by Anne Rice
As nine o’clock sounded, certain Mayfairs were crying, having reached some point of crucial confession or understanding in a conversation with a long-lost cousin; or simply because everybody had drunk too much and danced too long and some people felt they ought to cry. Rowan didn’t exactly know. It just seemed a natural thing for Beatrice as she sat bawling on the couch with Aaron hugging her, and for Gifford, who for hours had been explaining something of seeming importance to a patient and wide-eyed Aunt Viv. Lily had gotten into a loud quarrel with Peter and Randall, deriding them as the “I remember Stella” crowd.
Rita Mae Lonigan was still crying when she left with her husband, Jerry. Amanda Curry, along with Franklin Curry, also made a tearful farewell.
By ten o’clock the crowd had dwindled to perhaps two hundred. Rowan had taken off her white satin high heels. She sat in a wing chair by the first fireplace of the parlor, her long sleeves pushed up, smoking a cigarette, with her feet curled under her, listening to Pierce talk about his last trip to Europe. She could not even recall when or where she had taken off her veil. Maybe Bea had taken it when she and Lily had gone to “prepare the wedding chamber,” whatever that meant. Her feet hurt worse than they did after an eight-hour operation. She was hungry, and only the desserts were left. And the cigarette was making her sick. She stubbed it out.
Michael and the old gray-haired priest from the parish were in fast conversation before the mantel at the other end of the room. The band had moved from Strauss to more recent sentimental favorites. Here and there voices broke out in time with the strains of “Blue Moon” or “The Tennessee Waltz.” The wedding cake, except for a piece to be saved for sentimental reasons, had been devoured down to the last crumb.
A group of Gradys, connections of Cortland, delayed on their journey from New York, flooded through the front door, full of apologies and exclamations. Others rushed to greet them. Rowan apologized for being shoeless and disheveled as she received their kisses. And in the back dining room, a large party which had come together for a series of photographs began to sing “My Wild Irish Rose.”
At eleven, Aaron kissed Rowan good-bye, as he left to take Aunt Vivian home. He would be at the hotel if needed, and he wished them a safe trip to Destin in the morning.
Michael walked with Aaron and his aunt to the front door. Michael’s old friends went off at last to continue their drinking at Parasol’s bar in the Irish Channel, after extracting the promise from Michael that he would meet with them for dinner in a couple of weeks. But the stairway was still blocked with couples in fast conversation. And the caterers were “rustling up something” in the kitchen for the New York Gradys.
At last, Ryan rose to his feet, demanded silence, and declared that this party was over! Everyone was to find his or her shoes, coat, purse, or what have you, and get out and leave the wedding couple alone. Taking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, he turned to Rowan.
“To the wedding couple,” he announced, his voice easily carrying over the hubbub. “To their first night in this house.”
Cheers once more. Everyone reaching for a last drink, and mere were a hundred repeats of the toast as glasses clinked together. “God bless all in this house!” declared the priest, who just happened to be going out the door. And a dozen different voices repeated the prayer.
“To Darcy Monahan and Katherine,” someone cried.
“To Julien and Mary Beth … to Stella … ”
The leavetaking, as was the fashion in this family, took over a half hour, what with the kissing, and the promises to get together, and the renewed conversations halfway out of the powder room and halfway off the porch and halfway out the gate.
Meantime the caterers swept through the rooms, silently retrieving every last glass and napkin, righting pillows, and snuffing candles, and scattering the arrangements of flowers which had been grouped on the banquet tables, and wiping up the last spills.
At last it was over. Ryan was the last one to go, having paid the caterers and seen to it that everything was perfect. The house was almost empty!
“Good night, my dears,” he said, and the high, front door slowly closed.
For a long moment Rowan and Michael looked at each other, then they broke into laughter, and Michael picked her up and swung her around in a circle, before he set her gentry back on her feet. She fell against him, hugging him the way she’d come to love, with her head against his chest. She was weak from laughing.
“We did it, Rowan!” he said. “The way everybody wanted it, we did it! It’s over, it’s done.”
