by M. M. Mayle
FORTY-FIVE
Midmorning, August 14, 1987
On a day rife with opportunities to choke up, Laurel gives herself high marks for getting through the emotionally charged encounter with Colin as well as she did. She was close to hiccoughs when he revealed his softened stance toward Nate and now, almost an hour later, just thinking about the unexpected revelation could make her spasm—that, and the hunger pangs rumbling through her.
Showered, shampooed, wearing a simple sundress and sandals, she returns to the ground floor and follows the sound of high-spirited conversation to the kitchen, where her brothers and sister are gathered at the table, along with Amanda, Rachel, and Susa Thorne. Anthony and Simon are playing—amicably for once—within sight in the arcade.
Laurel takes a chair across from Amanda, who is as animated as she’s been in days. But how animated would she be if she knew of Colin’s attempt to reach out to Nate? How crestfallen would she be to know that Nate could have been with them today if he hadn’t chosen to remain in New York, and Colin’s timing hadn’t been so bad? A good news/bad news proposition at best, and almost in the same category as telling her siblings they’ll soon be relieved of further responsibilities in New Jersey by way of a wrecking ball and an air ambulance. But this is not the time to divulge anything to anybody beyond what they’re all clamoring to know more about—the balloon installation, of course.
Laurel fills them in to the extent of her knowledge and Amanda’s eyes go understandably round when the instigator is named.
“Wow! Now there’s a surprise. I had no idea Nate was involved and he tells me everything,” Amanda says, caught somewhere between amazement and pique.
“I had no idea they opened the old gate to let them in. I doubt Chris did either,” Susa says, confirming Sam Earle’s account of the ultra-clandestine operation.
“I can’t believe we slept through the launching,” Emily says, forgetting that she and her brothers were jetlagged when they turned in last night and could have slept through a rooster reveille.
“However it happened, it’s the coolest thing ever,” Mike says.
“Way cool,” Ben concurs.
“Splendid, like giant psychedelic blossoms, they are,” Rachel says, drawing laughter for being the least likely one at the table to evoke distorted imagery.
Laurel springs up to help Gemma with platters of eggs and breakfast meats, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes. The motherly house manager takes a moment to look at her watch, blink rapidly and sniff. “Five hours, thirty-two minutes to go, my girl.”
“You’d think it was her son she was in a hurry to get rid of,” Rachel says, drawing more laughter and establishing a gentle joshing tone from which no one is spared.
As the meal winds down, attention shifts to the house and grounds that Emily declares superior to anything seen in Paris.
“That might be stretching a bit,” Laurel says.
“No it’s not,” Mike says. This place is totally rad.”
“Bitchin’,” Ben says and spears the last two sausages.
“Absolutely! Everything about it—like omigod—you must have totally spazzed the first time you came here,” Emily says.
“I suppose that’s as good a word for it as any,” Laurel says. “Tell me Rachel, Gemma, was I spazzed when I first arrived here?”
“Indeed you were, dear. Spazzed to the max.” Rachel again supplies the unexpected comment and initiates relaxed laughter.
At the end of the meal, everyone disperses except Amanda. “I have a few things to go over with you,” she says before Laurel can leave her chair.
Sated with a rib-sticking breakfast that will render lunch unnecessary, the last thing Laurel wants to look at is the printed menu for the wedding dinner. But Amanda, despite having no preordained duties beyond bridesmaid, insists on overseeing the event planner and produces a set of folders not unlike the ones Colin was issued.
The ivory deckle-edged sample Amanda presses on her resembles the menus provided at the Tavern fete for Rayce except for being a lot longer.
