“They’re lovely,” said Saundra. “Much prettier than the ones me boyfriend used to bring. You remember Steve–went off to study flight one summer.” She laughed at this memory as she touched the clear glass vase displaying hyacinth blossoms and pink gladiolas.
Her skin was paper-like, almost translucent; Michael could trace the veins beneath, the blue lines disappearing down her neck and below the collar of her green cotton dress. A few strands of hair were visible beneath the maroon scarf wound around her head, but it was apparent that most of the rest was missing.
She reached for Kate’s hand and squeezed it. “So you’re getting married,” she said. “I always knew you would make some bloke the luckiest in the world.”
“I hardly think that’s the truth,” answered Kate, with a smile. “The luckiest bloke would have been the one who married you.” She took a sip from her mug, a piece of glazed ceramic that looked handmade.
Saundra turned to Michael. “You’re the writer, aren’t you?” she asked. “I’ve seen your picture on the book jackets in the library. Kate mentioned you–she said you were quite handsome.”
Michael blushed, a color that was mirrored in Kate’s cheeks, he noticed. “I couldn’t agree with those words,” he said. “That picture of me is more flattering than anything you’ll see of me in person.”
“Not true,” said Saundra. “You have a handsome face. A kind voice. I’m not surprised that Kate would describe you as attractive. And as that goes, I’m a fan of your work, too.” She rose from the kitchen table for a moment, her body trembling with weakness. Leaning on a cane, she made her way towards an open parlor.
“I only told her I was a fan of your books,” said Kate, her cheeks still red. “I didn’t tell her–that is to say, I only said you looked very much like the book jacket photo.”
“My favorite was the first one.” Saundra had returned, carrying a battered first edition of one of his books. “Magnus was my favorite character until I read Rites of Druid; then Cameron was my favorite.”
“Charles was mine,” said Kate. Looking up at him from her tea mug.
Saundra opened the book before him to the title page and placed a pen beside it. “Sign” she said. Noticing the embarrassment on his face, she pushed it towards him.
“I haven’t much to obsess about these days, as you can see,” she said. “Don’t think I’m going to be fawning about, begging you for a date anytime soon.” She gave him a wink, but there was sorrow brimming beneath her teasing tones.
His face softened. “I’d consider it an honor to be stalked by you,” he said. The pen touched the page: To Saundra, one of my loveliest fans. He scribbled his signature across the space below it with a flourish.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll treasure it always.” She closed the cover and set it aside.
“Now, onto wedding preparations,” she said. “Your dress is lovely, I hope.”
“Well enough,” said Kate. “This event was arranged very quickly, so I chose something more practical than the princess dresses we dreamed of in the past.”
Saundra laughed faintly. “I suppose nothing in life is very fairytale, is it?” She looked at Michael. “Can’t make one up for us, can you, Mr. Herriman?”
He paused, uncertain how to answer. Kate’s hand crept over Saundra’s, pressing the fingers tightly again.
“What did they say?” Her voice was low, urgent in its softness.
Saundra wet her lips and shrugged. “That I have good days and bad days,” she said. “That’s all that’s left at this point.”
Kate’s mouth tightened, a line with edges drawn down. Her emotions seemed drawn inwards, masked beneath a surface of calm. After another squeeze, she released Saundra’s hand and reached into the rucksack beside her chair.
“I brought this for you also,” she said, placing a white envelope near Saundra’s hand. “For you to enjoy after I’m gone.” Michael could see the dark shape of a photographic square within, the rectangular fold of paper behind it.
“You must come and see my roses,” said Saundra. “I pruned them yesterday –one of my better days–so they look quite handsome.” She rose again with difficulty, leaning heavily on her cane as she moved towards the door.
“You used to love gardening,” said Kate. “In school, it was ferns. And an amaryllis that died after two terms, as I recall.” Her fingers touched the glossy leaves of a shrub pruned in a tapered form, miniscule thorns visible along the branches.
The rose garden was a small shrub area along the cottage, squat bushes and climbing vines supported by lattice frames. A fountain of copper with three shell-shaped bowls, its tiers wound in a climbing rose instead of flowing streams of water.
“I did,” said Saundra. A sigh escaped her for a moment. “The girl at university was interested in so many things that never quite panned out. As you can see, the garden is in need of a bit of weeding, the bulbs haven’t been divided in an age.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Michael. “Really. No one would ever know.” His words produced a laugh from Saundra.
“You are quite a charmer, Mr. Herriman,” she answered. As Kate offered her an arm, she leaned on it, allowing herself to be led around the shrubbery in a slow walk.
They must be close in age, yet Saundra’s gaunt form seemed decades older. Kate’s hand cupped her friend’s elbow protectively, their heads bent close as if exchanging secrets like schoolgirls again. He heard a giggle escape from one of them. Saundra’s cane tapped a rhythm against the stone walkway buried low in the lawn as they neared the gate.
The sound was forlorn in the relative silence of the neighborhood, impressing a lonely feeling on Michael. He was out of place in Kate’s reunion, a witness to sadness he had no part in sharing except as a kind observer.
