A Wedding in December

by Anita Shreve

  "I don't ever want a lover," Nora said.

  "A man can't say that," Harrison said. "Well, he can say it, but it's pretty meaningless."

  "Presumably you don't want a lover because you're married."

  Harrison didn't hesitate. "That would be correct," he said.

  He felt a light punch to his biceps.

  "Branch," Jerry said.

  "Jerry," Harrison said, shaking his hand, aware as he was doing so that Nora was drifting away from him.

  "You still in Toronto?" Jerry asked.

  "I am," Harrison said, slightly rattled by Nora's disappearance.

  "You ever think about New York? I mean, isn't that the hot cen­ter of your business? Publishing?"

  "My wife is from Toronto," Harrison said, absolutely certain that he and Jerry had had this exact sequence of questions and an­swers in New York City five years ago.

  "I know a guy at Random House you ever want an introduction."

  "Let me guess. He owes you big-time."

  "I made him a bundle in the early nineties," Jerry said, taking a sip of what looked to be scotch. He was expensively done up in camel cashmere, the only one of them not in a jacket.

  "Didn't I see your wife just a minute ago?" Harrison asked.

  "She went upstairs to powder. She'll be back. Who'd have thought Nora could pull this off? You know who's backing her?"

  "I don't," Harrison said. "I more or less had the impression she's on her own."

  "The toilets are for shit, and, Christ, you'd think they could scrounge up a porter. But the rooms are good. No complaint there. She kept her looks, didn't she?"

  Harrison found he minded, on Nora's behalf, this mildly sexist remark. "She's lovely," Harrison said.

  "Get off. You always had a thing for her," Jerry said, draining his glass. He held the glass high over his head to signal to the bartender that he needed another.

  "She was Stephen's girl," Harrison said, hating that he even had to say Stephen's name aloud.

  "You and Steve were best friends," Jerry said.

  Harrison was pretty sure that no one had ever called Stephen Steve.

  "And you were there, right?" Jerry asked. "That night he walked into the water? Really, is that what he did, just walked into the water? I mean, who would do that? The water couldn't have been over forty degrees. They say that lobster fishermen don't even bother to learn how to swim because if you fall overboard that time of year, you've got like a minute or two to get out before your heart stops. Swimming does no good whatsoever."

  "I didn't actually see it," Harrison said.

  "Really."

  Harrison was silent.

  "I mean," Jerry said, "if you'd seen it. . ."

  "If I had seen Stephen walking toward the water," Harrison said as evenly as he could manage, "1 certainly would have stopped him."

  "Of course you would," Jerry said, eyeing him over the scotch. "You going to the outlets tomorrow?" he asked.

  "Maybe," Harrison said.

  Jerry cast an impatient glance in the waiter's direction. "Who knew Bill and Bridget had got back together? Wild, huh?"

  "Wild."

  "They say it's in the lymph nodes."

  Harrison nodded slowly. If the chemo doesn't take, two years tops, according to this guy from Lenox Hill I play squash with," Jerry said.

  Then we'll just have to believe that the chemotherapy is work­ing, won't we?" Harrison said.

  "Yeah. Well," Jerry said, cocking his head to suggest that he wouldn't bet with his own money.

  Harrison tried to remember an article he'd read a few months earlier in the Wall Street Journal. "Didn't I read," he asked Jerry, playing his one and only card, "that Bird lost big in the merger with Sanducci?"

  "The press blew it all out of proportion," Jerry said quickly.

  "A lot of layoffs, though," Harrison said.

  "Some."

  "Lucky thing you kept your job," Harrison said.

  "Hey, I got eighty guys under me."

  "Really," Harrison said, mildly satisfied with the exchange.

  "Can you believe Rob?" Jerry asked after a time.

  "What about him?"

  "The guy he brought?"

  "I haven't had a chance to talk to Rob yet," Harrison said.

  Jerry signaled over Harrison's shoulder. "Rob," he called. "Hey."

  Harrison turned as Rob walked toward them. "Harrison," Rob said, "this is Josh. Josh, this is Harrison Branch. And did I mention that Jerry Leyden here was once the best sinker-ball pitcher in Maine?"

  "All New England," Jerry said.

