by Nancy Geary
Despite the overhead fans the church was warm, and Frances could see several women fanning themselves with the finely printed programs. She glanced at Sam, who appeared to be in a meditative trance as he sat stiff backed and perfectly still. She touched his forearm lightly. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Just thinking.”
The space was quiet except for the strains of music, the click of heels, and the crinkling of taffeta as well-dressed ladies settled into their seats. She opened the program and skimmed the order of service, pausing at the reading from the Song of Solomon: “My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.” She’d never thought of marriage as a departure, but rather more of a journey. What was it that Hope was about to leave? Childhood, parental control, Frances considered the possibilities. Or, she thought as she reread the verse, did the passage mean movement toward another, come away to me?
Frances stopped herself. She didn’t care to indulge whatever kind of holy spell was causing her to contemplate doctrinal interpretation. Religion had never been important to her. In fact, just the opposite was true. She couldn’t understand blind adherence to beliefs and had never been willing to embrace as true the resurrection of Christ when her rational mind told her that it couldn’t have transpired. Maybe she was missing something, but she didn’t think so.
Her eyes drifted back to the program, the excerpts from the Book of Common Prayer: “Let their love for each other be a seal upon their hearts, a mantle upon their shoulders, and a crown upon their foreheads.” She couldn’t ask for a better companion than Sam, but she still had no particular interest in giving up her single status. Would she ever be ready? She harbored the notion that the cloak of love was supposed to make two people together—the couple—greater than the sum of the individuals. But maybe her expectations were too high, and marriage wasn’t about magic anyway.
She sighed. The heat must be getting to her. Her watch read 4:31 and still the wedding hadn’t begun. Even the organist, who’d presumably allowed for only thirty minutes of introductory music, began to repeat her repertoire.
Penelope appeared at the end of the pew, looking elegant in a bright green suit with a full skirt. She smiled awkwardly as Frances and Sam shuffled sideways to make room for her. Leaning toward Frances, she whispered, “I gave up waiting with the wedding party. Everyone’s getting restless. Adelaide’s nerves are shot.”
Frances wanted to probe, but she refrained. Although this wasn’t a formal Eucharistic service, church protocol probably precluded chatter.
She looked over at Sam again, who stared straight ahead as if he didn’t want to miss the possibility that the bride might spring from the ornate cross that hung above the altar. How much longer would he have to wait? Frances thought.
Jack Cabot adjusted his waistcoat, then wiped aimlessly at nonexistent dust on the front of his trousers. Brad Farley, his college roommate, the number two player on his polo team, and now his best man, paced back and forth along the length of the sacristy. His baggy morning suit hung off his wiry frame. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair and stared at the floor.
“You still have the ring?”
Brad stopped, opened his eyes wide, and feigned panic. “Uh… uh… I left it at the barn.” Then he smiled. “You’ve asked me that at least a dozen times since this morning, and I’ve still got it,” he said with a smile as he produced the single gold band from his right pants pocket.
“I don’t understand what’s holding us up.”
“Come on, when have you ever known Hope to be on time?” Brad laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. I love your bride. We all do. But prompt she is not.”
“Even for her wedding? I just kind of assumed Adelaide and Bill would make sure things ran smoothly.”
“Maybe they had pictures to take beforehand. Relax. She’ll show up any minute.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who’s pacing like a caged animal. Don’t tell me you don’t think this is a little strange.”
Brad stopped, went over to his friend, and rested both hands on his square shoulders. “Jack, everything’s going to be fine. For all you know, she’s doing last minute packing or she got a run in her stocking or her mascara smeared. Think of all the crap that women go through getting dressed. And believe me when I tell you they won’t be rushed. I don’t know what Amy does in the bathroom for hours,” he said, referring to his own wife. “All I can do is appreciate the result. And you will, too.”
“Just go see if the limo’s outside.”
“A limo? They practically live across the street.”
Jack shrugged. “She and her dad are taking a car because Adelaide didn’t want any dirt getting on her veil.” Brad looked skeptical. “Hey, it’s a long driveway.” Jack smiled. “Please go look. Make yourself useful for once.”
“Anything to make you happy, big guy.”
“Thanks.”
Jack leaned against the wall. He wanted to calm down, but he was much more anxious than he’d realized. She’d been late for dinner last night, too, although when she did arrive, she looked more beautiful than ever. Her red dress with buttons down the back hugged her thin frame. The high-heeled black pumps accentuated her slender calves. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail and virtually no makeup, she’d had an innocent, fresh look that he found irresistible.