*****
“We were schoolmates together,” said Kate. “Since we were eight. Roommates for several years.” She cradled a cup of tea as she sat across from him in a coffee shop, at a table near the window; her hands perfectly still as they touched its sides.
“We kept in touch even in university. And when they found the tumor, I was one of the first people she told.”
“You didn’t ask her to be in the wedding because of her health,” said Michael. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “These things happen.”
There were cracks in her voice, etched beneath the calm. Without thinking, he reached across to touch her hand, his thumb stroking her fingers.
“She was more family to me than my own,” said Kate. “When you grow up without anyone, you have to find something to attach, to have as your own. It’s the desperation of childhood; and the first you grow attached to is always the hardest to lose.”
“Only holidays with your family,” said Michael. She smiled wryly.
“They meant it to be kind,” she said. “But there was no one else to fill the gap. Spending Christmas in a house with a tree and presents doesn’t make it a home. If your room is the same room every other guest sleeps in while you’re away.” She raised her teacup, the first tremors in her hand evident to his eye.
He wanted to say he was sorry, but it would change nothing about her pain. There was nothing he could say to relieve the ache. Instead, he took her hand between both of his own, holding it tightly for a moment.
“Tell me what to say,” he said. “To make you feel better. We’ll talk about anything at all.”
She bit her lip for a moment as she stared at the table. When she raised it again, she force her lips to form a smile, almost apologetic in nature. “Perhaps you might tell me a bit more about your book,” she said. “So I shall have something to gossip to Saundra in my next letter.”
“With pleasure,” he answered, softly.
Chapter Twelve
“What do you really think of Sean and Katherine?” inquired Helen.
Michael shifted his teacup, trying to disguise his shock. “You mean–as a couple?”
Across from him, Louisa settled primly into a chair. “P
ardon our bluntness,” she said, “but we felt a sense of concern. Only a little one, you understand–over your young friend.”
They had cornered him during his late lunch, as he sat in the kitchen that evening with a sandwich and mug of cool tea left over in the pot. He assumed at first it was to talk about his book, until the cordial subject yielded to something more substantial.
Trapped, he glanced towards the door as if seeking an escape. No sign of Kate or Sean entering, nor the cook with another tray of biscuits and pastry.
“Is he quite ready for all this?” asked Helen. “He seems to have so little time with Katherine. Only yesterday when I asked her what was his favorite color, she had no idea. She couldn’t name his favorite dishes for dinner–”
“Not that we’re implying it’s Sean’s fault,” said Louisa. “It’s rather that they’re so young.”
Michael set his teacup on the table. “They’re grown-ups,” he answered. “To the best of my knowledge, Sean is in love with your niece. He wants to make her happy.”
The brusqueness of his tone surprised even him; usually the crankier version of Michael still managed to prevent others from knowing the extent of his annoyance. Something in the three sincere, concerned female faces crowding around him seemed to have the opposite effect.
“But can Katherine make him happy, do you think?” asked Charlotte. It was the first time her voice piped up, her frail figure seated at the foot of the table.
Helen touched his hand, her fingers flitting away like a bird. “It’s only a little thought,” she said. “When I asked Katherine, she had nothing to say on the matter.”
“Perhaps that’s because she doesn’t want to discuss it,” suggested Michael. “I think that’s her right at this point, don’t you?” He managed a smile, sensing it was his last unless he cut this conversation short. “I can’t speak for either of them as anything more than a friend, I’m afraid.”
He rose from the table and pushed through the kitchen door, hearing the first hushed comment from one of them as the door swung closed behind him. The cloistered sensation from the room was enough to make him lift the handle to the house side door and slip into the open air made cool with evening winds.
No doubt they suspected he was hiding something–just as they apparently suspected Kate for not coming forth with answers to their questions. But why not answer? Why not tell them she was happy, that Sean was the love of her life? It would be so simple to guess a color on Sean’s behalf, name a safe choice of recipe for someone as well-filled as Sean.
He shoved his hands into his corduroy’s pockets, the tails of his shirt hanging low on either side. His boots left impression in the soft earth as he trod across the grounds aimlessly. A low mist hung over the green, the wet gravel walkways like trails of glass in the faint evening light.
Did Kate love Sean? Every image of Mexico was proof it existed; the cuddling figures in the booth, the open smile captured by Sean’s film footage. It was the true Kate, the same person he had glimpsed in the afternoon they first met. Even though that side of her personality had retreated didn’t mean her marriage with Sean wouldn’t bring it out again. Once they were together in Chicago, anything would be possible.
As for him, he was the person who would drop by in the evening occasionally with a dusty bottle of wine for a gift and an author’s copy of his book for Kate’s library. They would exchange polite smiles and make small talk. The careful, reserved side of Kate would keep its dignity; the polite side of Michael would only seek her company in the presence of Sean.
The gazebo’s white structure loomed ahead of him beyond the hedgerows, the soft quacking of the pond’s ducks faint in the distance. He climbed the steps to the gazebo’s platform–and found Kate seated on the floor.
She was cross-legged, an open book on her lap. He saw dog-eared pages, foreign words structured like lines of poetry. She glanced up as his boots made contact with the boards.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. She shook her head.
