A Wedding on the Beach

by Holly Chamberlin

  The house was so awfully quiet. Everyone but Bess had retired for the night. Suddenly, she felt frightened, but of what she could not have said. She got up, turned off the lights, and hurried upstairs in the dark.

  Chapter 77

  Marta opened the door to the dryer and began to unload the clothes. Mike’s jeans and shorts. His T-shirts and socks and underwear. Most of her own stuff she washed in the delicate cycle and hung to dry. As she folded and smoothed her husband’s clothing, she felt a stab of sorrow so sharp it was physical. One could die of a broken heart. That was something Bess was sure to believe, but not Marta. Not until now.

  Mike had been his usual pleasant self at dinner, if a bit less animated. Marta suspected no one but she—not even Chuck and Dean, who knew the truth—were aware of what it was costing him to act as if nothing earth-shattering had happened in his marriage. They had gone to bed at different times. Mike was up before she was that morning; she wondered if he had slept well or at all. At one point that morning Marta had attempted to engage him in more than a cursory word.

  “Do you want to talk?’ she asked quietly, passing him in the living area.

  To which he had replied, “Marta, you’re not the only one who needs time alone.”

  The words—and coming from Mike—had stunned her. Mike had never, ever wanted time alone. Time away from her. Occasionally, his devotion had annoyed her. More often she had taken it for granted. Now . . .

  I’ve ruined everything, Marta thought, then immediately scolded herself for being so dramatic. But she felt so bad. Scared. Full of regret for so many words both said and unsaid. And she realized how very, very good her marriage had been until now. Was this state of dreadful miscommunication and misunderstanding common to most marriages? She felt sick to her stomach and knew the feeling had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

  Marta gathered the folded laundry in her arms and headed for the stairs to the second floor. It would have to wait until they were back home—or at least until they were alone in the car on the long drive to New York. Whatever “it” would be. A détente, a reconciliation, a deal, a truce.

  When she had stowed Mike’s clothes in drawers and closet, she came back downstairs to find Allison alone on the back porch.

  “Where is everyone?” Marta asked as she joined her friend. She didn’t really care to know the answer. It was just something to say.

  Allison shrugged. “Not sure,” she admitted.

  Marta hesitated a moment before she said, “Bess has decided to give you the final decision regarding Chris’s joining us tonight and at the wedding.”

  Allison laughed a bit wildly. “How generous of her!”

  “What will you say?” Marta asked.

  “I don’t know. She’s either put me in a position of power or handed down a punishment. I can’t decide which.”

  Marta wondered as well. Was Bess simply passing the buck to avoid a responsibility that was rightly hers?

  “I got an e-mail the other day from Chris’s mother,” Allison went on. “She attached an article from the Chicago Tribune detailing Montague and Montague’s landing a highly coveted project.”

  “Huh,” Marta said. So, Chris was moving along nicely with his life. Bully for him. “How did that make you feel?”

  “I realized that I felt genuinely glad for Chris. It felt like a breakthrough. I’d finally achieved some distance from the pain, enough to feel happy that Chris had achieved something for which he’d worked so hard.”

  “And now?” Marta asked.

  Allison frowned. “And now he just shows up . . . Was he considering my feelings at all? Then again, I did tell Bess months ago that I was okay with her having Chris at the wedding. What a mess.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Marta pointed out. “You have control over how you handle this. Though I am on record as being furious with Chris for putting you in this situation.”

  “Do I have control?” Allison laughed. She thought of a line from Jane Eyre, one she had read just the night before. Surely, Jane says, anticipating her reunion with Mr. Rochester, I should not be so mad as to run to him? Jane went on: And if I did—what then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me . . .

  “I have this awful fear,” Allison said, “that the moment I see Chris I’ll do something completely stupid like beg him to take me back. And that’s not even what I want.”

  “You won’t do anything of the sort,” Marta said firmly. “I know you won’t. You’ve come too far, farther than you think. You won’t betray yourself.”

  Allison smiled. “Thanks, Marta. Sometimes a gal just needs to spill. And I’ve been keeping things bottled up for so long.”

  “You’re welcome,” Marta said.

  “I think I’ll try to take a nap,” Allison said, rising from her chair. “Once I’m back in Chicago it’ll be all systems go again. I might as well take advantage of enforced laziness while I can.”

  Marta remained where she was. She spotted a baby’s plush toy out on the lawn. Thomas’s. She watched as a dragonfly made its crazy beautiful flight across the length of the porch. And she admitted to herself that while she was genuinely sorry for Allison’s current distress, she had felt a degree of satisfaction in having been trusted as a confidante. She thought of how she had been able to advise and to comfort Sam recently. The maternal faculty. Clearly her wifely skills weren’t what they had been, though her skills as a mother and a friend were still somewhat intact.

  And for that Marta was grateful.

  Chapter 78

  Dean was on the rug before the unlit fireplace, playing with Thomas. Chuck was stretched out on the love seat, reading a medical journal. Allison wondered how he could concentrate with the background noise of a blender (Nathan was making a smoothie), baby babble, and music. Mike had put on a CD of pop hits from the early nineties and was singing along as best he could, which wasn’t very well. The poor Counting Crows, Allison thought. They were being butchered.

