She smiles sadly. “I’m happy that you’re doing well, Maggie. You were always a bright girl. I want the same for Cam.” She pauses, a stray tear in the corner of one of her eyes. “He deserves it.”
On this we are united. “I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Wilder.”
“Then please. Let him focus on Emory and his life here.” Her expression is unyielding. I recognize it.
It’s a version of the expression I’ve seen on my classroom parents’ faces, when they are sharing a life-altering event with me: when a child is diagnosed with a learning disability, or the family is going through a divorce. Parents carry their children’s hurts. And Mrs. Wilder is holding an enormous basket of her own hurts right now.
“Cam is an amazing man, Mrs. Wilder,” I tell her. “He’s going to get through this.”
Mrs. Wilder’s smile is gone. “Then you understand that he can’t suffer any more disappointments. Not right now.”
A flash of protest rises within me. I would never hurt Cam. And besides, we’re not a couple of high school kids anymore. But when I look across the table at his mother, there is nothing I can argue.
“You’ve still got stars in your eyes,” she says. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
Set against the hospital, it becomes clear how my being here is brief and complicated, frivolous amid a backdrop rich with perspective. My intentions may be good. But perhaps they are also more than a little bit selfish.
Nineteen
The wedding party has landed in Mystic Village. Like a fleet of pastel soldiers, the girls arrive in choreographed union. The men are the opposite, rolling solo at unscheduled times, and their counterparts scramble to pick up forgotten groomsmen at T. F. Green Airport in Providence or the New London train station.
Trent’s family, the Mitchells, are first to arrive, in two distinct units. But there are immediate changes to be made. Trent’s father and the new Mrs. Mitchell, a rakish blond in her late twenties, are registered at the Inn at Mystic. Which, unfortunately, is where the first Mrs. Mitchell and her three sisters have also registered. Set atop a grassy rise overlooking the village, the Inn is rather intimate. And Trent is quick to point out that intimate will not work for the extended Mitchell family.
Evan and the groomsmen are all booked at the Marriott, which is unfortunately sold out, July being high tourist season. Since the first Mrs. Mitchell and her family have reserved three rooms between them, and Mr. Mitchell and his consort only require one, it is neither quickly nor quietly decided that Mr. Mitchell will have to move his young wife to the Marriott. Evan has kindly agreed to trade.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him when I meet him in his new lodging at the Inn that night.
“It was no big deal. Besides, you won’t believe the room Trent’s dad is giving up.”
Apparently the new Mrs. Mitchell prefers largesse, as was apparent from the eight-piece Louis Vuitton luggage set that Evan helped to haul down to their car. The room from which she was displaced took up the entire upper east wing of the Inn, a legendary suite featured in lifestyle magazines. “Mags, we’ve got the place all to ourselves. A suite with a balcony overlooking the water!” I can only imagine the new Mrs. Mitchell’s face when she lays eyes on Evan’s standard double.
We drive over to the Red 36, a trendy spot at Seaport Marine, but it’s an uneventful night by our Boston standards. Everyone’s traveled in after a week of work, and tomorrow is Friday, with a full day of appointments, followed by a catered luncheon at Mrs. Crane’s house and the rehearsal dinner.
The Chicago cousins have had too much to drink at the bar. Erika joins them, but even she is going at half her usual speed.
Evan and I find seats at the raw bar and order a couple beers and a platter of littlenecks. “So, how’s the job search going?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I only just found out last week” I say. “But I’m working on a couple applications.”
He shrugs and sips his beer. “No time like the present. I was reading this article in the Globe about successful work habits the other day, and it talked about how critical it is to keep moving. When one goal fails, start another. You know? You want to get out there as soon as possible.” Evan enjoys reading health and motivation articles and staying on top of positive lifestyle trends, something I usually find charming.
When I give him a look, he seems confused. “What? I only meant that it’s healthy to keep moving forward. You know, build the momentum instead of letting yourself get dragged down.”
“I’m not getting dragged down,” I say, prickling. “We’ve got the wedding this weekend, and I plan to start looking in earnest on Monday.” The fact that I have to assure Evan that I’m on top of things bugs me. He should be the one reassuring me. I’ve barely had time to process Darby, beyond sharing the news and doing some desultory online searches. “You’re going to be fine, kid,” my father had said. “I know there’s something great out there for you!” Then, retrieving his checkbook from the desk, “Here’s a little something to tide you over.” When I tried to explain to my dad that I was still getting my paycheck through the end of the summer, he’d pushed his check back across the kitchen counter to me, with a wink. “Then put it in a rainy-day jar.” It was sweet and typical of my dad—not trying to fix the problem for me, but letting me know that he believed I could; and that he’d have my back until I did.
I’d expected more of the same from Evan.
“I’m sorry,” Evan says now. “I’m just trying to be positive.” He looks genuinely confused. And maybe even a little annoyed.
“I know you are, but right now all I need is a little encouragement. And maybe even license to wallow. Or complain a little. Is that okay?” Evan has always been so sensitive, so thoughtful. But it’s been over little things: giving me flowers, ordering me a drink, calling to check in. We’ve never had to straddle something like this before.
