The next time they had run into Featherleigh Dale had been when Tag and Greer took Thomas and Abby to Little Dix Bay in Virgin Gorda over the Christmas holidays. Featherleigh had appeared on an enormous yacht belonging to some Saudi Arabian sheikh who was quite definitely gay.
Somehow, Featherleigh had insinuated herself into Greer’s life as well. When she left Sotheby’s, she started her own business as a personal shopper who matched antiques with private homes in London. Featherleigh was too smart to come to Greer first. Instead, she started finding pieces for Greer’s London neighbor Antonia. When Antonia mentioned that she had gotten a hard-to-find Kano School Japanese screen from Featherleigh Dale, Greer had said, Oh! I know Featherleigh. And the next thing Greer knew, Featherleigh was calling her about this Morris chair and that Biedermeier walnut commode.
Now Featherleigh is as much a part of Greer’s life as she may or may not be of Tag’s. There was no question about whether or not to invite her to the wedding. They had to.
And there was no surprise in Featherleigh’s response. Despite Greer’s fierce wish that Featherleigh would decline, she had responded yes. For one. She would be attending alone.
Will she be wearing the silver-lace ring with the sapphires? Greer wonders. The ring is meant to be worn on the thumb. When Jessica Hicks, the jewelry designer, told Greer this, Greer had thought she’d misunderstood. Who wears a ring on her thumb? Only gypsies, so far as Greer knows. It sounds like a trend—but of course, no one adores a trend more than Featherleigh. She had moved to Sloane Square only because it was where a young Diana Spencer once lived. And what about Featherleigh’s penchant for cold-shoulder dresses, which Donna Karan helped make popular in 1993? Greer can too easily picture Featherleigh waltzing right into Greer’s home with the ring on her thumb. Greer hopes she can keep her composure while she admires the ring and asks Featherleigh where she got it.
She will then watch Featherleigh Dale squirm.
An hour into the rehearsal dinner (a bit of a misnomer, as the rehearsal was canceled due to Reverend Derby’s travel delay), Greer is enjoying herself immensely. She is floating between the front lawn and the beach in her bare feet with a glass of champagne in her hand that one of the adorable girls who work for the caterer is in charge of keeping filled.
Greer asks the girl her name.
“Chloe,” she says. “Chloe MacAvoy.”
“Don’t be a stranger, Chloe!” Greer says. A steady stream of champagne is the key to Greer staying relaxed.
It’s a glorious night. There’s a light breeze off the water, and the sky looks like a blue ombré silk scarf as the sun descends, setting the Nantucket skyline aglow. The band is playing songs by James Taylor, Jimmy Buffett, the Beach Boys. Greer tries to manage her time among all of the guests arriving and the major players—Benji, Celeste, the wedding party, and Mr. and Mrs. Otis. Mrs. Otis—Karen—looks lovely in an embroidered kimono. She leans on her cane for a few minutes talking with Tag’s interminably boring colleague from work and then, just as Greer feels she must swoop in and save the poor woman—with so little time left, Karen has none to waste on Peter Walls—Bruce leads Karen over to a chair at the edge of the action. She will sit and receive visitors like a queen. As she should.
Benji is talking with Shooter and the four Alexanders from Hobart—Alex K., Alex B., Alex W., and Zander. Greer is fond of Benji’s Hobart friends—all of them have spent long weekends here at Summerland—but no one has captured Greer’s heart quite as much as Shooter. Shooter Uxley is the son of a Palm Beach real estate scion and his mistress. Shooter’s mother got pregnant with the sole intention of eliciting a marriage proposal, but it never came. The father had five other children by two wives and he was senile enough to let one of his older sons oversee his will, which cut Shooter and his mother out entirely. Shooter had somehow managed to produce the tuition for his last year at St. George’s, but after graduation he had been forced to find a job. That he has turned himself into such a success is a testament to his intelligence, his charm, and his perseverance.
Greer sips her champagne and wanders to the raw bar, where Tag is sucking down oyster after oyster, dripping shellfish liquor onto his bespoke pink shirt, tailored for him at Henry Poole. Despite how much Tag loves New York, he trusts only Savile Row tailors, and yet he seems to think nothing of defiling said shirts in the name of a good bivalve. He would stay here all night if Greer let him.