CANAPÉ SELECTIONS
prawn and dill blini with crème fraiche
mushroom and tarragon profiteroles
bacon-wrapped scallops on seaweed crisps
chicken satay with peanut dip
foie gras on brioche crostini
rumaki
leek and gruyere tart
spanakopita triangles
Thai crab cakes with sweet chili
quails egg with asparagus hollandaise
individual bastilla
STARTERS
chilled watercress soup
tomato soup with cheddar toast
three fish terrine
crab au gratin
stilton walnut tartlet
SALADS
minted new potatoes
herbed mixed leaf salad with raspberry vinaigrette
French bean salad with pancetta and pine kernels
shredded carrot and leek with honey orange dressing
long grain and wild rice with lentils and spring onion
Caesar salad with parmesan shavings and anchovy parmesan
croutons
MAIN COURSES
pot roast of pheasant with apples and calvados reduction
roasted red peppers with couscous and mixed vegetables
standing ribs of beef with horseradish cream
salmon coulibiac
tagine of lamb with apricot
roast Norfolk turkey
PUDDINGS
Poached pears
Champagne jelly
Summer pudding
White chocolate gelato
Preserved lemon mousse
Laurel skims over the canapés and starters listings, only pretends to proofread the remaining items—a great many of which she wanted to veto from the start as too pretentious for her tastes. Especially the showy desserts made redundant by a lavish wedding cake.
“It’s fine,” she says to Amanda. “It’s still fine,” she says of the menu she gave final approval a week ago and resigns herself to the next superfluous demand.
“This isn’t my description, it’s the designer’s.” Amanda passes her a handout sheet she’s read twice before, and okayed twice before as part of the authorized press release.
The ivory delustered satin gown is constructed with corset back, shallow décolletage, and fitted bodice. The shoulder-skimming cap sleeves of silk illusion are embroidered with crystals, bugle beads, palettes, and seed pearls, as is the silk illusion, scallopedged overlay aproning the full sweep of A-line skirt. The back of the gown finishes in an elegant chapel train with provisions for bustling. In lieu of traditional veil, the bride will wear silk gardenias and a jewelled aigrette in her upswept hair.
In this case, the choices are all hers; the gown and headpiece are exactly as described and represent no style or influence other than her own. The only thing missing from the description is the designer’s name—a refreshing omission, when so many of the other vendors are seeking prominent mention.
Amanda switches to another set of notes. “Did you intend to have the flowers described in detail? I see no mention anywhere.”
“No. I deliberately left that out. Who cares if they’re all homegrown, even the orchids.”
“How about the attendants’ dresses?” Amanda persists.
“I left that up to the wedding planner and her people.”
“Okay, then this must be a copy of her handout that says puff-sleeved ecru organdy with smocking detail and satin streamers for the little girls, and triple-layered voile in graduated shades of sage through taupe, with surplice bodice, flutter sleeves, and handkerchief hem for the big girls. Is that enough information?”
“It’s too much! Who really gives a shit other than those involved and it’s nobody’s business except those involved.” Laurel scrapes back her chair and prepares to leave. “And please tell me that I do not have to go through the entire guest list and seating arrangements.�
�� She jumps to her feet and glares down at Amanda. “Isn’t that why I gave in and hired the militant event planner and her battalions? Where is she anyway? Shouldn’t she be the one hammering me with all this last minute detail? Detail I can’t do anything about, because everything’s already in motion. What if something was uncovered that didn’t meet with my approval? What on earth could I do about it? Why are you doing this? You’re a bridesmaid, for heaven’s sake, not a professional nag. Your only job today is to enjoy yourself!”
“Sorry!” Amanda jumps to her feet and returns the glare. “I thought I was performing a service by keeping you occupied, even if it is with annoying details.”
“What makes you think I need to be kept occupied?”
Amanda heaves a dramatic sigh, sits back down, displaying her hands palms up, in the standard gesture of exasperated surrender. “Look, she says, “things have been strained between us since Paris, when whatever happened . . . happened.”
“I won’t deny that,” Laurel says and resumes her seat. “But you, of all people, know that when Colin and I reached an accord about his security, it was with the provision that I no longer let certain . . . certain concerns rule me. That necessarily distanced me from you, because—”
“Because of my admitted collusion with Nate regarding those concerns.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘collusion.’ That suggests you were plotting.”