  Harrison remembered Rob as a gawky, good-natured teenager with bad skin, but he could see few signs of the boy in the man standing before him. The cut and fabric of Rob's coat were excep­tionally fine, and there was no trace of that long-ago acne.

  "Christ, can't anyone get a drink here?" Jerry asked, pointing with his empty glass toward the drinks table. "Talk to you later."

  "Congratulations on your success," Harrison said to Rob when Jerry had left them. "I've heard you play to huge crowds."

  Rob shrugged, a star in his own universe, a man used to praise. "Josh and I come out here in the summer with the BSO to Tanglewood," he said. "Now that we know Nora has this inn, we'll eat here from now on." He looked at Josh and put a hand on his shoul­der. "Josh is playing with the London Symphony next week."

  "Well done," Harrison said to Josh.

  "I didn't know what to say to Bill," Rob confided to Harrison. "I didn't know whether to start with congratulations on the wedding or with an expression of sympathy for Bridget and what she's going through."

  "I think one begins and ends with congratulations," Har­rison said.

  "Do you know how they met up again?"

  "Someone said it was at our twenty-fifth reunion. Did you go?" Harrison asked.

  "No. I forget why now. Probably I was touring. I think I would have gone. Yes, I'm sure I would have gone," he said, and Harrison wondered if it would have been to make a political statement: Yes, there has always been gay life at Kidd.

  "I was just thinking this afternoon that the last thing you should have been doing at Kidd was playing baseball," Harrison said. "You could have jammed a finger, ruined your career."

  "I think I was trying to assert my masculinity," Rob said, and Josh smiled. Harrison guessed a private joke.

  Well, you did that well enough," Harrison said, remembering Rob's spectacular dives in right field. Did you bring your wife?" Rob asked.

  "This was such short notice, she couldn't get away. She has a case."

  She's a lawyer?" "Yes."

  "Did you bring pictures?"

  Harrison shook his head. It had never crossed his mind to bring photographs of his family.

  Josh whipped out an envelope. "These are the pictures of our trip to Greece," he said.

  Harrison studied each snap in the packet. Rob and Josh on a white beach. Rob and Josh on a yacht too big to fit in the photo. Rob and Josh in black tie standing on a white marble balcony over­looking a lime-green sea.

  "Rob gets invited all over the world," Josh explained, "by people who love the piano."

  "Did you ever give a concert at Kidd?" Harrison asked.

  "I used to give concerts at the Congregational church in town. I didn't tell anyone at Kidd. I was very ambivalent about the piano then. But there was a music teacher at school, Mrs. Lamb?"

  "I remember her vaguely."

  "Big hair? Pink glasses? She took me under her wing and coached me all during my senior year and for two years after that. I worked the register at the supermarket in town to pay for the les­sons. She got me into Juilliard."

  "I used to work at that supermarket," Harrison said, returning the packet of photographs to Josh.

  "Nora looks great, don't you think?" Rob asked.

  "Yes, I do."

  "She's really got an eye."

  "She certainly seems to have come into her own," Harrison of­fered. He wished he had another
drink. He thought about the way Jerry had simply put his arm up into the air. Lot of good it had done him. "You like living in Boston?" he asked.

  "Love it," Rob said. "We're in the South End. Great restaurants. Of course, I'm never there. Or it seems like I'm never there."

  "Do you mind the touring?" Harrison asked, thinking of his own authors, the ones who whined about the touring and demanded the best hotels.

  "Goes with the territory, doesn't it," Rob said amiably.

  A Wedding in December

  Harrison saw that Jerrys wife, in white wool, had been ma­rooned near the drinks table. "You guys need a refill?" he asked. "I'm getting another drink."

  Rob and Josh exchanged glances. "No, we're good," Josh said.

  "Catch you later," Rob said. "You'll be there at dinner, right?"

  "Yes, definitely."

  Harrison moved to the drinks table. He held his glass out to the bartender, who could tell from the dregs what Harrison had been drinking. "The same?" the bartender asked, and Harrison nodded.

  "Hello," Harrison said to Julie, holding out his hand. "I'm Har­rison Branch. A classmate of Jerrys."

  "I'm Julie," she said, taking Harrison's hand with the tips of her fingers. Julie, Harrison noted, was drinking water, too.

  "You must be feeling lost," he said.