Evan shrugs. “Okay, Mags. I just think it’s more helpful to stay positive.”
It’s not a real fight. It’s not even an argument. But it’s largely disappointing.
By eleven thirty Peyton and Chad come over to say good night, Peyton stifling a huge yawn. “We’re gonna hit the hay,” she announces. It makes me realize how tired I suddenly am.
Erika squeezes between us and plops down on the free stool next to me. “I’m beat, too,” she admits.
Evan throws up his hands half jokingly. “Is everyone packing up already?” he asks. “The night is young!”
“Actually, I think I’m going to head back to my parents’ tonight,” I tell him. “I’m tired, and all my stuff is there anyway.”
I catch Erika looking at me sideways.
Evan shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. I can drive you home first thing in the morning.”
I should be thrilled for this night alone at the Inn together. I don’t want us to be irritated with each other. “You’re right,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
Erika reaches me before I get to the restroom door. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”
She trails me to the large bathroom mirror and watches me arrange my hair. She looks unconvinced.
Peyton has followed us in. “Is this about Cam?” Erika asks me outright.
With the sudden arrival of the wedding party, I haven’t had a spare second to pull the girls aside and fill them in. “Emory had her cardiac procedure yesterday morning in New Haven. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Erika’s got the nose of a bloodhound on the trail. “About Emory? Or about her dad?”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Both, okay?”
“Okay.” She dabs some lip balm on her lips. “How are they doing?”
“I don’t really know.” Cam texted me late last night: two lines—Em did well and she can go home tomorrow. Thanks for coming by—a message that left me wanting more information, more something. “He said things went okay. But I don’t know much more.”
“It’s a catheter that they run through a small incision. It’s not as invasive as open-heart.” But still.
Erika touches my shoulder. “So, you went.”
I nod. “Briefly. But I don’t want to bother them.” I don’t add that Mrs. Wilder’s words have been the only thing standing in the way of my contacting Cam since. As sharp as they are to hold, she’s right. My life is not here anymore. And Cam’s life is.
“I think that was best,” Erika says. “It’s sweet of you to want to help, but this is heavy stuff. It’s not something you can rescue them from.”
I look up at my friends; their voices are as soft as their expressions. It’s the old joke among us girls come to life: I’m the rescuer. Of stray pets, of wayward students, of birds that fall from nests. I can’t seem to help but stumble across their path. Or maybe it’s into them. Erika’s just looking out for me, but still, it stings.
“Come on, you guys. I’m not trying to rescue anyone. I’m just trying to be there for him.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Peyton pats me emphatically on the rear end. “And someone else is out there waiting for you. Let’s go.”
She’s right. Evan is standing by the door holding my jean jacket. When he slips it over my shoulders, I let myself fall against him. It always strikes me how I fit just so against the crook of his shoulder.
“Everyone ready?” Peyton asks. She ushers us out in her usual mother-hen fashion. Erika laughs at something Trent says and loops her arm through mine. We walk out as a noisy group of friends into the warm night along the pier, each one of us linked with another. Like Mrs. Wilder said, there are stars in our eyes. And I can’t help but wonder, why are we the lucky ones?
Twenty
The incongruity among the bridal parties is striking. As salon appointments and rehearsal timetables are dispensed to the women attendees, the men are somehow allowed free rein to wander in various recreational directions; the golf course, the club courts, and the hotel pool. “So unfair,” Peyton complains. “I’d rather go have a beer with the guys than get a gel manicure with Trent’s two mothers.”
Trent pops by the Crane house mid-morning, where all the women have gathered for coffee before being dispatched to our nail appointment and dress fittings, and is received like a prince. That is, by everyone except Erika. Whipping from room to room with a notepad, ignoring her mother’s pleas to eat something, she’s already directed the cousins to call the salon and push back the manicures fifteen minutes and has asked Trent’s mother to check in with the groomsmen who are supposed to be bringing their tuxes over.
I’ve been assigned the task of hanging Erika’s gown, which has just returned from being steamed, along with her veil. Something I am more than capable of managing, but Peyton is hot on my heels on the carpeted staircase. “Be careful not to drag it,” she cautions me.
She follows me right into Erika’s room and watches as I unzip the garment bag and attempt to hang the veil alongside the dress. “No, no, you shouldn’t put the veil in the dress bag. It needs to be kept separate so it doesn’t wrinkle,” she tells me.
“Erika said to keep them together. She’s already lost it once,” I joke.
Peyton isn’t listening. “Plus, you don’t want the veil to get stuck on the dress bodice. That happened to my veil,” she adds with a cluck of her tongue. “Lost several pearls. It was disastrous.”
I surrender the veil and take refuge on the window seat. “Sounds like it.”
She drapes the yards of pearled tulle meticulously between hangers and hooks it a good two feet away from the dress bag with a flourish.
Below, Erika is walking Trent out to his car. Their voices rise up through the open window, and it becomes clear things are not as sparkling as the summer morning outside.
“What’s going on?” Peyton asks.
Erika is standing on the walkway, arms crossed. “Can’t the golf game wait? You’ve barely spent time with my side of the family. Or with me!”