“You should take a plate of those over to the Otises,” Greer says. “Karen is sitting and Bruce is stationed at her side like the Swiss Guard.”
“Do they eat oysters, do you think?” Tag asks.
Good question. Celeste confided that Mrs. Otis is excited about having lobster—there had been some confusion with the term clambake—because she, Karen Otis, hasn’t eaten lobster since her honeymoon more than thirty years earlier. Greer tried to hide her shock. At the end of every summer on this island, it was all Greer could do not to feel weary of lobster, after having lobster rolls at Cru, the lobster spaghetti from the Boarding House, lobster fritters and tartlets and beignets and avocado-toast-with-lobster at every cocktail party she attends. But, of course, Karen Otis lives a vastly different life. Greer informed Siobhan Crispin, the caterer, that the mother of the bride was to be offered as much lobster as she wanted and that all uneaten lobsters should be cracked and the meat stashed in a bag in the fridge of the main house in case Mrs. Otis craved a midnight snack.
“Just offer, please,” Greer says to Tag. “Take some of the shrimp with cocktail sauce and lemons—they’ll like that.”
“Good idea,” Tag says. He leans over to kiss her. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“And hot,” she reminds him.
“Hottest woman here,” Tag says. “Not that I’ve noticed another soul.”
“Have you seen Featherleigh?” Greer asks. This will not seem like a loaded question, because in all this time, Greer has never confronted Tag with her suspicions.
“I caught a glimpse,” Tag says. “She looks god-awful.”
“Does she?” Greer says, although she knows the answer is yes. Greer sought Featherleigh out immediately after dealing with the last-minute party logistics, and although it’s ungracious, Greer will say that the twenty pounds (at least) that Featherleigh has gained and Featherleigh’s bad haircut and her even worse dye job and her reddened nose are the best things about this wedding weekend so far.
Greer had checked both of Featherleigh’s hands—she was not wearing the ring. Greer had found herself almost deflated by this; she had been ready for a confrontation. Instead, Greer had no choice but to be civil.
“Featherleigh Dale, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
The corners of Featherleigh’s mouth had pulled down unattractively. “Thank you for having me,” she’d said. She had then proceeded to detail the horror of her travel. No money for a first-class ticket so she was squished in coach. The flight from New York to Nantucket was overbooked, everyone was obnoxious, there was no decent food at the airport, she’d had a Nathan’s hot dog and the thing was as shriveled as a mummy’s pecker. She finds Nantucket damp, just look at her hair, the place she booked is an inn, not a hotel, so there’s no room service, no fitness center, no spa, and the pillowcases are decorated with tulle flowers, they’re honestly the most hideous things she’s ever seen, how she’s supposed to lay her head on something like that she has no idea, but the inn was the only place available because she’d waited until the last minute. She wasn’t going to come at all because she was so low on funds, but then she hoped the trip would help snap her out of her funk.
“Funk?” Greer asked, wondering if this litany was ever going to end.
“My business went belly-up,” Featherleigh said. “And I’ve been through a devastating breakup”—Aha! Greer thinks. So it’s over with Tag?—“which is why I have this bad dye job and I look like an absolute hippo. It’s been all vodka and fish and chips and takeout vindaloo for me. I’m forty-five years old, I’m not ma
rried, I have no children, I have no job, I’m under investigation—”
“A devastating breakup?” Greer said, backing up to the only one of Featherleigh’s complaints that she cared about. “I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone special.”
“It was on the down-low,” Featherleigh said. Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s married. I knew he was married, but I thought…”
“You thought he would leave his wife for you?” Greer asked. She had gathered Featherleigh up in a hug, mostly to put an end to the tears—nothing kills a party like somebody weeping—and said, “Men never leave their wives, Featherleigh. You’re old enough to know better. Is it anyone I know?”
Featherleigh had sniffed and shaken her head against Greer’s shoulder. Greer eased away, suddenly concerned about mascara on her ivory silk jumpsuit. Would Featherleigh cry about her breakup with Tag to Greer? Was she capable of that kind of insidious deception?
