The Christmas Wedding

by James Patterson

  Claire snapped open the old pocket watch that hung from a gold chain around her neck. Inside was an antique watch face on the right, and on the left a tiny photo of Gaby, age sixteen. Very pretty. With attitude.

  “Now you have me with you all the time,” Gaby had said when she gave her the watch. “Even when you don’t want me there.”

  Time for class. Her students—Curtis, Andy, Reggie, Timbo (real name Timothy)—would be waiting for her. If she wasn’t on time they’d shout “Class canceled!” and take off.

  She clicked the watch closed. She upped the volume on the iPod, and Claire and Daft Punk dance-shuffled down to her tutoring classroom.

  I’m not a loser. I’ve just been acting like one.

  Chapter 25

  CLAIRE’S REMEDIAL English class was officially called the Supplementary Academic Advancement Program. Today one of her students, Curtis, decided to set her straight about that.

  “You know what they call this class? The Academic Dumb-Ass Program.”

  “That’s harsh. Who calls it that?” Claire asked.

  “Everybody does,” said Timbo. “Even we do sometimes.”

  “And how much do you care about that?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t give a shit,” said Andy.

  “Same here, Mrs. D.,” said Reggie.

  “So, that’s that. Case closed.” She knew that another teacher might get angry at the phrase “give a shit,” but not her, and especially not today.

  “Listen. We have work to do, and we have an hour to do it,” she said. “Mr. McCormack is giving a quiz tomorrow. The Old Man and the Sea.”

  “Thanks for the Christmas present, Mr. Mack,” complained Curtis.

  “That’s how it is,” said Claire. “Anyway, let’s start with the obvious. Has everyone read the book?”

  “I tried, man, but it was fish, fish, fish, water, water everywhere. The marlin was boring. The old guy was worse than boring. The kid was an asshole. I bailed,” said Reggie.

  “What page did you give up on?”

  A pause. All eyes turned toward Reggie.

  “Ten?” he said. The others cracked up. Even Claire did. At least these kids were honest.

  “Well, I think tonight, instead of watching Jersey Shore, you have some reading to do. Everyone take out a piece of paper.”

  A small moan, but the paper came out. She couldn’t help smiling. The boys were tough and could be disrespectful, but she liked being with them most days.

  “First question. What country does Santiago come from?” Claire asked.

  “Ms. Donoghue…”

  “No more talking, Timothy. We’ve got work to do,” Claire said.

  Timbo ignored her order and spoke again.

  “There’s a man at that little window on the door. He looks like he wants to talk to you real bad. Is that your husband?”

  Chapter 26

  “I KNOW THAT I’M early for our four-thirty,” Hank said when Claire met him outside the classroom. “Where should I wait? Outside Paul’s office?”

  She spat out her next words:

  “Our meeting with Paul was at two-thirty!”

  “You told me four-thirty, Claire. You said so this morning.”

  “It’s been on the calendar all week. I know I said a dozen times that it was before my tutoring class. I always said it was two-thirty. And I know that’s what I said this morning.”

  Claire knew how conniving Hank could be. She knew this was a trick. And she called him on it.

  “You knew it was two-thirty. But you forgot. So you thought if you showed up here and pretended that…Oh, Jesus…I can’t believe you.”

  “That’s not what happened,” he said. “I swear to God, Claire.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she finally said. “You’re lying to my face.”

  “Then fuck you. How’s that?” Hank said. At that precise moment Mrs. Rupp, a history teacher, passed by. Mrs. Rupp nodded and walked a little faster.

  “Well, that was just terrific. You’ve made another fan. And look at you. Filthy jeans and a sweaty, smelly shirt. I’d be surprised if you weren’t stoned. Are you stoned?”

  “You know I’ve been helping out selling Christmas trees and wreaths down at the nursery. It’s a job, Claire.”

  “And you couldn’t change your shirt for a school meeting? No, I still say I don’t believe you.”

  “Yeah? And I still say fuck you.”

