Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701)

by McDonough, Yona Zeldis

  Lenore kept walking, not sure if she was still on the property. She did not see any paths out here. She must have been nearing Long Island Sound, which was about a mile from the house. The ground showed streaks of sand, and the shrubbery was wild and unkempt. Even though she could not see the water, she could smell it, and the moist salt air clung to her cheeks, her lips. Under the white umbrella, Lenore felt pleasantly cocooned. It was a beautiful rain, really—lush and warm and not at all threatening. It was good luck to get married on such a day; she’d tell Angelica that when she got back.

  Getting back. Lenore realized she had better start thinking about that. She was not wearing a watch, so she did not know the time. But surely it was getting late, and she was having no luck finding Justine. She was annoyed by her failure; failure had always irked her. Yet there wasn’t much more she could do. Justine could be anywhere out here or not here at all. Lenore still wanted to try to speak to Caleb, and there was the matter of both doing her hair and getting dressed; Betsy had planned for some prewedding photographs. Plus Lenore realized that she was a bit winded from her walk, and she might actually need to take a teeny tiny nap before the evening’s festivities.

  The dense trees had thinned out, and the wind was stronger, yanking on the little umbrella and turning it inside out. Lenore fought with it valiantly, but the wind was stronger than she was; a rude gust snatched the thing up and sent it skittering, broken and useless, beyond her reach.

  Impatiently she turned back in the direction of the house. Only where exactly was the house? She could no longer see it from where she stood. But it couldn’t be too far away; she hadn’t walked for all that long. Should she go right or left?

  The wind whipped around her as she tried to decide. The filmy leopard-print blouse that seemed so perfect when she had put in on earlier was now wet and sticking to her skin. Ordinarily she would have put on a raincoat—she had brought a canary yellow one with white piping along the pockets and collar—but she had been in such a hurry that she had not bothered to go back upstairs to get it. She now regretted her haste.

  It seemed better to start going in one direction, even a direction that might be wrong, than to stand here getting wetter and more chilled by the minute. So she started off again, walking as briskly as she could given the slippery ground and her own not-entirely-confident footing. She was tired, she really was; though she tried to ignore and suppress the fact, it was there nonetheless, dogging her along with the rain.

  None of this scenery looked familiar, not a bit of it. Of course, she had not been paying strict attention to her surroundings; she had been preoccupied. But it was unsettling that nothing stood out as a landmark. A flash of lightning suddenly split the sky and then was gone. Lenore was panting now, panting like a small, alarmed animal. Rain dripped from the end of her nose and off her chin; she swiped at her face angrily. She was going to have to sit down pretty soon, even if meant sitting here out in the open.

  But wait. What about over there? There were some scraggly bushes that might offer a little protection. A little protection was better than none. She summoned whatever strength she had left and set off for the bushes. And then her foot in its dainty, slick-soled sandal slipped on the wet grass, and down she went in an unceremonious heap.

  “Ooh!” she cried, but softly, as if she did not want to waste any of her precious energy. And she was not hurt anyway, not really. Just flustered. When she tried to get up, though, she discovered that she must have turned her ankle in the fall; even putting a little weight on it sent a slice of pain that coursed as swiftly as that flash of lightning right through her. “Ooh,” she said again more loudly as she sank back down.

  She could not get up; she absolutely could not. Her ankle, she saw, was starting to swell. There was no way she could walk on it. What to do? Sit and wait to be rescued? Who would know that she was here, and how long would it take for anyone to come looking? What with all the excitement over the wedding, it might be some time—a long time, in fact—before anyone missed her.

  Lenore scanned the horizon and tried to formulate a plan. She was good with plans, she reminded herself. Excellent, in fact. Her eyes drifted once more toward the knot of bushes. That was it. She had to get to them. But how? She could not walk. She could crawl, couldn’t she? So she got down on all fours and set out. Her swollen ankle was not only useless; it was an impediment; she had to drag it along behind her, and it slowed her progress through the soaked grass, mud, and sand.

