by KT Morrison
Epilogue One
A Wedding
SIX YEARS LATER
Two-hundred-and-seventy-five guests gathered on the lawn behind The Poirot and most of them she didn’t even know. That was Martin and Carol’s doing, most of the invitees attending for their own social benefit. The people that mattered most to her were all in attendance because she kept that number small and controlled.
The tables for close friends and family were hosted on The Poirot’s covered balcony with the bride’s table. Settings in silver and Limoges, placed on Irish linen that fell to the polished decking; sheets of ivory bunting hung in the rafters, straddling the chandeliers and gently spinning palm-blade fans; open spaces softened with pewter buckets brimming with pastel roses set on pedestals. Below the balcony, on the sloping lawn that fell to the Atlantic Ocean, a dance floor on the grass, demarcated by further rose bouquets in a broken perimeter; surrounding the dance floor, the remaining guest tables. Round, intimate tables with the same settings, under pale raffia bunting wound through the trees along with cords of bare Edison globes, glowing now in amber corona as the sun set and the maritime sky turned the deep color of new denim. The tables immediately around the grassy dance floor were each overhung with huge dangling chandeliers with twinkling crystals. The Poirot had balked at providing them and she’d been direct until they complied.
Twenty-six years of age now, officially married, first in her JD program—Law, Science and Technology—a new job offer from Google where she was invited and attended on an upper year internship; the ceremony was complete, her union made, dinner was served and finished. Very soon a new and exciting chapter would be opened.
Right now though, straight ahead, she spied one of those people-that-mattered-most. Tragically solitary, looking depthlessly alone even amongst all these mingling, laughing people, he leaned his elbows on the railing of the balcony, looking over the heads of the guests dancing on the lawn, out to the ocean beyond, a gin and tonic in his hand.
Through the dining room and coming out now to the balcony on the toes of her shoes, keeping the points of her tall heels from clicking, she snuck up on him. With the front of her wedding dress pulled up so she wouldn’t trip, she got right behind him and laced her hands around to cover his eyes.
“Hey, who’s that?” he said, knowing who it was.
She said, “Good evening, Mr. Milton. Who do you think it is?”
He covered her hands with his own, setting his glass on the railing’s edge. “I think it’s the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” he said and kissed her hand and turned to face her.
Older and sadder now, the expression he held broke her heart, but she hid it from him. “You’re still the best sweet talker,” she told him, squeezing his hands. “But I think you’ve seen more beautiful.” It had to be said, and he took it well, and whatever might hurt inside him it was his turn to hide it.
He said, “Well, how does it feel to make it official now?” lifting his chin and showing strength, as meager as it may be.
She shrugged, scrunched her nose. “Not much different.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You just want to get out of here, don’t you?”
“You know me,” she said.
He turned, put his elbows back on the railing, watching out over the crowd, his face lit in warm yellow by the hanging strings of lights. “I’m happy for you two.”
“I know you are, Mr. Milton,” she said.
“Come on, Maggie,” he said. “It’s Keith.”
She rolled against him so their shoulders touched. “Sorry, Keith,” she laughed. “I am an adult now, aren’t I? And, it’s Margaret, not Maggie.”
Max’s dad laughed, and said drolly, “Sor-ry, Margaret,” dragging out her official name and bumping her shoulder in return. He took a sip of his drink and turned, put his back to the railing, his face turned to hers and watching her with wistful admiration.
“What?” she asked though she knew what would come.
Slowly, while he held her gaze, his features dropped. “I just wish she could be here.”
Through blinking wet, she gave him a quick nod, but averted her eyes.
“Sorry,” he whispered, putting his hand on her back.
“Don’t break the seal, Mr.—Keith, I mean,” she said, her voice squeezed.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said again.
She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “I wish she was here, too. She should be here.”
He returned to the railing with his elbows and sighed heavily. “She is in spirit, Maggie. She’s in each of those Milton boys out there,” he said nodding toward the dance floor where they could see Max’s brother Mike having a particularly good time.
