The Wedding Letters

by Jason F. Wright

  “I remember the day it came,” Rachel said.

  “So do I. I hadn’t paid attention to the time change and I called home early in the morning from my hotel. You answered the phone and I knew immediately you’d gotten it. Your spirit was there. It was . . . I don’t know. It was special.”

  Rachel took the card from him and reread the words she’d long ago memorized:

  Dear Rachel, I hope this card arrives to you and that it makes you happy. I’m sorry I had to leave you but I am not the daddy you deserve. I need time, my dear daughter, to find out who I really am. I love you and miss you. I’m sorry. Be good to your mother, she loves you too.

  Love,

  Dad.

  Rachel returned the card to the stack and rewrapped them with the rubber band. “I deserved to know.”

  “I know.”

  “All those years.”

  “I know.”

  “I deserved to know, Daniel. I deserved to know he wasn’t becoming a better man somewhere.”

  “Rachel—”

  “I should have known who he really was from the beginning and at the end. I should have known he wasn’t going to change and show up someday at my school play or graduation or wedding. Do you know what it’s like to believe someone can change? To believe someone is finding redemption, even if you can’t see it? And then to find out he never did? He never did.”

  Their server returned and, seeing the food untouched, asked if everything was all right. Daniel assured him it was and with a subtle tilt of the head sent him away.

  They sat in silence and Daniel continued apologizing with his eyes. Rachel picked grapes from the fruit bowl. The server slipped the check on the table without either noticing.

  Daniel’s phone rang and he asked, “It’s her, do you mind?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Hi,” he said with the phone to one ear and a finger in the other. “Sure. . . . Do you want me to get you? You sure? All right then. We’ll look for you in the lobby.”

  He put the phone in his coat pocket and dropped two twenties in the check folder. “Rachel, I understand if this changes things, changes our . . . relationship. I can’t say enough how sorry I am to have hurt you. And I don’t know what to say about your mother. I can’t begin to process what you’ve been through, what she’s been through. But know this. I will continue to support you however I can. I’m not the best stepfather—you don’t need me to tell you that; I know—but I try. I do try.”

  Rachel put the postcards back in her purse and held it with both arms across her chest. “I don’t know what this changes either. I don’t.”

  “Can you promise to take time? Time to figure things out?”

  “I can.”

  “And would you still like to meet my friend? She’s coming to the lobby.” He stood and pulled Rachel’s chair away from the table.

  “Why not?” Rachel said, and she followed Daniel out of the restaurant and toward the historic Mayflower’s grand lobby.

  A moment later one of the elevators opened and a short, middle-aged-but-fighting-it woman appeared. She stood no more than five feet tall with short, red hair, fair skin, and Jackie Onassis sunglasses. The blind woman swiped at the ground with a cane as she stepped into the lobby.

  “Over here, Isabella,” Daniel said. Then he met her with a kiss.

  Chapter 32

  It wasn’t a hard sell. Once again Stephanie found herself driving Arianna, her slot-thirsty neighbor, to an Indian reservation in the Arizona desert. The friendly, chatterbox friend provided noise in Stephanie’s quiet head.

  By midnight Arianna had won almost five hundred dollars in quarter slots and, because the hotel was quiet and the hour late, a manager offered to comp her a deluxe room with two king-sized beds. Arianna called and interrupted her husband’s evening of watching Leno and eating pretzels to ask permission to stay. He agreed it was wiser than driving home in the middle of the night. Arianna withheld the surprise that she would come home in the black.

  They lay in the dark, Arianna comfortably tucked into her bed and Stephanie on top of hers, staring at the stucco ceiling.

  “Are you awake?” Arianna asked two minutes after Stephanie had turned off the light.

  “Yes.”

  “I won five hundred dollars tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “Five hundred dollars. I’ve never won that much.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Stephanie said.

  “I can’t wait to tell Lew. He’ll be so excited. Won’t he be excited?”

  “He will.”