But something had been wrong. She’d hardly been able to speak, and she diverted her gaze whenever he tried to catch her eye. She’d resisted holding his hand, squirmed away from him when he put his arm around her, barely kissed him after he gave his toast, and rode home with her parents, refusing his offer to drive her. She’d been so aloof that he decided to postpone telling her about his wedding present to her: a secluded, three-bedroom carriage house set back from Masconomo Street with a beautiful lawn, mature trees, and plenty of privacy. Although it needed a fresh coat of paint, masonry repairs to the front steps, and furniture to fill the nicely proportioned rooms, they could move in when they returned from their honeymoon. Their first home together. Because he wanted her to be excited, appreciative, happy, he would wait until tonight, when the wedding was over and they were alone, when he could hold her in his arms, whisper her new address in her ear, and hand her the key.
He looked at his gold pocket watch: 4:37. Where was she? He felt his heartbeat accelerate. Had something happened? No, it wasn’t possible, he reassured himself. More likely nerves had overcome her, and she was lying down until she could muster the courage to get through the service. Her life was changing irrevocably. That had to be scary. He was apprehensive, too, if he allowed himself to admit it.
Or, more likely, she was praying. He hadn’t paid attention to, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to recognize, how important religion had become to her, because the abstract notions of virtue and sin, the incredible stories of seas parting, water turning into wine, and octogenarians giving birth, and the impossibility of adhering to at least several of the Ten Commandments made Christianity too esoteric for him to take seriously. He knew his eyes glazed over as she talked about the Bible or focused on something from a sermon, and their marital preparations with Father Whitney had only highlighted their differing views. Nonetheless, he was willing to accept its importance to her and had even agreed that he would accompany her to church each Sunday. Neither she nor the minister had seemed as pleased as he’d expected when he’d made that concession.
Once again he checked his watch: 4:49. He dreaded seeing the faces of his family and friends sitting in the rows of pews on the left-hand side of the church, the groom’s section. Despite his repeated efforts to forget the conversation he’d had with his father back in June, the words reverberated in his ears. A life with Hope won’t be easy. She’s not the simplest of women. His father had had no business making that remark.
That insult was nothing compared to the drama that had unfolded earlier that day. Jack had come into the kitchen after his morning ride to find his mother in tears. She wouldn’t e
xplain, just held a handkerchief to her bowed face and muttered something between her sniffles about how she would never be able to explain. He’d walked through the swinging doors into the pantry and on into the dining room, where his father sat alone at the table, a day-old Wall Street Journal in front of his face.
“Why’s Mom upset?”
“Because I’m not coming to your wedding.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Why?”
“A signed prenuptial was a mandatory condition of this union. Not an option,” he’d said coldly without looking up from an article on the advantages of syndicate financing.
Jack had stared at the sheets of the fine black newsprint stretching in front of his father’s face and watched him reach around them for his coffee cup without even acknowledging his son’s presence. The sight had filled Jack with a rush of anger he’d never before experienced. His parents should be supportive of his decision, regardless of any misgivings. This was his choice, his life, the woman he loved. He’d stepped over to his father’s chair and, in a sweeping motion, grabbed the paper and torn it from his hands. He remembered now the tearing sound it made. Then he’d bent over and, leaning toward his father, studied the startled expression on his face. He knew Jim Cabot was used to being in control. His outburst was unprecedented, but he’d felt a rush from even this small rebellion. “Goddamn you,” he’d said softly. Then he’d dropped the paper on the floor, turned, and walked out. They hadn’t spoken since.
As he counted down the hours to his wedding, Jack had tried to block out his father’s disapproval. This was his celebration after all. He didn’t need his father there, he told himself. He loved Hope, and at least her parents embraced the marriage. Once they returned from their honeymoon, he felt certain the sea of charged emotions would have calmed. But although he was determined to put up a good front, standing in the alcove waiting for his bride, he felt empty inside. He’d made them proud over the years, and both of his parents should share his joy on this special day. Instead, his mother was there to keep up appearances by explaining to anyone who inquired that Jim was suddenly ill. “Food poisoning, can you believe it?” she said over and over. Her shock actually seemed genuine. His father could sit in his paneled library in a rage and abandon his only son, but nobody in Manchester would know the truth.
His pocket watch showed 4:53. Could the Roman numerals be wrong? There was still no sign of Hope, and Brad had yet to return. Hope was emotional, erratic at times, but she wouldn’t have stood him up at the altar, would she? Cuckolded, his father’s antiquated word resonated. Cuckolded. Cuckolded. Had she decided to be with Carl after all? Was it possible, after everything they’d been through? As the minutes ticked away, he couldn’t bear to acknowledge that maybe his parents were right.
“Frances.” She turned in response to the whisper of her name. Bill Lawrence stood at the end of her pew, indicating for her to come with him.
“I’ll be right back,” she said to Sam. As she followed Bill toward the front of the church, she knew all eyes were upon them. People had to be wondering, as she was, what accounted for the inordinate delay.
Once they stepped outside, Bill’s face dropped. “I need you to go get Hope.” Frances must have looked puzzled, because Bill explained, “I was waiting, but every time I went up and knocked on her door she told me she needed more time. I asked her if she was all right and she said she was, that she wanted some privacy. The last time I checked on her, she’d locked the door and refused to answer me. This is absurd now. Adelaide is very upset. Our guests are beginning to think something’s wrong, and we just can’t tolerate further delay.”