  Marta was staring at her phone, occasionally scrolling. Allison had a suspicion that she wasn’t actually reading anything; she had the air of someone largely occupied with her own thoughts. As am I, Allison noted. She felt real regret about having spoken so harshly to Bess about her inviting Chris to join them. At the same time, she was not prepared to apologize for speaking her mind. For too many years she had kept quiet when she should not have.

  “Everyone?” Bess said suddenly. She was perched on a stool at the kitchen island. “Chris just sent me a text. He’ll join us tonight for dinner if it’s okay.”

  Marta looked up from her phone and shrugged. “You know my view.”

  Mike simply nodded. Chuck looked to Dean and said, “We’re okay with it.”

  “Allison?” Bess said. “You’re the deciding vote.”

  Allison remembered what she had talked about earlier with Marta. A position of power or a punishment? What if she allowed herself a moment of perversity and said no, Chris cannot join us, to punish Bess for her failure of loyalty?

  “It’s fine with me,” she said, “if he’s here tonight and for the wedding.”

  “Thank you.” Bess tapped away at her phone. “He says he’ll see us at seven.”

  Mike looked to Allison. “If you need anything tonight,” he said, “just come to me.”

  Marta laughed. “What could she possibly need from you?” She put a hand to her head. “Sorry,” she said. “The whole thing is just . . .”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, turning away. “It is.”

  Allison tried to catch Marta’s eye, but once again Marta was staring down at her phone. Allison frowned. Things just keep getting better and better.

  Chapter 79

  The table had been set since three o’clock. The canned heat under the fondue pots was ready to be lit. Bess had turned the lights low enough to soften the atmosphere. The wine was chilled. All was in readiness, but Bess was more nervous about this evening than she had been since, well, since she could
n’t remember when.

  Allison came slowly down the stairs and joined the others. She was wearing an apricot-colored sheath dress. Her wedding ring was in place. Her face looked strained. Bess could only hope that by allowing Chris to join them that evening she wasn’t setting back the process of Allison’s healing in any significant way.

  “Where’s your camera?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to take pictures of tonight’s dinner?”

  “No,” Allison said firmly. “I’m not. Sorry, Bess. I’m okay with Chris’s being here, but it isn’t in me to turn the camera on him smiling along with the rest of the gang.”

  Bess felt her cheeks flush. “Of course,” she said.

  The baby was in bed. The men were milling around the room aimlessly, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Marta was checking the glasses on the table for water spots.

  The doorbell rang. Bess glanced at her friends. The way Allison was holding her body—rigid—revealed all too clearly the emotional strain this evening was causing her. The faces of the others were carefully bland. Even Marta, for whatever reason not great at masking her emotions these days, looked calm and cool.

  With a silent prayer for something on the order of peace and forgiveness, Bess opened the door. And there was Chris, the same and patently not the same as he had been when Bess had last seen him two years earlier, at Chuck and Dean’s wedding.

  “Welcome,” she said. She reached out and hugged him; Chris returned the embrace but awkwardly.

  Chuck was the first of the others to step forward and greet Chris. Dean joined him, followed by Nathan. “It’s good to finally meet you,” Nathan said, extending his hand for Chris to shake. “Now I’ve met the whole crew.”

  Chris managed a smile. “Brave of you,” he said.

  It was a fairly meaningless thing to say, Bess knew, words to fill a space that might quickly become awkward. Before she could add her own meaningless words to the silence, Chris handed her the bottle of wine he had been holding by the neck. “I hope you still like Pinot Gris.”

  Mike then mumbled something that might have been “hey” or “hi.” Chris nodded in response. Somewhat to Bess’s surprise, Marta greeted Chris with a degree of welcome her recent remarks about him would not have led Bess to believe possible. And Marta wasn’t play-acting. She wasn’t capable of it. Or was she?

  Lastly, it was time for Allison and Chris to greet each other. Bess held her breath but did not lower her eyes as the others did.

  “Hello, Chris,” Allison said evenly. She managed a brief smile but did not extend her hand or move forward.

  Chris nodded and cleared his throat before he said, “Hello, Allison.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” Nathan asked, putting a friendly hand on Chris’s shoulder. Bess was aware of the others dispersing, moving slowly in the direction of the dining area, gathering around the table. She had thought it best to dispense with a cocktail period and keep the pace of the evening brisk.

  To avoid a potentially awkward seating situation, Bess had set out place cards. She and Nathan were seated at the two heads of the table. Allison was on Bess’s right; Mike on her left. Next to Allison sat Marta; across from Marta sat Chuck. Dean was on Marta’s right; across from him was Chris. Allison and Chris need not even look directly at each other if they chose not to.

  Nathan raised his glass and proposed a toast to his bride. Chuck then raised his glass and said: “To old friends and new.”

  The experience of cooking one’s own food as one ate seemed to help ease tensions; pieces of meat falling off forks and into the boiling oil and bread getting lost in the bubbling cheese caused shouts of laughter and a few colorful expletives. Mike swore he was not going to get burned like he had the last time they had been silly enough to sit around a pot of burning oil; Dean admitted he had never had fondue until this evening. The wine flowed freely; Bess suspected they were all drinking a bit more than usual in a determined effort to keep spirits from sagging.