June Milton succumbed to her Hodgkin’s in the winter after a five-year battle. At the end of summer, she’d gone to Michigan to spend two days with her when she and Keith decided to abandon chemo, and returned to spend the first week of December at their home where she’d been in palliative care. June wasn’t good. The visit wasn’t sweet or warm. It was stark, heartbreaking, and sometimes ugly. She wanted to be there to say goodbye, a longing ache in her heart for this group of wonderful people who had first given her a glimmer of what it meant to be part of a family. But June didn’t pass until two days after Maggie returned to Boston.
“She is,” Maggie agreed quietly. “She’s out there.”
From behind them, a cold and even voice: “Good evening, Keith.” They turned to find Carol in her Prada mother-of-the-bride dress. An elegant hand extended to him and Keith instantly brightened, the heavy weight of the previous moment shrugged off his shoulders as he went into comedic performance for Maggie’s benefit. He took the proffered hand and pulled it to kiss in Royal protocol, then roguishly kissed both of Carol’s cheeks while Maggie stifled a giggle. Carol raised a knowing eyebrow, understanding she was the butt of some joke between them but resting a hand on his shoulder and then kissing both his cheeks as well.
Attention to Maggie now, she said, “I’ve been looking for you, Margaret.”
“I’ve been here,” she said, suppressing an eye roll.
“Well, it’s time for your dance. You’re needed.”
“Yes, mother,” she said, hoisting herself off the railing with petulant exasperation, turning then and kissing Max’s father’s cheeks over the burgundy prints her mother had left.
“If you’ll excuse me, Keith—I have to go and dance with my husband now …”
Maggie descended the four steps off The Poirot’s balcony, down to the waiting crowd who welcomed her with quiet applause. She smiled for them, eyes narrowed to happy black lines, red lips peeled back to show her wide white smile. The soft light from the overhanging strings of bulbs turned the satin of her white wedding dress into shimmering gold. Max had never seen her look more beautiful.
Across the grassy dance floor in her high heels, she held up the billowing skirt of her dress. Her hair was pulled from her face in a braided bun, tangled with raffia and beads that hung down her long neck. Someone wolf-whistled and there was laughter; she quickened her pace, trotting to her husband’s arms.
Max gripped his drink tightly, his throat narrowing, desiccated, standing outside the perimeter behind an overflowing bouquet of pastel roses. Breath held, his insides clenched till they ached. This was worse than witnessing the vows for some reason. It was her expression; her joy. He always wanted that as his own, but now it belonged to another man.
Cole stood proudly, waiting to receive her in his simple and elegant tuxedo. Tanned, shaved, unruly hair cut short at the back and sides since he’d entered the corporate world. He left his glasses with Max, tucked in his lapel pocket right now, as Maggie came to him and was swept up in his arms.
The opening strains of The Style Council’s ‘You’re The Best Thing,’ began, and though he’d heard it a couple dozen times already in the last six months the tears overflowed and his airways restricted to a narrow squeak. Every lyric dug into him desp
ite his preparation. He’d helped Cole prepare, taking time from his hectic schedule and practiced his dance with him when Maggie traveled to the West Coast for work. This was it though, the real moment, and he overflowed with emotion, hiding his face from anyone who might see, grimacing and tucking his chin to his chest watching with warbled vision through his brows.
Maggie and Cole were flawless together, twirling, swaying, keeping eye contact—and Cole didn’t step on her long dress once, which had been his greatest fear. When Cole dipped her at the end of the dance and they kissed deeply despite the smiles, the crowd erupted with cheers and he sat his Michter’s down in the grass between his shoes so he could join in and praise his friends with applause.
They looked in one another’s eyes and laughed before Cole helped her stand. One more kiss and then she trotted back to the balcony while Cole remained with his hand outstretched, smiling slyly, waiting to receive his next dance partner, Carol, also smiling slyly.
“Dude, how the fuck did you let that get away?”
“Fuck off, Connor,” Max said, bending down to retrieve his bourbon.