“And why,” Greer asked, “are you under investigation?”
“For fraud,” Featherleigh admitted glumly.
So clearly she was capable of deception. And that would explain the absence of the ring.
“When was this breakup?” Greer had asked. “Recently?”
Featherleigh’s bottom lip trembled. “May,” she said.
May? Greer thought. She’s positive Jessica Hicks said that Tag had bought the ring in June. But Greer supposes she could have been mistaken; she should have asked Jessica to forward the receipt to her e-mail, but Greer had been so stunned, so seized with angst, that she had hurried out of the store without proper follow-up.
After writing twenty-one novels in the persona of Miss Dolly Hardaway, Greer had cultivated the mind-set of a detective. Once her head cleared of all this champagne and excitement, she would go back over the events of May with a fine-tooth comb. See what nits she could pick.
“Go get yourself a drink,” Greer had said. “It certainly sounds like you could use one.”
Greer’s seating chart is brilliant, she thinks, except that the seat of honor, the seat next to Benji, is empty. Where is Celeste? She’s sitting with her parents, naturally, playing nanny to both Karen and Bruce. Celeste cracks the claws of her mother’s lobster and pulls the snowy meat from it with the slender silver pick, just as Greer taught her. She pries the tail meat free and cuts it into bite-size pieces, then identifies the cups of melted butter. Because this is an Island Fare clambake, every traditional element has been given a sophisticated twist. There are three kinds of melted butter for the lobster: regular, lime, and chili pepper. There are two types of corn bread, one with whole sweet corn kernels and one with pork cracklings. There are also feathery-light buttermilk biscuits made even more savory by the addition of aged English cheddar. Alongside the standard grilled linguica are house-made lamb sausages, another offering to please the Brits. In the center of every table is a pinwheel of Bartlett’s Farm hothouse tomatoes drizzled with a thick, tangy blue cheese dressing and sprinkled with chopped green onions and crispy bacon.
Celeste goes through the same lobster routine with her father. Greer notices the tender attention Celeste pays to her parents. It’s remarkable. It’s envy-inspiring. Greer believes she did an impeccable job parenting her boys but she knows bloody well they would never treat her with this kind of loving, thoughtful care. The bond that Celeste has with her parents is special; anyone can see that. Maybe it’s because her mother is dying—but somehow, Greer doesn’t think that’s the sole reason. Maybe it’s because the Otises had Celeste when they were so young. Maybe it’s because Celeste is an only child.
Maybe Greer should stop wondering.
Greer splits a biscuit in half. She’ll allow herself two bites. She turns to Tag. “Do the boys love me, do you think?”
“Is that an actual question?” Tag asks.
Chloe appears at Greer’s shoulder with yet another glass of champagne. Greer should stop drinking because following the question Do the boys love me? are a host of other questions. Does Tag love her? Does anyone else love her? Does anyone appreciate just how much hard work this wedding has entailed? It took money, yes, but also a good deal of time—hundreds of hours, if Greer added it up, on lists, phone calls, logistics. She essentially cannibalized her career because the wedding came first, her novel second—and some bloke named Chuck O’Brien has now called her on it. Can she write the novel all over again, or write a new novel start to finish in a fortnight? Maybe without the wedding as a distraction, yes.
Did Tag have an affair with Featherleigh that ended in May?
No more champagne. Greer has to stop. But the flute is such a pretty shape and the liquid is an irresistible platinum color; the bubbles wink at her seductively and she knows exactly how it will taste: cool and crisp, like an apple just plucked from the branch.
Celeste takes her seat next to Benji and for a moment, Greer relaxes. Everyone is in his or her proper place. “We should probably do the toasts now,” Greer says. “Before people get antsy.”
“I thought toasts were scheduled for after dinner but before dessert,” Tag says. He checks his watch. “I have a quick call with Ernie at nine.”
“What?” Greer says. “A call with Ernie at nine o’clock tonight?”
“It’s the Libya deal,” Tag says. “It’ll be quick but I can’t reschedule; Ernie is going to Tripoli in the morning. This deal is big, darling. Big, big.” Tag kisses Greer and stands up, leaving an untouched lobster tail on his plate.
