Allison squirmed. She was romanticizing the past again. There had been plenty of times in the last few years of her marriage when she had seriously wondered if Chris was even aware that she existed as Allison Montague, a professional photographer, a painter, a person other than the vehicle through which he could achieve his dearest dream—a family.
The woman in the aisle seat next to Allison shifted. Her comfortable bulk and all-around pleasant appearance made Allison that much more aware of her own strained looks. Pale and interesting, indeed. She wondered what the others would think when they saw her. She had lost weight. She ate when she remembered to eat, which wasn’t often. At least twice a week her wonderful assistant, Greg, made it a point to tempt her appetite with warm croissants from the pâtisserie next door to the building in which Allison had her studio. To please him she usually managed to swallow part of the pastry before abandoning it to the side of her desk, where it sat until Greg retrieved it for the trash.
Sleepless nights were also to blame for Allison looking worn and wasted, but there wasn’t much she could do about her appearance in the short term. Piling makeup on a face ravaged by sadness only served to accentuate that sadness. Wearing bulky clothing only called attention to the thinness beneath. Not that strangers seemed put off by her haggard appearance. There were still plenty of men who saw only the long blond hair, the height, and the model-thin frame, ignoring entirely the pain emanating from the wide blue eyes, the lines at the corner of the mouth, the shoulders that might have been held straighter if she had had any energy to do so.
Allison glanced at the overhead compartment in which she had stored a bag containing her two favorite cameras and other essential photographic equipment. Bess had hired a professional event photographer, but Allison would be documenting the wedding in her own way as a gift for the happy couple. There was a bonus to this. Being an official observer allowed one to limit one’s participation in the social whirl, and social whirls had never been Allison’s natural environment. It wasn’t that she was particularly shy; it was just that she preferred small, intimate gatherings to large, boisterous parties. Like weddings. Especially weddings.
Allison glanced out of the window; buildings, backyards, roadways were becoming more distinguished by the minute. And with every foot the plane descended, this Kennebunkport wedding was becoming more of a reality as well. Allison was genuinely happy for Bess; for so long Bess had wanted to be married to a man who would love and respect her entirely. Well, who didn’t want that from a spouse? And yet, so many people married wrongly, sometimes spectacularly so, and in spite of the good advice and warnings of friends and family. Human nature, Allison thought. The most complex puzzle there was and a puzzle with no ultimate solution.
It was going to require a large amount of emotional energy for Allison to be an attentive friend to Bess these next two weeks. Luckily, Chris would not be at the wedding. Allison had been shocked by Bess’s request for permission to invite him, though on later reflection she had realized that it was not such an outrageous idea after all. Of course, Bess wanted her dearest friends around her on her wedding day. Of course, she had the right to invite whomever she pleased.
Still, Allison had been relieved when Bess told her that Chris had declined the invitation—and also, surprisingly, a tiny bit disappointed. If Chris was at the wedding Allison might be able to get him alone and . . . And what? Chris had made it abundantly clear that he had no further use for the woman who “murdered their child.” Allison flinched at the memory of Chris speaking those very words, the harshest, most vile, and worst of all, the truest words anyone had ever spoken to her.
Boston was assuming its full shape below her. Allison felt a stab of nostalgia. She had grown up in a lovely suburb of the city, in a lovely home with two lovely parents. So how had such a happy, even an idyllic, childhood come to this state of miserable adulthood? If only the whole mess wasn’t shrouded in secrecy. And that secrecy had been Chris’s idea. She was to tell no one about the pregnancy or the miscarriage or how the miscarriage had come about. He could not, he said, handle the scrutiny and did not want to be viewed in a pitying light by anyone, old or new friends, family or colleagues. Allison had wanted to argue her husband’s mandate—the unfairness of it to both of them struck her immediately—but when she opened her mouth to protest she hadn’t known what to say. Finally, she had simply nodded, said “okay” or maybe “all right.” So much of that awful time between the miscarriage and Chris’s moving out of their home was foggy in her memory. At times this seemed like a blessing. At other times, it was unbearably frustrating.
It had, of course, occurred to Allison that Chris’s demand for silence was a form of punishment; in effect, he had sentenced her to solitary confinement and had appointed her own sense of guilt and shame as jailors. If that was cruel on his part, well, she could understand and forgive that cruelty. Most of the time.
According to Bess, Allison’s friends had learned through the grapevine that Chris had been the one to seek the divorce. They must be going mad with speculation! Truth be told, once or twice since Bess had admitted to this knowledge, Allison had been tempted to break her promise of silence and reach out to Bess or Marta or Chuck with an outpouring of her grief. But those excellent jailors, guilt and shame, had prevented her from reaching for her phone and seeking solace. Some people didn’t deserve solace. Allison Montague was one of them. At least, she might be.
The plane shook as it descended farther, and Allison gripped the armrests. She had never been afraid of flying before, but in the last two years so much about her old familiar self had altered. So much about her world was now unfamiliar.
“You okay?” the woman seated next to Allison asked kindly.