“Isn’t that what the next four days are about? Dinners, boating, the rehearsal night? Relax. I’ll have plenty of time to sit with you and Grandma Elaine.”
“Ellen,” Erika barks back at him.
I close the window. Not that I blame Erika. While he’s been acting like a tour guide for his friends and family, she has been left to manage all the details.
“Chad and I were the same way leading up to our big day,” Peyton says breezily. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”
Outside, Erika’s face is flushed with anger. I can’t hear what she’s saying anymore, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.
“Are they still going at it?” Peyton asks.
I nod. She comes to stand beside me. Below, on the walkway, Erika is still talking. Yelling may be more accurate. Suddenly, she turns away from Trent and storms back toward the house. Trent throws up his hands and turns the opposite way—toward the driveway. But then he stops. We watch as he spins around in her direction.
“What’s he doing?” Peyton says.
We have to crane our necks to see. Trent has caught up to Erika. He reaches for her arm, roughly, and grabs ahold. And before either one of us can let out the gasp that’s in both of our throats, he pulls Erika against him and hugs her. I can see her arms go limp as she gives in. And just as quickly they’re kissing like teenagers.
Peyton shakes her head and turns back to the closet. “Jesus. Nothing like a wedding to bring out the best in everyone.”
Which makes me think about Evan. After waking up at the inn this morning, he wanted to lounge in bed and order room service. But I begged off, claiming our salon appointment was a couple hours earlier than it really was.
“Evan is sort of driving me crazy,” I admit to Peyton now.
She finishes fussing over the veil and closes the closet door. “Is it because of all the wedding stuff? Because let me tell you, going to a wedding one year into a relationship is sort of like crossing a minefield.” She sits next to me on the window seat. “I remember attending a college friend’s wedding in Nantucket when Chad and I had been together around that same time. It was one of the most beautiful weddings, and yet the whole weekend was torture. Chad hadn’t even popped the question yet, and all I could think about when I saw the bride was what my own dress would look like; or what my own menu would consist of. And Chad just wanted to get plastered and catch up with his fraternity guys.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, with a sad laugh. “Believe me, I wish it were that simple.”
Peyton contemplates this. “When we were at the bar the other night, Evan mentioned that he’d found a great apartment. It sounded like he’s stressed about losing it.”
I’m a little surprised to hear that Evan shared this with Chad and Peyton. Not the fact of the apartment search—they all knew about that already. What irks me is that he’s complaining to our friends instead of confiding in me. “We have an appointment to see it this week, after the wedding. I just don’t want to move into a place I’ve never seen. You know how Evan is. He’s very pragmatic, and when he wants to do something, he wants to do it right away. I wish he’d be more patient.”
Peyton draws her knees up to her chest. Sitting this close to each other, I can’t help but notice that even in the humidity of the morning, not a single hair is straying from her casual chignon. Her cropped linen pants are wrinkle free. “Do you feel like things are moving too fast?”
I run a hand over my own sloppy ponytail. “Not really. I mean, this is everything I wanted: to move in together, and to have more time together. I still want all that. It’s just that since I’ve been home I’ve been trying to catch my breath, and those wants seem to be somewhere off in the distance.”
Peyton is as sharp as a tack. “I guess it depends which direction you mean—are those wants in the distant future? Or in the rearview mirror?”
When I falter, she h
ops up and extends a brisk hand to me. “Never mind.” As much as her managerial style can sometimes get to me, this time I’m deeply grateful for it. She’s letting me off the hook. “We’ve got manicures and dress fittings to get through this morning. Now, that’ll make you glad you don’t have to worry about a wedding anytime soon.”
On the way to the salon, I try Cam’s cell phone. This time it goes straight to voice mail. It’s not like him to ignore calls. His silence has filled me with a longing, leaving me jittery and distracted.
After eighty fingers have been painted in Bridal Bliss and eighty toes in Seaside Summer (Erika’s “something blue”), there is still no word from Cam. Erika is beside herself with excitement to see us in our bridesmaid gowns, so I make a mental note to focus and have some fun.
Since day one of dress shopping, I had been nominated the official “mannequin” for fittings. But it was no compliment.
“You’re perfectly average,” Erika had gushed at the time. “Not too thin, not too busty.” She went so far as to pat my tummy fondly as she said this.
Now Sarah, a tan young salesgirl, invites us to the back of the store. The dresses are hanging on a rack ready to be fitted by the store seamstress. But looking at them now, they aren’t quite as I remember. The long cream sheath is more yellow than vanilla, and the green belt looks more office-fare than wedding-fabulous.
“It wasn’t my first choice,” Peyton whispers, as we follow Sarah toward a small dressing area behind a curtain, “but here we go.”
Peyton and I step into our dresses and take turns struggling to zip each other up. Then we stand looking at each other, shaking our heads.
“I can’t breathe!” I whisper.
Peyton struggles with the green belt to no avail. “Why didn’t you mention that back on Newbury Street? This gown is like a straitjacket.”
“It wasn’t that tight. The sample size was an eight. I’m a four!” I remind her.
But she’s on to other issues. “I’m sorry, but this yellow color completely washes us out. I look ashen.”
Mystic Summer Page 19