Connor had silently sidled up next to him, drink in hand, eyes still watching as Maggie mounted the steps and returned to the bride’s table. When he looked back, he caught Max wiping his cheeks. His snide face softened, and he hoisted an arm around his brother’s shoulders and gave him a hearty hug. “It’s okay, Maxy.”
He groaned and shook his head, but leaned into Connor while they watched Cole waltz with Carol.
“What’s okay? What are you talking about?” A sweet feminine voice behind them.
While Max groaned yet again, Connor let him go, saying, “How much this sap loves you, Keely.”
With dubiety, Keely said, “He was, was he?”
“We’re not talking about anything,” Max moaned, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her against him.
“Oh Maxy,” she sighed, looking at the side of his face. “You were doing so good.”
“I’m fine,” he said, but he couldn’t look at her.
“You’re not fine, baby,” she sang in her Irish accent. “Look at your cheeks. They’re all rosy.”
“I’m fine,” he said again, but she got him smiling.
“Are you gonna start again?” she said, chasing him, trying to get him to look at her. He stretched to the side, twisting toward Connor where she couldn’t see his face.
She said, “Connor, is he crying again? Can you see him?”
Connor laughed and narrowed his eyes on him, sipping his own bourbon. “I think he’s gonna cry again, Keely. He’s welling up.”
Max twisted further from her, but she said to Connor, “Shall we tickle him?”
“You’re on your own there, but it might fix him,” Connor said.
“Do you need a tickle?” she asked him.
“Please, don’t,” he said, tensing, knowing she might anyway.
“Would you give us a kiss?” she asked.
“Yes,” he agreed, turning to face her, his tears gone, soothed away by a girl who somehow knew him better than himself.
“Do it then,” she said with a devious smile, a sparkle in her smaragdine eyes.
He did, planting his lips over hers and she closed her eyes, and scratched the back of his neck. When they parted, she whispered, “You’re okay, yeah?”
“I am,” he told her.
“Smile for the people, Max. Some of them know you’re more than the Best Man.”
He nodded, breathed deeply; she was right. Now he laughed freely and kissed her again, her arms going around his neck.
Talking behind them now, she called out for Connor.
“What?” he said.
“Did you see my ring, Connor?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you?” Keely said and wiggled her fingers over his shoulder at Connor.
Connor lowered his drink and looked up to the stars. He shouted, “Yes!”
“Do you see it now, Connor?” she persisted, still wagging her ring finger, flashing her engagement diamond.
Connor said, “Yes, you DMed me on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, you sent me an email …”
“Your fault for following me,” she said. “You gave me that power.”
“I thought if I ignored you, you would go away,” Connor laughed.
Max and Connor had bought the ring together, back when they stayed a week with Mom. Max’s sister had asked Connor what it looked like. In what he claimed was an early morning stupor, he’d fired off a photo sent directly to Keely. No message attached, Keely had asked him why he sent that; he’d claimed it was for his girlfriend at the time, who everyone knew he had no intention of marrying, and was asking for her opinion. Keely, a crafty law student, knew right away the mistake and would likely never let Connor forget how he’d ruined the surprise of her engagement. Only, it wasn’t really much of a surprise at all, everyone seeing it coming.
Keely said, “I’m never going away, Connor.”
Connor hung his head in his usual surrender when she went after him over the ‘Ring Fuck-Up’ as Mike called it. He said, “I sure hope you don’t.” Then poking Max in the ribs before he parted, he said, “Don’t fuck this one up, junior.”
She was pretty sure Max was drunk, up now and standing on a stool, organizing an impromptu toast. He’d chimed a knife on a goblet, rose to stand above the meager crowd gathered at one end of the dance floor, while most carried on their way; the festivities had dwindled and the protocol of the toasts and speeches were behind them.
“Everybody, everybody,” he was saying, getting the crowd’s attention after he’d nailed them with an opening joke. “So listen, I’ve been with these two a long time,” his eyes scanned the crowd, caught her standing at the back of the gathering and pointed his drink at her. “This one,” he said, winking, “and …” now he paused looking over heads again, turned up empty. “Well, wherever the groom is … shit, I have his glasses,” he said now, patting the front of his tuxedo jacket. “If no one sees him in the next few minutes, we should probably troll the waters, make sure he didn’t stumble off the cliff …”
The crowd laughed at his delivery, Max blinking his eyes like Mr. Magoo.