Allison managed a nod of thanks. When the plane touched down moments later, she gathered her belongings. She yawned, not as much from tiredness as from anxiety. Still, if she wasn’t going to crash the rental car into a tree she had better take a few deep breaths and calm her tumultuous mind. Maybe she should get a cup of strong black coffee, unless that would result in trembling hands and an acidic stomach. That was one of the annoying things about adulthood. You realized that every action caused a reaction, every decision had a consequence, often both good and bad.
Adulthood, Allison thought, as she inched her way to the exit door of the plane, carry-on bag in tow, was exhausting. You were responsible for everything you did and said and thought. There was rarely anyone else to blame for the bad or merely stupid things that happened to you. Allison had never been the type of person to blame the victim, not until now, not until she had been forced to accept full responsibility for the tragedy that had destroyed her marriage.
Allison decided against the coffee. There was an energy bar stashed in her carry-on; she would try to remember to eat it before starting out on the drive. There was a long trip ahead of her, the worst of which would be getting beyond Boston’s notoriously insane traffic. Once out of New Hampshire and over the state line into Maine she would be able to breathe a bit more easily in spite of the fact that she would be that much closer to her destination, the house in which she would be spending the next two weeks under the direct and questioning gaze of her dearest friends. Driftwood House. The name conjured images of fallen trees, barren stretches of sand, and neglected gardens. Gloomily, Allison wondered if the house was situated precariously on a rocky cliff under perpetually stormy skies. It was a scenario that would fit her current mood nicely, though it was highly unlikely that cheery Bess Culpepper would have chosen a setting anything less than completely joyful for her wedding celebrations.
Allison retrieved her bag from the luggage carousel, deftly avoiding the unwanted help of a slick-looking middle-aged man who had been eyeing her. Allison had never been the sort of woman who tarred all men with the same brush. Now, she found herself lumping them all—with very few exceptions—into the categories of shallow deceivers, egomaniacal jerks, and unbearably self-centered moralists. The negative thoughts wer
e unproductive, though Allison felt helpless to combat them and had finally given herself permission to let them come as they would. What did it matter what she thought of men? It wasn’t as if she was ever going to date again, let alone remarry, not after the man she had adored for so many years had walked out on her in her moment of need. No, she was finished with romance. Yes, she had done wrong, but romance had betrayed her in a stunningly harsh way and she was not stupid enough to repeat a very bad mistake.
Wearily, one bag slung over her shoulder, the other trundling along behind her, Allison made her way to the shuttle bus that stood waiting at the curb outside the terminal; it would take her to the rental car lot and then . . . Well, then she would be on her way to Maine and Bess’s long-awaited wedding. And there would be no turning back.
Chapter 4
It was late evening and in the dying light of day a strange and compelling shape at the bottom of the yard caught Bess’s attention. She skipped down the short flight of steps that led from the back porch and made her way to what she could eventually see was the fantastically warped remains of a dead tree. Funny she hadn’t noticed it before now, as it was the only object of any height between Driftwood House and the ocean.
In spite of having grown up in rural Maine, Bess was no naturalist and couldn’t identify the type of tree that stood before her. Whatever it had been when alive, what remained was—well, was just a dead tree. Bess frowned. There was something undeniably beautiful about the form—about five feet tall with a trunk about two feet in circumference and reaching, arching, odd-angled branches. But the tree was dead. Bess wondered why the owners of Driftwood House hadn’t had it removed. True, it posed no danger that Bess could see—it looked solid enough—but it seemed odd to allow a reminder of decay to remain in the midst of flourishing life.
Bess shrugged and returned to the house, where her betrothed waited. She liked that word—betrothed. It had a romantic ring. And the manner of her meeting her betrothed was also, she thought, romantic, because it had come about in an entirely accidental way.
Lisa and Howard Fanshaw were probably Bess’s all-time favorite clients. She had organized their daughter’s sweet sixteen party and college graduation party, Lisa’s mother’s eightieth birthday bash, and a ball to benefit the charity for which Lisa worked so tirelessly. So, when the Fanshaws’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary was approaching, of course they had turned to Bess to create a magical day for them.
About an hour into the festivities, held at the Fanshaws’ expansive home on twenty acres of land, Bess had suddenly felt someone’s eyes upon her. She looked up from the clipboard in her hand to see one of the guests looking directly at her. He smiled. She smiled back. One of the servers needed Bess’s attention. When she looked back to where the man had been standing he was no longer there. A similar incident occurred about an hour later. And an hour after that. Bess was intrigued.
Finally, when the crowd had thinned considerably, Bess’s hired staff had begun to quietly clear away empty plates and glasses, and the band was already halfway packed up, the man Bess had been exchanging smiles with all afternoon appeared at her side.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” Bess said.
“I’m Nathan Creek.”
“Bess Culpepper. How do you do?”
They shook hands. Bess liked the feel of Nathan’s hand in hers.