  Claire returned to the classroom and closed the door behind her. Within seconds Hank was banging on the door. The students looked vaguely frightened so Claire opened it quickly.

  “Are you crazy?” she whispered. “With you acting like a madman they may not wait until after Christmas to throw Gus out.”

  “They’re going to throw him out?”

  “That’s what Paul told me. Too bad you weren’t there to hear it.”

  “Did Paul say what we should do?”

  She backed away from Hank. She stood in the doorway, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. Actually he did. Paul said we should try to find Gus a father.”

  GABY’S FOURTH VIDEO—JACOB’S MOTTO

  Hey. Everyone okay out there? I have a story to tell you—about one of your favorite people. Jacob.

  Last week he and I were having dinner together, and he reminded me that I’d never heard him give a sermon. I said that he’d never invited me to his temple. And the next thing you know it was Saturday morning, and there I was in the fifth row.

  I saw a Jacob I’d never seen before. What an incredible person he is—even better than I had thought.

  The cantor stopped singing. The congregation sat down. Jacob walked to the front of the altar and faced us.

  He wore a long black robe, almost like an old-fashioned college professor’s gown, a yarmulke, and a tallis. Maybe I’m being sacrilegious, but I’ve got to say Jacob looked great—with his jet-black hair, his scruffy two-day beard and—okay, let me get to the sermon.

  Jacob grabbed everybody with his opening line and powerfully understated delivery:

  “In case you didn’t know this already, let me be the first to tell you:

  “Nobody in this temple is going to live forever, nobody on this earth is going to live forever.”

  A few in the congregation laughed. But more of us looked a little surprised.

  He went on to talk about how each of us has a life that has to be lived. How it makes no difference if you’re CEO of a huge company or the guy who slices cold cuts at the deli. Jacob said he was amazed at how parents became obsessed about colleges, but it doesn’t make much difference to God if your daughter goes to Harvard or the Springfield School of Beauty.

  For me the surprise was that Jacob was so passionate. His voice got deeper and the rhythms got faster. I could feel my hands sweating. It was a good thing.

  He came to the end and started talking about seizing the life we were given. Jacob didn’t say “Seize the day,” he said “Seize what’s been handed you.” Make smart decisions. Make decisions because—he said it again—life is a temporary situation.

  He ended with a prayer usually said on Yom Kippur. I had never heard it before. It was beautiful, and he gave me a copy afterward.

  Jacob looked exhausted after the service. His face was shiny with sweat. He said he needed to unwind and asked if I would join him.

  He took me out to his garage. The door opened, and there was the coolest old Mustang. Navy blue, a ’65 convertible, and the top was already down.

  Next thing, Jacob and I were speeding along Under Mountain Road. He was going seventy, seventy-five miles an hour. And he was very intense, very focused. He looked like a French movie star, like Jean-Paul Belmondo or Romain Duris. He drove faster. I looked at the speedometer, and it was reading ninety. I realized Jacob was driving the same way he gave his sermon. He started small and casual, then he built up speed, and eventually he was flying…ninety…ninety-five…a hundred.

  Between the passionate sermon, and the beautiful c
ar, and the high-speed drive on a country road, I saw that a man I liked immensely had turned into a man I…I…well, I think I’ve told everyone enough to get their imaginations churning.

  Before I stop this tape, let me just read a few lines from the prayer Jacob gave me.

  On Yom Kippur it is sealed.

  How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,

  Who shall live and who shall die,

  Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not.

  Listen, I’ve got to go. All of you remember what Jacob said: We’re not going to live forever. So, kids, please do yourselves a favor: Seize life!

  I’m going to. And so, I suspect, is Jacob.

  GABY’S FIFTH VIDEO—MARTY’S VISIT

  So we’re getting ready to serve breakfast to the homeless—Lord, are we nice people or what?—and your uncle Marty looks up from the peaches he’s chopping for the granola, and he says, “What is bothering you so badly, Gaby?”

  And I say, “How’d you know something was up?”

  He says, “I know you, Gaby. Maybe better than anyone. I can see pain in your eyes. It’s obvious to me.”