“I stopped when it was raining,” she said. “I was on a bench before that–I only wanted a little air away from the house.” She didn’t say why, but he could guess the reasons. Looking into her eyes, he read confirmation in their depths, a mixture of confusion and bitterness.
“I’ll go,” he said. He moved, prepared to turn away. She scrambled to her feet, the book falling to the floor beside her.
“Don’t,” she said, brushing her hair back from her face. “It isn’t fair. That we– that we always avoid these moments as if there’s something wrong with them.”
His breath caught in his throat. “No,” he said, hoarsely. “I know there’s nothing wrong. Nothing happened.” He realized he wasn’t talking about this moment in the gazebo, but the afternoon in San Francisco. It seemed in his mind, that Kate was talking about it also, as she stood before him.
“It’s become so awkward,” she said. “So uncomfortable when it shouldn’t be.”
“I know,” he said. He could see the dampness clinging to her skin, the folds of her shirt like a second skin beneath the sweater coat drenched in water. Droplets along her forehead, collecting in the hollow of her throat. He was dangerously close to entertaining other thoughts; thoughts beyond his better judgment and integrity.
“You should stay if you want,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly.
“So should you,” he answered. Their conversation seemed hung by a thread, a precarious line like a cliff’s edge threatening flight or fall. All of this in meaningless words which any friend or stranger might hear without fearing indiscretion.
“You should dress,” he said. “For dinner. I’m probably delaying you right now.” Jean and Linus had procured reservations at a restaurant in London as a wedding gift for Sean and Kate, a last-minute change in plans since they were skipping the rehearsal dinner.
“Of course,” she said. “As should you, I suppose.” She bent down to retrieve her book. As she brushed past him, she paused for a brief moment; so brief he caught only a hint of perfume from beneath the damp wool scarf and jacket before she was gone.
*****
“Should it rhyme?” asked Sean. “Or is that too tacky, do you think?” He sucked the end of his pencil, a scattered hillside of wadded paper boulders across Michael’s bedspread.
Michael stared in the mirror, his fingers struggling to knot his tuxedo’s tie. “Why not just raise your glass and tell her that you love her?” he said. “You don’t need a speech to toast her, Sean.”
“But it should be special,” said Sean. “I mean, my sister’s going to be there, we’re in a skyscraper restaurant–it should feel like something magic.” He scribbled something on the pad, then crossed it out swiftly.
Something magic. Michael studied his friend’s image in the mirror, a stained t-shirt and jeans, a five o’ clock shadow. No evident signs of preparation for the cab destined to arrive in fifteen minutes to take them to the train station. Dinner reservations were at ten o’ clock–no being late, Jean had warned them, according to the maitre de.
“What’s the most special thing you noticed about Kate?” he asked. “What made you fall in love with her?” He turned from the mirror, his fingers adjusting the lapels of the tuxedo jacket. Sean stared at him with a blank face.
Michael scoffed. “Think,” he said. “If you want something special, make it about her. Make it about something you can’t resist whenever you’re near her.”
Sean’s cheeks puffed out with frustration. “That’s not me,” he said. “I can’t think of that kind of stuff. You know that.” The pencil eraser found its way between his teeth for a moment as he chewed it with frustration. “That’s why I asked you. You’re the guy with all the words–”
“I’m not the guy marrying Kate,” Michael reminded him, feeling a strange electricity pulse through him with this statement. “I can’t say those things.”
“Yeah, you can,” said Sean. “And I can’t. That’s the trouble, that’s w
hy I need your help. Give me a word or two, a couple sentences.”
Sean told him once that in college he relied on classmates to chose subjects for his papers, books for his research projects. Every semester he chose a different student on whom to rely, often a girl with a quick mind and a longing for any boy to pay attention to her. The payment, Michael remembered, was usually an endless supply of snacks from the dorm vending machine.
Michael sighed. “No,” he said. “Think about it. You still have some time.” He refrained from glancing at his watch, which would confirm the probability that they would be late to the restaurant.
“Relax, we’ll take another cab if we miss the train,” said Sean, as if reading his mind. He crawled off the bed, leaving the pad and pencil amidst the mounds of paper; the difference in price between a ferrying cab and public train seemed lost on him in most cases. At the moment, Michael didn’t have the heart to point out the difference, dissuaded by the vulnerability in Sean. His shoulders seemed hunched with defeat as he opened the door to the room.
“Maybe there’s a song I can borrow,” he said, lingering in the doorway for a moment. “Something by the Beatles, maybe. I don’t know.” He ran a hand over his unshaven face before departing.
Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, checking his watch to see the fifteen minutes that remained before the cab’s arrival. Reaching for one of the sheets of paper, he uncrumpled it to find Kate’s name written several times, paired with Seth’s last name or a combination of both surnames with a hyphen. He opened another, seeing a few words scribbled above a heart drawn in pencil: When I look at you, all I think of is how happy we were for those three months on location. There was something wistful in those words, an unintended sadness that assailed Michael as he read them.
Reaching for the pad, he tapped the pencil against its surface. Then, with a sigh, he began writing. By the time Mrs. Hammond tapped on his door, he had already torn the sheet off and folded it in his pocket.
Best Man Page 11