“I know this is going to sound bold,” he said, “but would you like to have dinner with me? I’m not a jerk,” he added hastily. “Lisa can vouch for me and I’ve known Howard since college. I’m staying with them for a few days before I go back home to Boston. I’ll be fifty-three years old next February. I think I’m a Pisces. I’m the senior vice president of communications and marketing for a company called Winter International. You can check their website to verify that I am who I say I am.” Suddenly, a look of vivid embarrassment crossed his face. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
Bess had laughed. “A little. But yes. I’d like to have dinner with you.” She handed him her business card. “Call,” she said. “Don’t text or e-mail.”
So, he had called. Thus had begun a whirlwind affair. Bess and Nathan were engaged not long after their first meeting. For the foreseeable future, Nathan would keep his condo in Boston’s South End and Bess would keep hers in Portland’s West End. Eventually they would sell both properties and buy one larger place, possibly somewhere between Boston and Portland, possibly in one of the cities. They were in no rush to finalize the details. In the meantime, once or twice a month Nathan would continue to travel to Stockholm, his company’s European headquarters.
A honeymoon would have to wait as Nathan was due to return to Stockholm in mid-July and Bess had several big parties and events to plan and stage through the end of the year, including a major costume charity event at Halloween; no less than two weddings the week before Thanksgiving; and a New Year’s Eve event in Québec City, where part of her generous compensation would be a suite in the Hôtel Palace Royal Centre-ville for two nights. In February or March, when winter in New England was at its ugliest and most depressing, Bess and Nathan would fly off to a tropical destination for a few days or maybe even a week. It was all good.
Bess climbed the stairs to the back porch and went inside the house. Nathan was peering at the books on a set of shelves to one side of the fireplace. He turned when Bess entered.
“Nice selection of reading material,” he noted. “Everything from beach reads to some pretty heavy nonfiction. And, of course, a good selection of the classics.”
Bess nodded. “It was one of the details about this house that drew me. Something for everyone. Not that people won’t be bringing their own books.” She glanced around the spacious first floor, from the well-appointed kitchen to the long, pinewood dining table, to the living area with its selection of comfortable seating options. “I just know this reunion of the old gang will be perfect,” she said. “Well, as perfect as it can be without Chris. But that’s all right. I’ll make sure the rest have a fantastic time.”
“Hmmm,” Nathan said meaningfully.
“Hmmm, what?”
“You do know that the more you build up an event the more likely it is to feel like a letdown when it actually takes place?”
Bess laughed. “I’m an incurable optimist. I usually find something to be glad about in even the most disastrous situations.”
“That is true,” Nathan admitted. “Okay, no more trying to get you to curb your enthusiasm for the weeks ahead. I don’t know why I even bothered in the first place.”
“Because you don’t want to see me hurt or disappointed and I love you for that.”
Bess was an incurable optimist. Still, every once in a blue moon a disturbing thought snuck across the corner of her mind. Was she, Bess Culpepper, the only one keeping this group of friends together? If she were to give up contacting the old gang on a regular basis, would it all be over? What if she died? Would any of the others ever see one another again after her funeral? Was this entire friendship dynamic all down to the force of her will?
What if, what if? What if they were all to meet for the first time now, at the age of forty-two and -three, at a hotel bar say, thrown together while stranded by a snowstorm or a citywide power outage? Would they take to one another the way they had back in college? Bess was afraid they might not. They were different now, maybe not entirely, but they were older, more themselves than they had been as teenagers. Or, was it that they were in fact less themselves? The self was always changing, at least within parameters . . . Bess’s head would begin to ache at this point. Philosophical exploration wasn’t her strong point.
Being optimistic was.
“Where did this come from?” Nathan asked, pointing to a large aloe plant on one of the kitchen counters. “Does it belong to the owners? Only I didn’t see it before.”
“I brought it in this morning,” Bess explained. “It’s for treating sunburns. I don’t want anyone suffering because they missed
a spot with the sunblock.”
“You really are the hostess with the most-est,” Nathan noted.
“Making people happy makes me happy,” Bess admitted. “Marta calls me a people-pleaser and I guess she’s right about that. But I don’t let people walk all over me,” she added hastily, remembering with embarrassment the times she had indeed allowed that very thing. Should she tell Nathan about those times? He was, after all, soon to be her husband, and you weren’t supposed to keep things from your husband.
“It can be a difficult balance to strike, serving others without letting it slip into servitude.” Nathan ran a finger along one of the aloe plant’s thick leaves. “I have to admit I’m nervous about meeting the rest of your old gang,” he said.
“Don’t be,” Bess said firmly. “If Marta gave her approval, and she did, the others will love you as well. I know they will.”
“Still, you’ve built them up as a pretty hard act to follow. I might have to ask Dean for tips on how to fit into the inner circle. Secret handshakes, passwords, that sort of thing.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bess scolded. “Just be yourself and they’ll adore you as much as I do.” Though in truth Bess was a bit nervous about her friends’ opinions of Nathan. She had made so many gruesome mistakes in the past. There was, for example, the guy who was training to be a circus clown. A few months into their relationship, he decided his career would be better advanced if he dressed the part 24/7. Things between them had gone rapidly downhill after that.
A Wedding on the Beach Page 3