  “Maybe he’ll let me get a new chair. I would just love a new chair. One that vibrates would be nice. Have you seen the ones that vibrate?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They have a controller attached and it has different speeds. Have you seen them?”

  “I have.”

  “They have them at the mall. I don’t know the store, but they’re right there by the food court. They’re right up front. Anyone can try them. Lew thinks they’re too much money. But maybe now he’ll say it’s OK. Do you think so?”

  “He might.”

  “He might. I hope he does. You know, I’ve won up to a hundred dollars before. But I always lose it again. I’ve never, ever been up five hundred dollars. Lew doesn’t usually let me play the quarter slots when we come. Only nickels and pennies. It’s hard to get up that much on the nickels, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Five hundred dollars. Lew will be so excited.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Arianna continued chatting until the blackness swallowed her rhythm and the words were replaced with snores. Stephanie looked in her direction and tried to remember the last time she’d heard the sound of sleep.

  When she turned back to the ceiling, she saw her husband’s face lording over her. His breath smelled like corn chips and anger. His eyes were wide and dark and the blue-gray bags below them were so thick they overpowered his face. His face. His long, narrow horse-face. He hadn’t shaved in a week and when he forced his mouth on her neck, it left her skin red and itchy.

  Stephanie closed her eyes and pushed the anxious air from her lungs. But the new air wasn’t any calmer and she felt familiar panic. She breathed out again and squinted. Her husband’s eyes were glassy, like marbles the color of dirty ocean water. They rushed at her and she flinched.

  Sleep, her thoughts begged.

  The eyes rushed again and she rolled over on her side away from Arianna. “Sleep.” She said the word aloud. But the eyes were on her now, so close she couldn’t tell which set was hers and which were his. She felt the cold crack of a wrench against her collarbone and the snoring from across the room became curses and taunts.

  Stephanie was on her back again. She put her hands behind her pillow and wrapped the sides up over her ears. She clenched her jaw until her teeth hurt. A chair fell. He fell. The threats began. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. She saw his tool belt scatter. Was she in my tool belt? A level, tape measure, sockets. Was she in my tool belt? A pencil, plastic goggles, a list on a folded up fast-food napkin. Was Rachel in my tool belt, Stephanie? The screwdriver came at her and she yanked her hands from underneath the pillow. One of them held a flashlight. Crack, crack. She flinched and swung it again. Crack. Blood came from his ear. Tears came from her eyes.

  She ran away and knocked on her neighbor’s door across the hall. Mr. Richardson’s eyes were warm. He put a hand on her shoulder and followed her back to her kitchen. Ten minutes, he said. Don’t cry. Get what you can in ten minutes and go.

  She ran. She packed two bags, left the building, ran to pick up Rachel from school, ran away from Kansas City. She stayed off the interstate and checked into a motel not far away in Independence, Missouri. She paid cash.

  She called Mr. Richardson that night from a pay phone in the parking lot after Rachel had fallen asleep.

  Just go, he said. Go start over. Take care of your little one.

  Back in the mot
el room, Stephanie cuddled up next to her daughter. Dad’s left us, she whispered. But we’re all right. We’re all right.

  Arianna woke Stephanie up at 9:00 a.m. and they ate at the elaborate breakfast buffet together before checking out.

  “Did you enjoy your stay?” the clerk asked.

  “Very much,” Arianna gushed.

  “You have some luck?” the young man gave a condescending wink.

  “Did we ever! I’m going home five hundred dollars richer.”

  “Lucky young lady,” he flashed a bleached-white smile.

  They walked away from the registration desk and noted how the lights and sounds of the casino were already tempting gamblers to the tables and slots. “I’m going to use the ladies’ room before we go.” Stephanie excused herself to a lobby restroom.

  “I’ll wait.”

  When Stephanie returned, Arianna was loading twenty dollars into a nearby slot machine. “We might not be back, right?”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Stephanie said.

  “You’re sure? You drove, I don’t want to keep you.” Arianna was already watching the wheels spin.

  “I’ve nowhere to be.”

