought about him, Elaine knew the truth, that he was a good man.

  She really wished Lily hadn’t invited that guy, Damien, the guy who was seated too close to Andrew and laughed too loudly at his nervous jokes. Lily had orchestrated the set-up as Andrew’s penance: It was obvious, and it was uncomfortable. Elaine tried to forget about it and instead focus on Jo, who handed out forms for everyone to complete, to rate their favorite foods for the wedding menu. Between now and the end of December, hopefully the caterer could learn to prepare them with more success than she’d initially had with the veil.

  Unless . . .

  “Dad,” she said as they went into the kitchen after everyone was finished. It was a long shot, she knew, and maybe a crazy one, but if Elaine didn’t ask, she’d never know. “What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

  Bob wiped his hands on a towel. “Why?”

  “Because I think Irene would be honored—we’d all be honored—if you would come and cook for the Benson wedding. If you’d be our caterer. If you’d let me help.” She turned her head, fussed with the dishwasher and added, “Mrs. Tuttle could come, too, if she wanted. She might enjoy watching the festivities.”

  Bob turned off the water. “Honey,” he said, “I’d love to help you girls. But the truth is, that’s when Larry and I are going on the cruise. I told you we are going on a cruise? It leaves the day after Christmas and comes back the seventh of January.”

  Disappointment folded itself over her like a wet, woolen shroud. She knew it shouldn’t bother her. After all, it had just been a silly notion, a spur-of-the-moment, silly notion. It should not have triggered the small lump that swelled in her throat or the reminder that she was no longer the light of Bob McNulty’s life.

  Thankfully, just then, Lily appeared in the doorway.

  “Elaine,” she said, “we have another unexpected guest. Shall we get out another place setting?”

  A guest? What other mischief was Lily up to? Or had Mrs. Tuttle driven down from Saratoga? Had she traveled to West Hope to restake her claim?

  “A good-looking guest,” Lily affirmed, with a Cheshire smile. “He says he’s a friend and that his name is Gerard.”

  38

  He looked like his picture on mates.com, except he was more of an Adonis in person. He had a head of thick hair, where Lloyd was going bald and Martin already went. He had mahogany-colored eyes—not hazel like Lloyd’s or plain brown like Martin’s. And he had cheekbones that Cher or Michael Jackson might have paid a fortune for.

  She gulped. “Gerard. What are you doing here?” Her voice was a mere whisper, a surreptitious warning.

  “Hello, Elaine. You didn’t leave your number.”

  “Excuse me?” She touched the tiny row of pearls that encircled her throat. She hadn’t realized when she’d dressed in the soft peach-colored ensemble that she’d need rosary beads, too.

  “Your phone number. You left your name and I knew you lived in West Hope. But you didn’t leave your number.” When he spoke his teeth showed bright and white. Lloyd’s teeth had dulled and become crooked over time; Martin’s had all been crowned.

  She was reminded of Gunter from the spa. She slowly crossed one leg in front of the other.

  “Now isn’t a good time,” she said. From the room behind her, silence drifted on transparent clouds of full-term pregnant pauses, as if all her guests had left and no one breathed in the house. She wondered if her father would think she’d turned into a slut. She wondered if Karen would call Lloyd again.

  Gerard held his eyes on her. He smiled. “You’re very pretty,” he said. “Just like your picture.”

  Elaine laughed and put her hand on the door. He was the second man to call her “pretty” in less than a week. She wondered if registration on mates.com came with rose-colored glasses. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Pretty,” after all, was not a word that described her, even with her new hair. “Acceptable,” perhaps. Or “not bad.” But “pretty” was reserved for women like Jo. If he went into her family room, surely Gerard would see the difference. “I think you’d better leave,” she said and began to close the door. “I’ll call you. I have your number.”

  Suddenly Lily was beside her.

  “We still have some dessert,” she said. “Tiramisu or Crème Fraîche?”

  A rush of heat simmered in Elaine’s neck and face as if she were twenty-one again, the scandal of the town. It felt like her makeover had gone terribly awry.

  Then Gerard smiled. “Actually, Crème Fraîche is one of my favorites.”

  Lily extended her arm to him.

  In a reaction that Elaine might or might not regret for the rest of her life, she quickly stepped between them.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. Neither Gerard nor Lily moved. “This is simply not a good time.” She gently but firmly removed Lily’s arm from Gerard’s, tried to smile and look as if she were not about to burst into either tears or short bursts of primal shrieks, then promptly, assuredly, closed the door in Gerard’s beautiful face.

  “Who was that, Mom?” Karen’s eyes had narrowed the way Bob’s always did when he thought Elaine might be telling him a fib.

  “He was a gorgeous man,” Lily replied, “and your mother sent him on his way.”

  Elaine removed plates, clattering one atop another despite that they were twenty-four-carat gold-rimmed wedding gifts and should not be set together because the gold could flake or chip. “Lily, please . . .”

  “Who was he, anyway?” That question from her daughter.