“Has Adelaide talked to her?”
“No. She doesn’t want to leave the church because she doesn’t want the bridal party to get alarmed.”
“Why would she respond to me?”
“She told us last night on the way home how pleased she was to see you. How much she missed you.”
“That may be—”
“I’m not the right person to get through to her,” Bill interrupted. “I don’t know how to say it more clearly than that. If your father were here, I’d make him talk to her. He had a way of getting things done.”
Had. Frances noticed the past tense. Although said without a hint of malevolence, the implicit reference was to her father’s stroke, to the difference between the man he was before and what he had become. His stroke and the tragedy of his wife’s death had stripped him of the robust, assertive qualities for which he’d been universally admired. Now she was supposed to fill his shoes.
She looked into her uncle’s walnut eyes. He’d been a background character in the drama of family visits. The focus had been her aunt and cousins. Bill left in the morning to take the commuter rail to work in Boston, and he often returned after dark. But his first act upon walking through the door was to kiss his wife on the forehead, a tender ritual that hadn’t been lost on Frances. She recalled other mannerisms that made him seem kind, affectionate, more interested in his family than her own parents had been: He smoked sweet-smelling tobacco out of a pipe while he bounced Hope as a toddler on his knee; he seemed genuinely interested in hearing all the details of their day, asked questions to prove he’d been listening, and laughed at the adventures they relayed; he pitched and covered the outfield for the team of girls when they arranged softball games on the wide lawn.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
12
Frances opened the front door at the Lawrence home and stepped into the marble-floored entrance. The scent of lilies from several large bouquets and a garland woven around the banister of the elegant staircase filled the room. Although she could see no one, she heard voices, the clatter of china, and the sounds of footsteps as the caterers and bartenders hurried to complete their setup.
She climbed the stairs and knocked on Hope’s door. As expected, there was no reply. She turned the knob, only to confirm that it was locked. “Hope,” she called. “It’s me. Fanny. Are you okay?” Silence. “Do you want to talk?” Still nothing. Frances leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. What help could she possibly be? She hadn’t spent much time with Hope in the last several years and knew nothing about the intricacies of her relationship with Jack. If she was having second thoughts, if she wanted to cancel the wedding, it seemed unlikely that she’d open up to Frances.
If your father were here. Bill’s words filled her head, making her feel overwhelmed by the task assigned. She put her face close to the door. “I’ll tell you something that very few people know about me,” she began, hoping to get an immediate response so that she wouldn’t need to delve into personal experiences she was reluctant to share. You can’t hold back, Frances told herself. She would certainly fail if she exercised her usual closemouthed self-protection. “I was engaged once, many years ago. I thought the guy hung the moon. I didn’t think twice when I accepted his proposal.” She paused, listening for any sounds from behind the door. Nothing.
“In the months after our engagement, though, things changed. Maybe it was my own insecurity at the idea of being someone’s wife. I didn’t understand what that meant. Could I still be me? How would I have to change? I became very sensitive to references he made, comments that I would perceive as criticisms. I got the feeling he wanted a wife with a Rolodex like the Social Register, with loafers that matched her purse and perfect skin. I got increasingly paranoid. He’d tell me he liked some woman’s outfit, and I viewed it that he thought I was drab, unattractive. He’d change the subject while I was talking, and I thought I bored him. It finally came to a head because he asked me to convert to Catholicism. He came from a very religious family, and instead of embracing the fact that he wanted me to share in what mattered to him, I took it that he wanted me to be different. That he didn’t like who I was. I wasn’t good enough. I broke our engagement.”
Frances stopped, momentarily overcome by the power of her own memor
ies. She’d never spoken such thoughts aloud, not even to Sam, and for a moment she regretted sharing them now. But each minute that passed without a response from Hope increased her agitation. “I’m not saying that’s what’s happening with you. Maybe you’ve got your dress caught in the bathroom door and can’t get out, and here I am rambling away.” She forced a laugh. “But I’m telling you about my experience in case you’re scared. In case you don’t see a way out. You don’t have to do this. Your parents may be upset for a few days, but they’ll get over it. And Jack will, too. Ultimately everyone just wants you to be happy.”
Frances sighed. Hope wasn’t going to open the door. She tried the knob again. Should she? She thought for a moment. Over her years of work with the police at the district attorney’s office in Manhattan and in Suffolk County, she’d learned a few investigative tricks. Perhaps it was time to use one. She opened her purse and shuffled the contents in search of a hairpin or needle, but without luck. Fortunately, a mint-scented plastic toothpick from the Field and Hunt Club remained at the bottom of her clutch from the night before. She removed its plastic wrapper and stuck it in the lock. Gently, so as not to snap the less than perfect tool in two, she fiddled until she felt the fastener give. The knob turned.