  After about ten minutes, she finally reached her destination. Burrowing as far under the bushes as she could, she was at least able to keep her face and upper body out of the rain. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she saw through her torn slacks that they were scraped and bleeding. Gingerly she lifted her wounded ankle and positioned it on a rock she spied nearby; maybe elevating it would relieve the throbbing. Weary and wet, she ached all over—knees, ankle, chest, and hands. But worst of all was the slow-dawning ache inside: if no one came for her soon, she would miss Angelica’s wedding.

  Fifteen

  Lincoln stood watching as the waitstaff began assembling the bar. How many times had he walked up to a table just like this one, swathed in a white cloth, open and expansive as a snow-covered field? How many times had he eyed the bottles, weighed the options, and asked for a martini or a scotch on the rocks, a gin and tonic or a Bloody Mary? All the glasses of sangria, the crisp whites, the full-bodied reds he had consumed. The ales, pale and dark, the beers, tequila, bourbon, whisky, rye, gin—you name it, Lincoln drank it. Or used to.

  They worked expertly and swiftly; soon the full-fledged bar, a living, glittering entity, was ready. The glasses sparkled; the silver buckets with their diamond-bright chunks of ice gleamed. The colors of the bottles—amber, blue, green—stood out against the white of the tablecloth. Next to them crystal dishes filled with roasted almonds and wedges of thinly sliced citrus fruit provided yet more bursts of color.

  Lincoln gazed longingly at the bar. It seemed so unfair that he would have to spend the rest of his life exiled from the glorious, golden kingdom of liquor, abstemiously sipping his ginger ale or iced tea while the rest of the world was downing champagne. And at Angelica’s wedding, no less. It was intolerable; that’s what it was. He seethed quietly until he realized that the staff did not know him here; were he to walk up to the table and ask for a drink—early, before any of the wedding guests had arrived—he would no doubt be handed one. No one would think anything of it.

  Of course he’d have to make sure Betsy or his kids didn’t catch him. They knew his past and would view a misstep, even a small one, as a major calamity. But they were so busy. Who would even notice if Lincoln had a drink, just one single, solitary drink? He thought fleetingly of all the years of sobriety, how hard it had been to drag himself up and out of the drinking life. It had been such a long time, though. He wasn’t that person anymore. And one drink wasn’t going to put him back there. One, he thought; the number sang softly in his ear. One. Just one. How could a single drink consumed in honor of his daughter’s wedding hurt? God knew he needed it. No, he decided. He deserved it. His broken tooth throbbed again as if to add its insistent voice to the chorus inside him, the chorus that chanted, One, one, one.

  Lincoln moved toward the bar as if drawn by a gravitational pull. Two young men in black jackets, white shirts, and black ties were stationed near the phalanx of wine and liquor bottles. The champagne bottles were behind them, nestled in outsized tubs of galvanized metal that been filled with shaved ice; from a distance it looked like foam. But the rest of the liquor was right there, close enough to reach out and touch. He saw the men look briefly at him, then back at each other, immersed in some conversation of their own. They didn’t care whether he had a drink or not. It was nothing to them. Nothing. His heart started beating very rapidly, and he felt his lungs tighten with anxiety. And the tooth—the tooth was getting worse. All the more reason for a drink, damn it.

  “I’ll have—” Lincoln began
but then stopped, suddenly overwhelmed and unsure of what to ask for in this feared, longed-for moment. The choices fanned out before him and made him slightly dizzy with possibility. Wine? Beer? A mixed drink maybe? God, how he had loved the cool, citrus-laced tang of a gin and tonic, the perfect way to usher in a June evening. But, no, he should go with something less potent. How about that Chardonnay, its bottle sweating gently and leaving a patch of wetness on the white cloth? Or a beer? A beer was perfect. Beer was a simple, honest drink, a man’s drink, all right. He’d ask for a beer, just one, and then he’d be through, never touch the stuff again.