  “No one. Just a guy . . .”

  “Oh, no,” Karen said. “He’s not someone you met online is he, Mom? He’s not one of those online dating creeps?” She stood up, poised for confrontation.

  All eyes in the room rotated to her. Lily’s eyes. Jo’s, Sarah’s, Irene Benson’s. Even Andrew’s and Cassie’s. At least her father was still in the kitchen.

  “Karen, please,” she said. “We’ll discuss this later.” She juggled the stack of plates with a bundle of embarrassment and moved toward the kitchen door.

  “Well, Lainey,” Lily said, “he’s awfully cute. If you don’t want him, maybe someone else does.” She was, of course, trying to lighten the mood. But Elaine wished all eyes hadn’t landed on Andrew.

  Elaine forced a smile and backed into the kitchen where she stood, barely breathing, until the murmur of voices started again. Her father had often said that when more than one person is in a room, sooner or later someone will begin to talk.

  She turned to see if he was interested in what was going on. But instead of being aware of the drama unfolding in the other part of the house, he had stretched out on the padded bench next to the back door and fallen asleep.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew said as plainly as he could. He stood in Elaine’s driveway, next to the old Volvo, hoping that Irene and Cassie, who were sitting inside, couldn’t hear his words that were directed at Damien. “Lily meant well,
but she didn’t know I’m not interested in dating right now.”

  “You mean, you’re not interested in me,” Damien replied, turning his collar up to the wind of rejection.

  Andrew shook his head. “It’s not that. Really. I’m not dating right now.” He toyed with the idea of telling the truth. But then Lily would find out and so would everyone else and it would be a big mess because it would be too soon. It was faster, cleaner, just to hurt Damien’s feelings. And hate himself later.

  “Well, you and your niece are welcome to come to The Bear Claw anytime,” he responded with that awful lump-in-the-throat act designed to save face. “Lily is right, I do make a mean gumbo.”

  Andrew could have said, “Sure, we’ll stop in some day.” Another lie. Another layer of crap. So he just shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, and looked away.

  Damien stood there a moment, his hands in his pockets. Then he quietly said, “Well, go fuck yourself then,” and turned and marched off toward his car.

  By Thursday, the only decision Irene had left to make was about the gowns. Jo and Sarah decided to drive her to Chestnut Hill in Boston. Andrew didn’t think that was a good idea.

  “No,” he said to Irene when he picked her up at The Stone Castle in the morning. Three days of playing stealth bomber, traveling under the radar of three women who were too smart for their own good (Lily, Jo, and Sarah) and dodging Lily’s persistent matchmaking bullet, had completely worn Andrew down. But he couldn’t risk Irene being alone with the women. Once they got to yakking, there was no telling what would come out.

  God, he was exhausted.

  “Andrew, need I remind you this charade was your idea?”

  He stopped at a traffic light, one of only three in town. “Which is also why I should get to say when enough’s enough.”

  She turned in her seat to face him and smiled. She was enjoying this, he realized. The attention, the power, the spending money with aplomb, all in the name of helping Andrew and his cause. “You are so uptight,” Irene said with a smile.

  “And you are so spoiled,” he retorted with a quick chuckle.

  She returned the laugh. “But, Andrew, the women have no inkling as to our relationship.”

  Relationship. He smiled at her choice of a word. He realized these past days held valuable fodder for his “Real Women” column. Too bad he couldn’t use much of it. Especially the parts about the Buzz editor’s wife. Behind them, a horn honked; the light had turned green.

  “Speaking of relationships,” Irene continued, “how do you suppose this little adventure of yours will end?”

  Andrew didn’t answer, because what could he say?

  There was a lot, however, that he could have said when they reached Second Chances and went into the shop. Standing before him was the willowy back of a tall, svelte, dark-haired woman.

  There was a lot he could have said, but he couldn’t speak then, either.

  Thank God Elaine was the only one in the shop.

  “I found your house,” the woman who once had been Andrew’s wife said to him. “Your next-door neighbor told me where to find you.”

  His mouth went dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of it like the magnet of a butterfly that Cassie made in third grade and had stuck to the refrigerator.

  Patty’s eyes moved to his companion. “Irene,” she said. “Well, this is interesting. I didn’t expect to find you here, too.” She’d always said that Andrew cared too much what the Bensons said and thought and did. He’d always known the real problem was that two dynamic women were predestined to clash.

  Irene raised her head. At the hinges of her jaw, Irene’s muscles fluttered, then went still. “I came to visit Cassie.”

  “How nice of you,” Patty replied, “to spend time with my daughter.”

  “Someone has needed to.”

  Any moment now, acrylic fingernails would fly. Andrew should have stepped in, but he was as stuck to the floor as his tongue was to the roof of his mouth.

  Elaine did the stepping. “Why don’t you two run along?” she said with a gesture to Andrew and Patty. “Irene and I have business to finish. Then I believe she’s going to Boston.” Nobody breathed. Nobody moved. “Andrew,” Elaine commanded. “Go. Now.”