“Make it quick, quick,” Greer says, trying to maintain her playful attitude. Her eyes flick across the tent to where Featherleigh is sitting; Greer placed her in social Siberia with Tag’s work colleagues, among them the tedious Peter Walls. If Featherleigh follows Tag out, Greer will know there is no call to Ernie.
But Featherleigh stays put; she doesn’t even seem to notice Tag leaving the party. Or actually, yes, she does. Her eyes trail him. Her expression holds longing, Greer thinks, except, really, her own judgment can’t be trusted after so many glasses of champagne. But Featherleigh doesn’t move. Instead, she lavishly butters a piece of corn bread and pops it into her mouth. Greer pushes her own plate away.
Bruce Otis, adhering to Greer’s wishes if not the precise timetable, stands up and clinks his spoon against his water glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Bruce Otis, father of the bride,” he says. “I’d like to make a toast.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd; the band stops playing and everyone quiets down. Greer is grateful. She isn’t sure how much practice Mr. Otis has at speaking to a group this size but it’s always easier when people are well behaved.
“When I met my wife, Karen, I thought I was the luckiest man alive. Boy, not man, because when I met Karen, I was only seventeen years old. But I knew I loved her. I could see myself growing old with her. Which is exactly what we’ve gone and done.”
There is gentle laughter.
“And I know I speak for Karen when I say that our love for each other was so extraordinary that years went by when neither of us wanted children. We were so happy just being together. I would work all week, and every day at five o’clock the sun came out for me because I got to go home to this beautiful, extraordinary woman. On Saturdays we used to run our errands. We would go to the post office to mail packages or check our box, and the line was always extra-long on Saturdays, but you know what? I didn’t care. I could wait an hour. I could wait all day… because I was with Karen.” Bruce’s voice starts to crack and Greer can see tears shining in his eyes and she realizes that he’s using this toast as a way to pay tribute to his wife. It’s brilliant; Karen deserves this and more. She deserves a cure or a cutting-edge clinical trial that puts her into remission for ten years, or even five years—at least then she might be able to meet her future grandchildren. Celeste has confided to Greer that she sends a hundred dollars from each of her paychecks to the Breast Cancer Research Fund without Karen’s or Bruce’s knowledge. Greer was so moved by this that she sat down at her
desk that very evening and wrote the organization a $25,000 check without telling Celeste or Benji or even Tag. The charitable acts that count the most, Greer believes, are those done without anyone knowing. But she had wanted very badly to send a note with the check that said: Please use this money to cure Karen Otis.
Bruce clears his throat, regroups, and says, “And then, twenty-eight years ago, we had a baby girl. And man, nothing on this earth—and I mean nothing—prepares you for how much you love your kids. Am I right?”
There are some Hear, hears from the audience. Greer feels a vague recognition. She loved her children. Loves them. It was different when they were small, of course.
“And Karen and I somehow lucked out and got this beautiful, smart, nice little girl. She got a hundred percent on all her spelling tests. She was the one who scooped up a spider and carried it outside instead of squishing it with her shoe, and she was always digging in the backyard looking for snakes or salamanders and then putting them in a shoe box with grass and little dishes of drinking water. She was never ashamed or embarrassed of where she came from or who she came from, even though she outgrew us and the rest of Forks Township, Pennsylvania, a long time ago.” Bruce raises his glass. “And so to you, Benjamin Winbury, I say from the heart: Take care of our little girl. She is our treasure, our hope, our light, and our warmth. She is our legacy. Here’s to the two of you and your life together.”
Greer wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with a napkin. She isn’t normally sentimental, although anyone would have found that toast stirring.
Thomas stands up next and chimes on his own water glass. It’s true perhaps that nothing in this world prepares you for how much you love your children, but Greer has always been a realist where her sons are concerned. She has a firm handle on their strengths and weaknesses. Thomas is the better-looking one; Benji inherited Greer’s father’s crooked nose, and no barber has ever been able to tame Benji’s cowlick. But Benji is smarter and has been either blessed or cursed with a natural gravitas, so he has always seemed like the older brother.
The Perfect Couple Page 9