  “What if I could win enough for two chairs? Imagine!”

  “Why not?”

  When the first bill was spent, Arianna turned and asked, “How about we try the dollar progressives this time?”

  “Sure.”

  “Look at how much it’s up to!” She pointed to another bank of blinking machines.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Maybe we could win that car.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Stephanie sat in a chair next to Arianna while she hit max bet and lost her money three dollars at a time.

  “I’ll get it back,” she said. For an hour she won ten dollars for every twenty she lost. When she’d finished, she’d spun away every dollar she’d won the night before.

  They walked quietly out to the parking lot and buckled themselves into Stephanie’s car. No one spoke until they were clear of the reservation and well on their way out of the desert.

  “Please don’t tell Lew.”

  “Of course not, Arianna.”

  “Please?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 33

  25 Days to the Celebration

  It wasn’t an accident. Malcolm told Mr. and Mrs. Van Dam, the soon-to-be-owners of Domus Jefferson, that the first weekend of September was a good time for them to stay the weekend as guests. He knew the Inn was booked and was anxious to have them experience the buzz of a busy night and morning.

  Mrs. Van Dam spent the early evening under Rain’s feet as she made preparations for the next morning’s breakfast. She admitted to not being a very good cook and let slip that they were considering going with a more packaged breakfast. Rain didn’t know what that meant, but it scared her all the same.

  Mr. Van Dam shadowed Malcolm as he checked in guests and shared the history lesson behind the Inn, the furniture, and the art to those who wanted it. The new owner took notes and captured as much as he could before deciding much of it might not be useful for them.

  After the guests were checked in, Malcolm suggested the two couples head out for a late dinner at Joe’s Steakhouse in Woodstock. Malcolm texted his friend Joe from the car to alert him they were coming. He also asked for a quiet table upstairs and mentioned that he hoped Joe might have some time to swing by and introduce himself to the new owners of the Inn.

  Joe’s manager, a woman Malcolm had long-referred to as Bubbly Ashley, met them at the door and led them upstairs to a table on the balcony overlooking Main Street. “Joe says he won’t seat anyone else out here. It’s all yours.” Malcolm and Rain’s drinks were already on the table.

  “You’re regulars?” Mr. Van Dam said.

  “You could say that,” Malcolm answered. “But we try to support all the locals. Frankly there aren’t many options for dinner in town. The Café stays open late on Thursdays for a very nice dinner, which you should certainly try, and there’s the deli and some pizza places in town. Seafood by the freeway, some Chinese, but not much else besides fast-food row. Oh, Edinburg has a tasty Italian place—Sal’s. And there’s a Mexican place in Mount Jackson you’ll want to try.”

  Rain broke in. “We’ve always felt as though we should support the local establishments and make sure we feel good about recommending them to our guests. Every weekend couples will ask about nearby restaurants and we do our best to spread the recommendations around.”

  “Spread the love,” Malcolm said. “Spread the love.”

  “Um, I see.” Mr. Van Dam resumed taking notes on his legal pad.

  They discussed the evolving menu, and every now and then another of Joe’s friendly servers came by to introduce themselves to the future of Domus Jefferson.

  “Everyone seems to know you,” Mrs. Van Dam said. “Is that normal?”

  “Is that normal or am I normal?” Malcolm asked.

  “Oh, stop.” Rain saved the confused woman across the table. “Yes, it’s small town America. It’s an exaggeration to say everyone knows everyone, but you hear that saying a lot in a town like this. And to a certain extent, I suppose it’s true. Particularly with the Inn. Many of these people, even though they’re lifelong residents, have stayed with us. They have ladies’ weekends, church retreats, that sort of thing. And remember, Domus Jefferson has been a part of the community for a long time. Even before Malcolm’s parents bought it in ’68.”

  “How often does that happen?” Mrs. Van Dam said.

  “What?”

  “How often do the local people stay?”

  “Malcolm?” Rain tossed it to him.