  “Dad?” a voice behind him said. “Dad, what are you doing?” Lincoln spun around to see Gretchen. Her expression—a mix of surprise, disbelief, and, he had to acknowledge, contempt—was not a pretty thing to behold. “You’re not having a drink, are you?” She fairly spat the words. “God, of all times to fall off the wagon!”

  “I did not fall off the wagon,” Lincoln said, stepping back from the table. And he hadn’t, had he? His killjoy daughter had made sure of that.

  “Weren’t you just going to ask for a drink?” When he didn’t reply, she said, “Well, it’s a good thing I caught you before you did anything stupid.” Lincoln continued to remain silent, excruciatingly aware that the two bartenders had lost interest in whatever it was that had been so compelling a few minutes earlier and were watching this exchange as if it were a hotly contested tennis match.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting so excited about,” he finally said, keeping his voice as low and even as he could. “I am not having a drink, am I? Do you see a drink in my hand?” He wiggled his empty fingers.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Here? What do you mean, here?” Lincoln looked around as if his present surroundings were an utter mystery to him. “And, anyway, I’m not here anymore.” He marched off, leaving the two jackasses behind the bar to wonder about how the last act of this ugly little family drama was going to play out. Jesus, he hadn’t even said hello to Gretchen before she had started ragging on him. Well, she had always been a little goody-goody, hadn’t she?

  The rain continued to come down, and a strong breeze shook the sides of the tent. The cool air felt good on Lincoln’s face; the exchange with Gretchen had made him sweat even more than the bottle of Chardonnay. If he wasn’t going to get a drink, maybe he could find something to eat around here. He realized that he’d barely had anything all day, and he was suddenly starved.

  “Dad.” That would be Gretchen again. “Dad, don’t run off. I’ve been looking for you.” He turned to his eldest daughter. Her tone was gentle; she was no longer in her avenging-angel mode. “I came over to say hello. I’ve hardly even seen you since you got here.”

  “Hello,” he said sullenly, looking at her more closely now. She had gained some weight, but he actually thought the extra few pounds had filled out her face in an appealing sort of way. She looked soft, dewy even.

  “Hi,” she said and walked closer to where he stood. “Where are you going?”

  “What, are you keeping tabs on me? Do think I’ve got a flask in my pocket and I’m sneaking off to the john to take a hit?” His annoyance flared again.

  “No, that’s not it. I know how hard you worked to get sober and to stay sober, and I admit I got scared when I saw you near the bar. I’m sorry if I overreacted, though. It’s only because I love you.”

  Lincoln grunted. He was touched by her concern but not entirely ready to give up his grievance. Who wanted to be lectured by one of their kids, even if that kid happened to be right? He decided to change the subject. “Do you think I can find anything to eat around here? I’m so hungry, I could start chewing on one of your mother’s Louis-whatever armchairs.”

  “There’s going to be so much food at the wedding; are you sure you don’t want to wait?”

  “Wait for what?” Lincoln asked. “I need to eat now.”

  “The food prep station is going to be insane,” she warned. “But maybe we can find you something in the house.”

  Together they walked into the kitchen, where a team of florists was scurrying back and forth carrying vast armloads of white roses, white lilacs, and white lilies veined with deep pink. The photographer was there too, along with Betsy, who pounced on Lincoln as soon as their eyes met.

  “Have you seen my mother?” She looked rattled, a state of mind that Lincoln from long experience knew was not typical for her.

  “Why? Is she missing?” Gretchen asked.

  Betsy nodded. “The door to her room was open, and her outfit for tonight was all laid out on her bed. But she wasn’t there, and I haven’t been able to find her anywhere in the house.”

  “I saw her a little while ago,” Lincoln said, remembering their brief exchange in the laundry room. “I think she was going out.”

  “Out! In the rain!” Betsy said. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lincoln. “But she was carrying an umbrella. It was white, I think,” he added uselessly.

  “The umbrellas I bought for the guests,” Betsy said. She turned to Gretchen. “When did you see her last?”

  “We went out for breakfast this morning,” Gretchen said. “I didn’t pay too much attention about where she went after that. And now I was actually looking for Justine. No one has seen her either.”