  Still, Bess found herself praying that no one would mention the miscarriage or the impending divorce. She doubted that any of her friends would be so cruel or so careless, but you never knew what a person might say or do when under stressful conditions. “Remember, don’t mention the time Aunt Clara was in jail,” her mother would warn her children before Uncle Albert’s arrival on Thanksgiving. Invariably, one or more of the Culpeppers would mention the word prison or the phrase breaking the law, which was followed by a long moment of embarrassment, which was in turn followed by a few frantic moments of someone desperately attempting to change the subject.

  There was one painful subject that did come to light during the course of this meal and that was Chuck’s Parkinson’s. “Might not be wise for me to be trying to negotiate around a vat of boiling oil before long,” he said at one point, sotto voce but loud enough for Chris to hear and to ask why.

  Chuck explained. Chris’s face drained of color. “My God, Chuck,” he said, his voice low. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I should have kept in touch these past months. I—”

  For a moment, Bess thought Chris was going to cry; she had never seen Chris in tears. Christopher Montague did not make free with his more troubling emotions. But that Chris might not be the man sitting at her table this evening. Surreptitiously, Bess glanced at Allison. She was staring down at her plate; Bess could not read her expression.

  “You’re here now,” Chuck said firmly. “That’s what’s important.”

  “Hey, Chris,” Mike said heartily. “Remember that time you tried to teach me how to play racquet ball? What a disaster! I was so full of myself going in. I thought, this will be a breeze. I’m powerful. I’ll annihilate this skinny guy!”

  Chris smiled. “You had that lump on your head for weeks.”

  “Served me right for bragging before I could prove myself.”

  Bess speared a slice of apple, dipped it into the bubbling cheese, and silently thanked Mike for saving the moment. He was one of the good guys.

  Chapter 80

  Bess and Nathan had brought dessert and coffee to the table. Marta found that in spite of her discomfort in anticipation of the evening, her appetite had been hearty. She considered a second small helping of pie, but rejected it.

  Mike had eaten two large pieces of pie and now he groaned. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Well, maybe one more mini-cupcake.”

  Conversation went on around her, but Marta had no real interest in joining in. It felt surreal to be sitting around a table, talking and laughing, acting as if nothing monumental was in the works. The sundering of a marriage. She wondered if Bess was as aware of the strangeness as she was, as she was sure the others were, or if her eternal optimism allowed her to put a normalized spin on the evening.

  “To the past,” Nathan was saying, raising his glass again. “It made us who we are.”

  Chuck laughed. “Let’s hope that’s a good thing. Personally, there are several moments of my past I wouldn’t mind being erased.”

  Dean sighed. “If only. In my case, everything from a series of really awful hairstyles to—Well, never mind the other stuff.”

  Marta saw Allison smile quickly and it seemed, automatically. Allison hadn’t uttered more than a word or two since they had come to the table. Well, Marta thought, that was understandable.

  “If we’ve learned something helpful from our past mistakes, those mistakes are as valuable as the good things we did.” Bess smiled.

  “On a lighter note,” Mike said suddenly, raising his coffee cup. “To melted cheese.”

  Amid general laughter the others, including Marta, raised their glasses and cups. She watched Chris take a small sip of water before setting his glass carefully next to his untouched piece of pie. A good deal of the harsh attitude Marta had taken toward her old friend in the recent past seemed to have fallen away, leaving in its place a curious, almost maternal fondness.

  What was that about? she wondered. And then she decided simply to accept it.

&
nbsp; Chapter 81

  For the duration of the meal Allison had studiously avoided looking directly at her soon-to-be ex-husband, though she could not block out the too-familiar voice. She heard Chris ask Marta about the children; heard him recall a funny moment he had shared with Leo when the boy was about five. She heard the tone of his voice, shock combined with grief, when he responded to the news of Chuck’s illness. His laugh, a bit strained this evening, was, nevertheless, musical.

  She thought she had never lived through a more difficult meal than this one, but living through it she was. She ate and drank automatically, unaware of flavor or texture, careful not to reveal the depth of her roiling emotions, smiling when the others did.

  Thank God for Nathan, she thought, sending a quick glance his way. He was a good host. He kept the conversation flowing, deftly turning it away from potentially painful subjects whenever possible, making sure everyone had what drink he or she needed. For all of his efforts, Allison was grateful.

  Now all that remained was her getaway. She was determined to avoid an awkward farewell with Chris; their greeting had been painful enough. At just the right moment she would disappear.

  She had always been good at disappearing.

  Chapter 82

  It wasn’t long after Nathan’s next toast that things wound down the way they often did at dinner parties, when an unspoken but universal decision was made to end the festivities and toddle off to bed or one’s car.

  “No one, and I mean no one, is to stick around to clear up tonight,” Bess announced. “I’m on it.”

  “For once I won’t argue,” Marta said. “I’m groggy with food. Not a complaint.”

  Suddenly, Bess noted that Allison was no longer with them.

  Everyone rose from their seats and began the round of farewells.