  But still he didn’t—couldn’t—move.

  Jesus, she was beautiful.

  He surveyed her perfect porcelain face, her long, long neck, her—did he dare look?—yes, her breasts.

  Shit.

  It was in that dead moment he realized that once again it was not his brain that was working, but the parts much lower down. He forced his mind to rewind to the look on Cassie’s face when she’d only been five and her mother had left. Once the image arrived, it was amazing how much less beautiful Patty became.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Andrew,” Elaine said, moving closer, “I really think it’s best if you leave the shop right now.”

  That’s when he heard footsteps descend the back stairs in the studio. The footsteps would be Lily’s and there would be no stopping her from questioning the gorgeous woman in the shop as if she were Leslie Stahl and this were 60 Minutes.

  He pried his sneakers from the floor, grasped Patty by the arm, and hustled her out of there before his world imploded.

  39

  There were a million ways Andrew could use this in his column. There was just one that came to mind:

  Never believe, not for one minute, that women don’t know they’re in control.

  “Is this your car?” Patty asked, because she just couldn’t, wouldn’t, let it go once she’d seen the old Volvo that was in bad need of a wash and a small body job.

  He didn’t answer because he didn’t want to.

  It wasn’t until they were in the car and he’d driven safely out of eye and earshot of Second Chances that he decided there was no way he’d take her to the cottage. Not until he knew what her agenda was.

  He drove out to Laurel Lake. He pulled into the parking lot at the public beach and turned off the motor.

  “Tell me what you want,” he said.

  “It’s that easy? I just tell you what I want?” Her words hinted of flirtation, because Patty had always done that well.

  “No,” Andrew said. “First, you tell me. Then I’ll tell you if it’s possible.”

  The air grew late-autumn-chilled. She buttoned her leather jacket and said, “God, do we have to sit out here? It’s freezing. And I’m in no mood for games, Andrew. I just got out of a hired car that I had to take all the way from JFK, after I got off a plane I spent way too many hours on.”

  He tapped the steering wheel. He toyed with the unicorn keychain that dangled from the ignition switch. The unicorn had been a gift from Cassie three Christmases ago: She’d bought it in the holiday store at the elementary school and had wrapped it herself in green foil paper and too much Scotch tape. “You should have told me you were coming,” he said.

  She laughed. “And you would have said it was okay?”

  He rolled his neck from side to side, trying to stretch the muscles, trying to prevent a headache that would crash-land any moment. “What do you want, Patty?”

  She sighed. “I want to see my daughter.”

  “You got her e-mail.”

  “Yes. And now I want to see her.”

  He didn’t ask where her husband was or who was baby-sitting Gilbert Grape. “I thought if you’d agree, I would bring her for a visit in the summer.”

  “I want to see her now.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.” It was difficult enough trying to hold his breath around Irene Benson and the others. How could he handle this, as well? Andrew David Kennedy, once respectful, respected, now a victim of his own stupidity. “You have to leave,” he said.

  “I have visitation rights.”

  “You gave those up when you moved to Australia. You just can’t swoop down and make claims on my daughter.”r />
  “Our daughter.”

  He leveled his eyes right on her. “My daughter,” he said. He got out of the car and slammed the door. He walked down to the water, trying to clear his mind, knowing any second Patty would appear beside him and God knew what she’d try.

  Sex, probably, because she knew that was one button that was tough for Andrew to ignore when it came to her, when it came to the way she could manipulate his dick. He drew in a long, slow breath of air.

  The next thing Andrew heard was the sound of the ignition starting, then the treads of the old Volvo tires spit dirt and gravel as it sped from the lot.

  Elaine was beginning to wonder why life had become weird.

  “I understand Andrew Kennedy works here,” the woman had said with an affected accent when she appeared at Second Chances. “I am his former wife. The mother of his daughter.”

  At least Elaine had been alone, able to cover for him, not that one more detail of his deception would be a big shock to the others, but Andrew, of course, didn’t know that.

  Elaine found it interesting, though, that with all the truth he’d told her, he’d failed to mention that Cassie’s mother was Patty O’Shay. The Patty O’Shay. She supposed Elaine might have known if she’d paid more attention to celebrity gossip back when Andrew had been one of them.

  By ten-thirty the commotion had subsided: Andrew and his ex were gone; Irene had scooted off with Jo and Sarah; Lily had decided it was a good time for a bubble bath. She’d promised Frank she’d go to a Christie’s auction with him, for which, she announced, one should feel properly indulged.

  Coffee seemed like the next best thing, so Elaine locked up the shop and dashed out for a jumbo latte. Inside the luncheonette she saw Jo’s mother—they hadn’t spoken since the wedding—who looked bright and wonderful. They chatted about the wedding and the honeymoon to Italy and then along came Gloria Wickham and her daughter, Maebeth, whom neither of them had seen since Marion’s wedding, either, so the four of them talked right through the latte. Elaine ordered another to take back to the shop.