  “In actual numbers? I couldn’t say. We book group events like that—multiple room stays—once a month. Maybe every two months, depending on the season.”

  Mr. Van Dam scribbled more notes.

  His wife spoke up again. “Do you ever feel like you’ve lost, I don’t know, your privacy?”

  Rain smiled. “There isn’t much privacy in our world, I’m afraid. It’s part of the lifestyle. We live at the Inn, as you know; we’ve raised our son there. It’s home and every few days or every weekend people come to that home. We like that aspect, don’t we, honey?”

  “We’ve learned to like it,” Malcolm corrected. “It takes time, no doubt about it.”

  More notes for Mr. Van Dam. Then a question, “We’ve talked a lot about your marketing, but what have you done to attract more of these group events? Receptions? Corporate retreats? High-dollar guests?”

  “Well, not much. They come when they come. A lot of our success has been word of mouth, and that’s easy with forty years of history here. We’ve had couples conceive their children in our Inn and then welcomed those children back with their own spouses.”

  Rain covered her eyes and Mrs. Van Dam blushed. Her husband did not write down that note.

  Bubbly Ashley brought their dinners and paused to refill their drinks for the third time. Malcolm had a New York strip, Rain had barbeque ribs, and the Van Dams had chicken Caesar salads. As they ate, the Coopers continued downloading years of expertise and experiences. They highlighted the highs and were honest about the lows. Mr. Van Dam filled two pages with notes, and his wife tried to count how many people Malcolm waved at and called to on Main Street.

  Joe stopped by and introduced himself with several quick jokes. “So, are you two actors?” he said to the Van Dams.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you act? We have this mystery dinner evening we do a couple times every year. Last few shows have been decent, but some of the cast members are just lousy, right guys?” He punched Malcolm playfully in the arm. “I’ve been trying to get the Coopers here to try a show for years. Malcolm’s sister, Samantha, our honorable sheriff, is a regular star in our shows, and a big-time scene stealer, too, but Malcolm and Rain haven’t signed on yet.”

  “And we’re not going to anytime soon, Joe. Don’t
you want people to keep their food down?”

  Joe made another joke, and Mrs. Van Dam began fiddling with an earring. “Actually,” she said, “truth be told, I did try some theater in college, but that was a long time ago.”

  Mr. Van Dam turned abruptly to Joe. “We won’t be acting in a murder mystery show, I’m afraid, but we’ll gladly tell our guests about them, if you’ll drop off some literature.”

  “Consider it done,” Joe said and insisted the meal was on the house.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Mr. Van Dam said.

  “I know I don’t,” Joe said, slapping his back. “I wouldn’t offer if I thought I had to.”

  They thanked him and began to leave the restaurant, a process slowed by half a dozen introductions to other diners the Coopers knew. Mr. Van Dam tried to capture as many names as he could, but Malcolm spoke so quickly and moved from handshakes to the latest gossip in such rapid fire it was difficult to keep up.

  Rain suggested dessert at Katie’s Custard on the way home, and the couples sat at a plastic picnic table at the edge of Route 11 enjoying a custard that melted faster than they could eat it. There were more questions and more answers longer than they needed to be. Then came more concerns about profit and loss and even more assurances the Inn was on solid ground.

  “You should be mayor,” Mrs. Van Dam said to Malcolm when a passing car honked at them for the second time and a hand appeared out the window.

  “Nah, not for me. I prefer to stay under the radar.”

  “Yeah, right.” Rain tapped the end of his nose with her drippy chocolate and vanilla twist. Another car passed and honked.

  Mr. Van Dam wiped custard from his chin and looked at his wife. “Do you think something like this would ever work in the city?”

  “Ice cream?” she said.

  “No, a stand like this—an old-fashioned, walk-up style. Not a strip mall shop.” The discussion evolved into Mr. Van Dam’s vision for Woodstock. “It’s fine here, very welcoming. But how do you take a community like this and infuse it with city conveniences, better restaurants, more variety, without losing the small town . . . what is it . . .”