  So I told him that my junior class was bugging the shit out of me. I told Marty they were all so good at figuring out how to get great grades on their book reports that they essentially ignored the books. You know, how you can read To Kill a Mockingbird or The Things They Carried and completely understand the book but not in any way feel the book?

  And to my amazement, Marty says, “How about I come by and talk to the kids?” I was thrilled.

  So, at ten o’clock that same morning, when they all file in—pulling their earphones out of their ears, hiding their Cokes—they see me standing in the back of the room and Marty sitting on my desk facing the class.

  I tell them to settle down. I tell them Marty is a good friend and that he’s going to teach the class. And, of course, Tara Walsh raises her hand and asks, “Is there going to be a quiz on your friend’s talk?”

  Marty says, “Yeah. So you’d better pay attention. The quiz counts for ninety percent of your final grade.”

  “Ninety-eight percent,” I quip from the back.

  Then he dives right in. No small talk. No “Good morning, everyone.” Just this man standing there in faded jeans and a denim shirt that cost more than an iPod, talking in a tough, confident voice.

  He points at a boy slouched over in back and says, “What’s your favorite book, dude?”

  No answer at first. Marty just stares, and finally the boy says, “I guess it’s sort of for littler kids, but, to be honest, the only book I ever really liked was Diary of a Wimpy Kid.”

  Marty says, “Of course you liked it. It’s a terrific book, funny as hell. I guess my favorite part is when Fregley slips a letter under Greg’s door. I actually remember the letter: ‘Dear Gregory, I’m very sorry I chased you with a booger on my finger. Here, I put it on this paper so you can get me back.’”

  A lot of the class laughs. Then Marty points to another kid, who looks like he’s texting.

  “What’s your favorite book?” The kid doesn’t even know he’s being spoken to. He just keeps on texting.

  Another kid, Mia Wendel, calls out, “The last book Joey read was Goodnight Moon.”

  Marty says, “Another very good book, one of my favorites.”

  Then Marty says something like “Listen. Twenty-five years from now, believe it or not, you all will be forty years old. And you know when twenty-five years is? It’s tomorrow. That’s how fast it happens. And I’ll tell you something: If you’re not reading—with your heart as well as your brain—you will be one stupid grown-up. Even worse, you’ll be missing out on one of the best experiences you can possibly have. Nowhere will you meet more interesting people than in books. I’ve met a lot of people, I’ve read a lot of books, and that’s the absolute truth.”

  And I realize that I’m sitting there enthralled, listening as intently as the kids are.

  “It doesn’t make a bit of difference how you read—a Kindle, an iPad, a book-book. Read a graphic novel if you like them. Read a biography of somebody awful—Hitler or Lee Harvey Oswald. I can see that not all of you know who Lee Harvey Oswald is. He shot John Kennedy.”

  Then Marty says, “Okay. Next question: What’s the absolutely worst book you ever read?”

  Suddenly there’s a heated debate. Which was worse, Moby-Dick or Pride and Prejudice? This one’s closer than Gore versus Bush. So Marty says, “Let’s settle it this way. Do most of you agree they both sucked?”

  All but the brownnosers agree. And Marty says, “When you’re home tonight, look at them again. Open them up anywhere. Start to read. You already know the stories.

  “And let’s say you get to an exceptionally boring part of Moby-Dick, like the part where Melville writes twenty pages on how they drain the whale oil. Read it slowly. Even if it’s painful. Then close the book and think about what you just read. Think about how the whalers did it. How they worked, how the blood sprayed them until their eyes hurt. How they slid and slithered off the whale.

  “You see, one of the best things about reading is that you’ll always have something to think about when you’re not reading.

  “Okay, try the same thing with the Jane Austen. But do me a favor: think of Pride and Prejudice as something meant to be funny. Pride and Prejudice is friggin’ funny.”

  Someone yells out, “Yeah, man. Pride and Prejudice is just like Family Guy. Hope I don’t get the two of ’em confused.”