  "A little." Julie's long sleek hair suited her high cheekbones and wide eyes.

  "It's hard to be someplace at which you're the one outsider," Harrison said, taking the wineglass the bartender offered.

  "A bit," she said, still holding back.

  "Let me see if I can make this simple," Harrison said, turning to face the room. "All of the men here," Harrison said, "except for Rob's friend there in the black jacket, were on the baseball team to­gether at Kidd. Bill and Jerry were roommates, but you probably already know that. Agnes and Nora, who owns the inn, were room­mates. And Bridget and Bill were sweethearts. I think that's every­body. Those two kids over there come with Bridget and Bill. One °f the boys is Bridget's son."

  Thank you," Julie said. "Where are you from?"

  Toronto. I work in publishing. And this one here," Harrison said, snagging Agnes by the sleeve of her pink jacket, "is Agnes O'Connor. Have you two met?"

  "Briefly," Julie said.

  Harrison watched as Agnes and Julie sized each other up. White cashmere. Off-the-rack wool blend.

  "Where do you live in New York?" Agnes asked.

  "We have an apartment in Tribeca," Julie said coolly, and Harri­son was fairly certain that Agnes did not know Tribeca.

  Harrison wanted to ask Julie what she did, but the question, put to a woman, was always a loaded one. There was simply no good way to ask it. "Wonderful weather," he said instead.

  Agnes engaged Julie in a conversation about field hockey, an in­terest Harrison wouldn't have guessed for Julie. Perhaps she had a daughter who played. He watched as the eleven in the room met and parted and circled back, the exclamations of surprise largely diminished now. Wishing himself away, he thought of returning to his room, coming down just in time for dinner. He felt the way he did at sales conferences when he longed for fresh air. He sensed a slight dullness in the room, as if everyone in it had had enough of Part One and wanted to get on with Part Two. But Part Two couldn't begin, Harrison realized, without Bridget. He'd been aware of Bill's absences, off and on, sometimes for long periods. Harrison glanced around the room, searching for Nora. He spotted her through a set of double doors that led to a private dining room. He could see a table set with white dishes. Lit candles. White flowers.

  "Is Bridget all right?" he asked when he entered the room. Nora was inspecting the silverware.

  "She'll be here in a minute," Nora said. "Do you want another drink?" she asked, looking at his empty glass.

  "No. Thank you. I've had quite enough for now."

  "The wines at dinner will be very good."

  "You're a sort of choreographer." 1 ... 1 suppose.

  Harrison studied Nora's face. "Tell me a story," he said suddenly, surprising both of them.

  "Which one?"

  "The one about being married to Carl Laski."

  "That would be a very long story."

  "A good one?" Harrison asked.

  "Good as in entertaining?"

  "No. Good as in, you loved him, and he loved you back, and you both lived happily ever after."

  "I'm not sure I know that one," Nora said lightly.

  Nora peered over Harrison's shoulder, and he turned. In the doorway, in a gray suit, her hair exceptionally thick and light brown, stood Bridget Kennedy — shy, pained, and now, at the sight of Nora, smiling in Harrison's direction.

  Bridget, standing in the doorway to the library, saw it in their eyes. Alarm. Dismay. Pity. Curiosity. A man (Jerry Leyden?) began to sing "Here Comes the Bride." In an instant, Bill was at her side, taking her arm. The wedding, this reunion, was a terrible idea, a fi­asco. These people were all strangers. Strangers. What on earth had she been thinking?

  Nora embraced her, and Bridget was sure that her old school­mate could feel the suit of armor beneath the gray wool. The chemo gave Bridget no-warning hot flashes that advertised them­selves in a sweaty brow and flushed red cheeks, one of which she was having now.

  "You look beautiful," Nora said, not for the group but just for Bridget. She pried Bridget from Bill's arm and walked with her to the drinks table. "We'll be eating soon," Nora said, "but there's time for a drink. We have sparkling water, too."

  "I'll have the water," Bridget said, suddenly thirsty and not at all certain what a glass of wine might do to her.

  "I was a little worried about you," Nora said.

  "I got dressed, then didn't like what I was wearing, got dressed again ..."

  "Doesn't everyone? Your room is okay?"

  "It's wonderful. Thank you so much."