“In a way we were, but it’s as useless to mention that now as it is to suggest you go over the guest list one last time. Besides, those concerns are not what I set out to distract you from just now,” Amanda says.
“If not fresh concerns about some nut job out there, then what?”
“I was afraid that given too much time . . . you’d start dwelling on your parents . . . wishing they could be with you . . . could see what you held out for and what you’re gaining . . . could witness your joy. They’d be so proud and h-happy,” Amanda says, right on the edge of losing it.
Laurel is no less stunned than she was at Colin’s revelation, and just as powerless to react. To show Amanda the unbridled tenderness and appreciation she’s due would sacrifice her own remaining composure. To tell her how deeply touched she is by this insight, is out of the question or they’d both dissolve in tears. As would have been the case with Colin, had she told him in so many words what his belated softening toward Nate meant to her.
She reaches across the table, squeezes Amanda’s hand, prepared to accept any distraction that will get her to zero hour without another upheaval. “Bring it on,” she says when she’s sure she can speak without quavering. “Bring on the guest list! Unroll the seating chart!”
FORTY-SIX
Late morning, August 14, 1987
Laurel’s been gone an hour when Colin pauses the work at his desk—work he wouldn’t be doing if he’d just let go the stubborn notion he needs to exhibit high levels of discipline and self-reliance by tracking expenditures and writing his own cheques.
Fuckwitted notion, it is. As was said at the beginning of this new era—what’s left to prove? He’s already demonstrated that he’s stable, sound of mind and body, and well on the way to showing he’s still possessed of the indefinable quality that sells out stadium events, quadruples record sales, guarantees massive airplay, and captures the love and commitment of the most brilliantly desirable woman on two continents. So why in bloody hell does he persist in acting as his own chartered accountant? Explain that.
Although he’s gone over every bill for padding and errors, he hasn’t written that many cheques this morning. Against his wishes, Laurel is paying for all wedding expenses traditionally borne by the bride’s family, arguing that if the event were on her turf that’s how it would be handled, and reminding that she’s getting off easy because she didn’t have to hire a hall for the reception.
He’s left with little more than the cost of Laurel’s wedding ring and a wedding gift bought for her against her express wishes. That, and the price of a ten-day honeymoon cruise of the Turquoise Coast aboard an indigenous gulet they’ll have all to themselves. He can thank Sarjit Singh, who frequently holidays on the Turkish Riviera, for the secluded yachting scheme that won’t require a heavy bodyguard presence, and blame the persuasive senior clerk at the Mayfair jewellers who supplied the wedding ring for the item it’s said any bride would covet.
Of the standard monthly expenses met just now, only one stood out—the final remittance to David Sebastian, who’s been off retainer since end of the European tour. Writing that particular cheque didn’t produce the satisfaction he thought it might, and no sentimental twinge followed. That was a bit of a surprise, but so was his unexpected reaction to Nate’s generosity. Who could have seen that coming? Who could have guessed that amnesty for Nate would ever be a possibility, let alone now?
The early awakening has him comfortably ahead of schedule when he locks the chequebook away, gathers up the outgoing mail and closes the office.
In the bedroom, he assembles his wedding finery: the freshly cleaned and pressed tuxedo he was wearing the first time he laid eyes on Laurel; the new accessories, including proper shirt, tie, socks, and evening shoes that won’t raise blisters. To this, he adds a flat leather case taken from the wall safe, and packs everything in a garment carrier.
The case contains the wedding gift he wasn’t supposed to buy. With fifteen minutes to go before eleven, the agreed upon hour for making himself scarce, there’s plenty of time to present Laurel with the trinket and hear all the reasons he shouldn’t have.