  Marty says, “Hey, listen. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’ll still think it’s boring. You don’t have to like everything. I’m that way. I’d rather have root canal than read A Tale of Two Cities, but give me another one of Dickens’s books, like Oliver Twist, and I’ll stay up all night.”

  Now I’m thinking that I should have Marty go to every class in the school—from chemistry to shop to computer science—and give this talk. And I’m also thinking that I learned things about books and reading that I’d never thought of, and I’m also thinking that…that…my brother-in-law is just about the smartest person I know.

  When the bell rings there’s a really big, really honest round of applause. Kids come up and pump Marty’s hand and pat him on the back. Tara Walsh asks again if there’s going to be a quiz. I think Tara is kidding.

  I was on break after that class. So I brought Marty to the cafeteria and got him some awful coffee. Then we went outside and took a walk around the basketball court. I thanked him for coming. He told me it was nothing, a total pleasure. We circled the basketball court two more times. Marty put his arm around my shoulder.

  I said to him that we probably looked like two middle-aged lovers.

  He looked at me and said, “Maybe we are and we just don’t know it yet.”

  Talk to you later, guys. See you on Christmas—soon.

  When all will be revealed.

  Chapter 27

  GABY, STACEY LEE, TOM, MARTY, AND JACOB

  JACOB HELD A SMALL, crisp piece of whole-grain ciabatta bread an inch from his mouth. On the ciabatta was a slice of foie gras. On top of the foie gras was a paper-thin layer of chocolate, and on top of the chocolate was the tiniest glob of jellied wine—a Sauternes.

  “You look like a little kid about to take his cod-liver oil,” said Tom, who was wearing one of his old Flyers sweatshirts and still looked like a first-string athlete.

  Jacob put the food in his mouth and cringed. Suddenly his fearful expression changed to one of almost dreamy ecstasy. He closed his eyes and chewed slowly. Finally he spoke.

  “Now I know what the angels eat for dinner.”

  “Wrong religion, Jacob,” said Marty. “But probably true.”

  This was the food tasting and food testing for the wedding reception. Tough duty. They would be selecting from among several wines: red, white, sparkling. Stacey Lee had prepared twelve hors d’oeuvres, from which they were to choose four. She and Gaby had prepared eight entrees. Three of them wer
e poultry—guinea hen with olives and capers; chicken breast with goat cheese; coq au vin with Riesling (“An old Lutèce thing that no one ever gets tired of,” Stacey Lee said). Another three were seafood—chunks of lobster between layers of puff pastry; wild sea bass with braised fennel; Cajun shrimp and crawfish with “careless dabs of red and black caviar.” Finally, there were two vegetarian dishes—a plate of miniature pattypan squash, miniature yellow squash, miniature lima beans, and miniature scallions (“I thought scallions were miniature onions to begin with,” said Marty) and homemade spinach fettuccine with a porcini sauce.

  “These are the best twenty meals I ever ate at one sitting,” said Tom. “Just like the old training table in Philly.”

  The men couldn’t get enough food. At one point Marty and Tom actually raised their voices over who got the last mouthful of sea bass. (They split it.)

  “If the wedding’s half as good as the food tasting, then you’ve got a hit on your hands,” Marty said. “You and whoever. Whatever, whichever.”

  The only problem was that they couldn’t come to an agreement about what should be eliminated from the final menu.

  At that point—just when they were about to compare all-chocolate desserts with a grouping of fruit tarts with rosemary sorbet—Tom said, “I offer my services, free of charge, to be your store’s official taster.”

  “I don’t think my accountant would allow it,” Stacey Lee said. The friends were definitely feeling rosy and happy.

  Only Gaby was quiet. Whenever Stacey Lee asked her what dishes she preferred, she smiled and said, “Oh, you guys decide. I’m too nervous. It’s all good.”

  As they all walked to their cars, Gaby took Marty aside. “Stay a minute? I have to ask you something.”

  Chapter 28

  MARTY AND GABY walked back along the icy driveway to the house. Marty tried to take her arm, but she pulled away.