  Nora waved the thanks away. "Matt and Brian have healthy ap­petites," she said.

  "They haven't eaten all the hors d'oeuvres, have they? I meant to tell them not to."

  Nora smiled. "We have plenty."

  Matt, who had moved away from the table, patted his mother awkwardly on the shoulder. "Hi, Mom," he said.

  Mart's hair was combed, his face freshly scrubbed, and the sight of him in his suit sent unwanted and instant tears to her eyes. She gave her son a quick hug to disguise the moment. "You didn't eat everything," Bridget said in what she hoped was a slightly scolding voice.

  Matt shrugged.

  Bridget looked over at Brian and smiled. "I hope this won't be boring for you," she said to the boy.

  "No, I'm good," he said.

  At the drinks table, Nora ordered a sparkling water for Bridget. "I'm keeping the dinner short," Nora said. "We'll have a first course, then the entree, and then I'm going to make everybody get up and move back into the library for coffee and dessert. At that point, it'll be easy for you to disappear to your room if you feel you've had enough."

  "Thank you," Bridget said. "You've —"

  "I've put you between Bill and Matt," Nora said quickly "But I can change that if you want to sit next to someone else."

  "No," Bridget said, slightly bewildered by all the decisions that had happily been made for her. "No, that sounds fine."

  "And now I think I'm going to have to share you with the others. The florist called by the way and said no problem with the anemones."

  When Bill and Bridget had arrived at the inn, Nora had met Bridget in the lobby, and the two of them had sat over a cup of tea in the library talking about the wedding, each determined to keep it simple. Nora, Bridget had discovered, had with Bill's help seen to all the details — the music, the flowers, the photographer, the meal — and gradually Bridget had felt a weight lift from her shoul­ders. (A wedding, Bridget had thought more than once over the past several weeks, was a small playlet, one with scenery, an audi­ence, and actors playing their parts.) Nora, who seemed to have de­veloped extrasensory empathy, had noted the exact moment Bridget ha
d felt the need to lie down. "You take a rest," Nora had said. "Do you mind room service?"

  Bridget, who had seldom had an opportunity to sample room service, simply smiled.

  "I'll send up a selection of sandwiches for all of you," Nora said, rising.

  Bridget had been delighted with her room. It was clearly the bridal suite, with a sitting room and a bathroom bigger than her own living room at home. In its center, on a kind of raised plat­form, was an enormous tub with polished chrome faucets. Matt and Brian were wide-eyed and then slightly embarrassed by the amenities offered. The lavish tub. The candles by the bed. The sil­ver champagne bucket in a stand in the sitting room.

  Bridget had a quick nap under the duvet in the bed, then roused herself when the food arrived. Nora, who did not have children of her own, seemed to understand that teenage boys came with large appetites. There was a mound of sandwiches: beef and chicken for the boys and Bill, crustless cucumber for herself. The cukes were crisp and cold, and Bridget made a mental note to buy a half dozen when she got home. They were one of the few foods that had tasted good to her in weeks. After the lunch, the boys spoke of wanting to go off for a hike, and Bridget urged Bill to join them. She wanted to be alone, she argued, to rest, to think, to let her thoughts drift.

  Bridget had had a bath, letting the jets cause a froth that rose to her chin. She was wrinkled pink when she emerged, and she found herself relaxed, a state that lasted only as long as it took to start ap­plying her makeup and pulling on the severe underwear. She had two possibilities for the cocktail party. The first, a dress she had thought would fit nicely because of its loose waistline, made her think of Madeleine Albright when she put it on. Bridget tried it with the wig, thinking hair would help, but the wig, with its perfect set, made her think of Margaret Thatcher. Bridget had no choice then but to wear her gray suit, which she knew would be too tight but would have to be endured. First the one-piece, then the panty hose, then the skirt girdle. Bridget was sweating before she even drew on the skirt. From time to time, Bill knocked on the door, giving her bulletins from below. Matt and Brian had cleaned up very nicely. Jerry was having a fight with his wife. Rob had brought a date — a guy. For that, Bridget had opened the door a crack, letting the steam out. Shed insisted on all the details. After a time, Bill's knocks had become more frequent. "We're all waiting," he'd said in a slight singsong, barely controlling his concern.