She’s in the kitchen with Amanda when he finds her. The two are hunched over the long table that’s spread from one end to the other with seating charts for the forty round tables for eight that are set up in the main marquee. Why they’re doing this now makes no sense whatsoever. But it never did make any sense to him, this arranging people according to supposed interests and pedigrees. And, last he heard, the seating arrangements were graven in granite a week ago.
“Look who’s here now that the work’s nearly done,” Laurel says with mock indignation.
“Look who’s actually calling that work.” He laughs and hangs the garment bag from a chair back. “Can I have a moment with the bride, sweet pea?” he says to Amanda.
“No problem, I was just going.” Amanda collects the charts into a dogeared folder. “I’ll see you upstairs, Laurel. We still need to count the beads and sequins on your dress.”
This gets a big laugh and no explanation from Laurel.
“Still on, are we?” he says, taking a seat across from her.
“You’re kidding, of course.”
“Of course, but I did rather wonder when you were in such a bloody hurry to leave my office earlier.”
“I was . . . I was very much affected by your decision to extend an olive branch to Nate.”
“Affected how?”
“I was touched. I was happy. I was close to breaking down, and I simply can’t afford to. Okay? If I let myself go over every big and little thing that gets to me today, I’ll be a puddle long before I get to the church.”
“Then I’d better be done with this quick.” He removes the jewelry case from an outside pocket of the garment bag, removes the necklace from the case and slides it across the table, much as he slid the engagement ring across her kitchen table.
She frowns. “I thought we agreed not to—”
“You agreed. I didn’t. And you’ve been gettin’ your way altogether too much lately.”
She makes him wait, as she did with the ring, but when her expression softens she doesn’t snatch the necklace up right away. She touches it with one finger, rather caresses the pearls set in precious metal and spaced with diamonds instead of knotted string.
“What was the infraction?” She shows a crooked smile.
“Sorry?”
“Rayce’s rules of the road—you remember—the guilt gifts.”
“Oh, that . . . String of overnighters it was, and I hope to hell
you’re not suggesting I—”
“Heavens no, I’m only reminded of Rayce . . . as I have been several times today. I half expect when the balloons are released this evening, they’ll go up in a variation of the missing man formation.”
She takes possession of the necklace, bows her head over it, handles it like worry beads before sliding it back across the table in a gesture that reads like rejection.
He’s holding his breath when she looks up at him, her dark eyes agleam, near liquid.
“That is . . . without a doubt . . . the loveliest strand of bridal pearls . . . that ever was. And you are the loveliest—” She bows her head again and motions for him to fasten the ornament around her neck.
After he fumbles it into place, she captures one of his hands, holds it to her mouth for a moment. “You’d better go now,” she murmurs.
“So I won’t see you in your gown? There’s time yet, it’s not even eleven.”
“So I won’t jump your bones right here on the kitchen table.” She swipes angrily at her nose and eyes, waves him off when he attempts to kiss her goodbye.
“Colin?” she says when he’s almost out the door.
“Yeh?” He hesitates, thinking to collect that kiss he wants.
“I have something for you too,” she confesses. “But not until tomorrow . . . tomorrow when we’re alone on the boat.”
At the Thorne household, designated staging area for the men, refreshments are available but no one’s having any. There are plenty of distractions, indoors and out, but Chris, Bemus, Tom Jensen, and Laurel’s brothers just mill around, nervous as bridegrooms themselves. Colin projects a manufactured calm that may or may not see him through.
If time passed slowly before eleven, it’s at a near standstill now. Colin looks at his watch for the third time in five minutes, compares it to a mantle clock, decides that half twelve is not too soon to start getting dressed for the two o’clock ceremony if he goes about it with the same speed Anthony uses when dressing for school.
Alone in a children’s bath done up with Disney Princess wallpaper, misgivings come at him every which way. Is his shoulder length hair too long, should he shave again, will his deodorant last, is his mouthwash strong enough? All qualms that would never surface otherwise.