  “Justine is missing too?” Betsy said.

  Gretchen nodded. “Ennis and I were going to try to find her, but if you want me to stay and help you look for Grandma, I can send Ennis by himself.”

  “She was here when we were talking about the ring,” Betsy said, and when she saw that Gretchen looked confused, she added, “Angelica’s diamond engagement ring is missing. We were up in her room trying to figure out where it could be. That wasn’t all that long ago.”

  “So, where would she be going in the rain?” Gretchen asked. “Do you think she went looking for Justine?”

  “Maybe,” Betsy said. “But in any case we should find her. It’s nasty out there.” She looked over at the photographer, who had been standing there patiently with her camera bag settled at her feet like a cat. “Amber, I am so sorry for making you wait. It seems we have a couple of missing family members to deal with here, but I’ll be with you in two minutes.” Amber, an intricately pierced and braided little person, nodded. Then the florists, all three of them, came in, their arms emptied at last, and they too seemed to be waiting for further directions from Betsy. Wasn’t there supposed to be someone helping Betsy out with all of this? Lincoln wondered. An expensive wedding planner that everyone in the family kept talking about?

  “Mom, I’ll go look for Grandma; Ennis can go looking for Justine,” offered Gretchen.

  “Justine has been located.” This last remark was delivered by Betsy’s husband, Don, who had just lumbered into the room. Lincoln hadn’t seen the guy since he’d arrived, but he’d been preparing for the moment when he’d have to face him. Well, the moment was here. He looked even larger than Lincoln remembered. Or maybe it was the oversized shirt he wore along with the baggy, knee-length madras plaid shorts. There were some people who should never even go near madras; Don was one of them.

  “Why not? Is she here?” Gretchen asked. Her hands went to her hair, pushed it up and out of her face. The curls immediately sprang back to where they had been seconds before.

  Don shook his head and slipped his iPhone back into his pocket in a seamless, decisive gesture. “Let’s all step into my office for a few minutes, okay?” He looked at Amber and the florists. “Family crisis. We need to have a powwow.” Lincoln cringed. Powwow? Where had this guy learned his vocabulary? From a comic book? “Can you find something to do until we’re through?” And to Betsy: “Where’s Pippa when you actually need her, anyway?” No one had an answer for that, but Lincoln, Gretchen, Betsy, and Don went down a short hall and into Don’s study.

  A two-foot-long fish—Lincoln had no idea what kind—had been gruesomely preserved and mounted on th
e wall; its glazed and unseeing eye presided over a room filled with golfing trophies, a forty-two-inch flat-screen television, and a sofa covered in a plaid even more raucous than the one on Don’s shorts. Betsy sank into the sofa immediately, and Gretchen sat down next to her, reaching—almost reflexively, it seemed—for her mother’s hand. Since Don remained standing, Lincoln felt that he too had to stand, though really he wished he could have sat down and joined hands with his ex-wife and daughter.

  “That was Garry Mulligan on the phone,” Don said. Since the name clearly did not mean anything to anyone in the room, he went on. “He’s the chief of police and a good friend of mine. Helluva nice guy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Betsy said. Her voice held the hint of exasperation that Lincoln remembered quite well. “But what does that have to do with Justine? Does he know where she is?”

  Don nodded his great head, and in the gesture Lincoln saw a rhino lowering its face to the watering hole. “It seems she was picked up by two officers in a patrol car not far from here, and when Garry found out where she was staying and who she was, he called me himself.”

  “Picked her up! Whatever for?” said Gretchen. She looked wild, and Lincoln’s heart constricted for her.

  “Apparently she borrowed one of the cars from the garage and decided to take a little ride,” said Don. “They found her about two miles down from the house, heading towards town. Garry said she was weaving all over the road; at first they thought she was drunk.”

  “She must have taken the keys from me!” Gretchen burst out. “Mom gave me a set yesterday.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Lincoln said. “How the hell would you know she would take them and go out for a spin?”