Next to her, a sudden nervous flash of dove gray silk and long fiery hair, Keely in her Maid of Honor dress. Her eyes were up on Max, and while she smiled, her expression was still taut with anticipatory tension. She said, “Do you want me to bring him down from there?”
Maggie laughed. “No, let’s hear what he has to say. But stay close to me.” She wound her arm through Keely’s and they listened with smirks on their lips.
Max said, “We don’t need to panic yet, I’m sure. He’s an excellent swimmer, and my ears have grown attuned and sensitive to his cries for help …” he cocked his head as if listening. “We’re good for now.” There was laughter. “So, I’ve been with these two a long time, and no offense, I know them better than any of you.” After more rolling laughter, he said, “No, that’s not a joke. I’m serious. Better than any of you. Even you, Mr. Cantarella,” he said, pointing a finger at Cole’s father who shook his head and laughed.
“No, really,” he said, chin lowering introspectively. “I do know them well, and they’re my best friends. Cole was my roomie when we were in Vermont. And then came Maggie,” he said, wet eyes raising and finding her again. But he was smiling, saying now, “Just a pretty little songbird back then. Some of you might not have recognized her, I mean it. And I don’t mean just because her hair was blue …” That got more chuckling. “She was timid. I saw all the greatness in her, saw all this bubbling beauty,” now his eyes were turned up to the stars. “You know she bought a bird cage once. Antique thing when we were all on a road trip, the three of us. Couldn’t figure out why she would want something like that … you know? … Then I thought of Carol …”
The crowd wanted to laugh but swallowed it. Keely’s arm tightened against her. “I’ll get him down from there,” she hissed, trying to
move away, but Maggie kept her locked.
“Let him go,” she laughed. Then leaning close to her, she said, “But I hope he doesn’t think he’s safe from my mother.” Keely groaned and rubbed her face with her other hand.
Max continued. “I’m kidding, of course—I love Carol.” Then conspiratorially, “She’s behind me, isn’t she?”
It lightened the crowd.
“I’d like to think Cole and I opened Maggie’s cage door …”
Now she tensed again, worried he might take this in a bluish direction. Keely patted her arm.
“Once this beautiful bride we all came to see here today spread her wings …” he trailed off, and she saw his eyes gleam. He swallowed. “Opening her door was just a tiny thing, a simple thing. She was the one who had to teach her wings to work—my reward … Cole’s and my reward was seeing her fly.” Now he sniffed wetly, said, “I guess I’ll turn this into a toast … if everyone could raise a glass; Maggie … sorry, Margaret is standing at the back.”
“Here we go,” Keely whispered as the crowd all turned now and faced her.
Max raised his bourbon to her and she couldn’t help a big smile from pulling at her cheeks. Her own eyes went wet. He said, “The pale purple even melts around thy flight …”
Keely sighed, “Oh, shit …”
And Maggie chuckled, shaking Keely, getting her laughing too.
Max finished: “Like a star of Heaven, in the broad daylight, thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.” After a beat: “To Margaret.”
He drank and so did the others. Max kept his eyes on hers and she felt herself well up again. Unhooked from Keely, she blew him a kiss with both hands and there was light clapping. Max put his hand over his heart. Someone helped him backward off his stool.
“Maggie, Maggie,” an urgent voice behind her, low and hushed, impatient and worried but not wanting to make a scene.
Ken had her elbow now, turning her. Behind him, his husband Brian loomed woefully in the background. Brian was always quiet, but usually calm—he’d masterfully weathered the tumult of the first Becker gay marriage. Maggie had been by their side, facing down her perplexed parents caught in the hydra of having a son who was gay and seeking to marry, but also a successful bio-tech investor with a doctorate from Johns Hopkins. Brian’s nervous face pressed down on her with abrupt tension; for him to be affected this was dire.