She was still laughing silently, deliciously exhausted and pleasantly excited at the same time. But the clock was striking. “Listen,” she whispered. “Michael, it’s midnight.”
He took her by the hand, hit the wall button to shut off the light, and together they hurried up the darkened stairs.
Only one room on the second floor gave a light into the hallway, and it was their bedroom. They moved silently to the threshold.
“Rowan, look what they’ve done,” Michael said.
The room had been exquisitely prepared by Bea and Lily. A huge fragrant bouquet of pink roses stood on the mantel between the two silver candelabra.
On the dressing table, the champagne waited in its bucket of ice with two glasses beside it, on a silver tray.
The bed itself was ready, the lace coverlet turned down, the pillows fluffed, and the soft white bed curtains brought back and tied to the massive posts at the head.
A pretty nightgown and peignoir of white silk lay folded on one side of the bed and a pair of white cotton pajamas on the other. A single rose lay against the pillows, with a bit of ribbon tied to it, and another single candle stood on the small table to the right of the bed.
“How sweet of them to think of it,” Rowan said.
“And so it’s our wedding night, Rowan,” Michael said. “And the clock’s just stopped chiming. It’s the witching hour, darlin’, and we have it all to ourselves.”
Again, they looked at each other, and both began to laugh softly, feeding each other’s laughter, and quite unable to stop. They were too tired to do more than fall into bed beneath the covers, and they both knew it.
“Well, we ought to drink the champagne at least,” Rowan said, “before we collapse.”
He nodded, throwing aside the cutaway coat and tugging at the ascot. “I’ll tell you, Rowan, you have to love somebody to dress up in a suit like this!”
“Come on, Michael, everybody here does this sort of thing. Here, the zipper, please.” She turned her back to him, and then felt the hard shell of the bodice released at last, the gown falling loosely down around her feet. Carelessly, she unfastened the emerald and laid it on the end of the mantel.
At last everything was gathered away, and hung up, and they sat in bed together drinking the champagne, which was very cold and dry and delicious, and had foamed all over the glasses, as it ought to do. Michael was naked, but he loved caressing her through the silk nightgown, so she kept it on. Finally, no matter how tired they were, they were caught up in the deliciousness of the new bed, and the soft candlelight, and their usual heat was rising to a boil.
It was swift and violent, the way she loved it, the giant mahogany bed sturdy as if it were carved out of stone.
She lay against him afterwards, dozing and contented, and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Finally she sat up, straightened out the wrinkled nightgown, and drank a long cool sip of the champagne.
Michael sat up beside her, naked, one knee crooked, and lighted a cigarette, his head rolling against the high headboard of the bed.
“Ah Rowan, nothing went wrong, you know, absolutely nothing. It was the perfect day. God, that a day could be so perfect.”
Except that you saw something that scared you. But she didn’t say it. Because it had been perfect, even with that strange little moment. Perfect! Nothing to spoil it at all.
She took another little drink of the champagne, savoring t
he taste and her own tiredness, realizing that she was still too wound up to close her eyes.
A wave of dizziness came over her suddenly, with just a touch of the nausea she’d felt in the morning. She waved the cigarette smoke away.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, just nerves I think. Walking up that aisle was sort of like lifting a scalpel or something for the first time.”
“I know what you mean. Let me put this out.”
“No, it’s not that, cigarettes don’t bother me. I smoke now and then myself.” But it was the cigarette smoke, wasn’t it? Same thing earlier. She got up, the light silk nightgown feeling like nothing as it fell down around her, and went barefoot into the bath.
No Alka-Seltzer, the one thing that always worked at such moments. But she had brought some over, she remembered. She had put it in the kitchen cabinet along with aspirin and Band-Aids and all the other household supplies. She came back and put on her bedroom slippers and peignoir.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Downstairs, for Alka-Seltzer. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait a minute, Rowan, I’ll go.”
“Stay where you are. You’re not dressed. I’ll be back in two seconds. Maybe I’ll take the elevator, what the hell.”
The house was not really dark. A pale light from the garden came in through the many windows, illuminating the polished floor of the hallway, and the dining room, and even the butler’s pantry. It was easy to make her way without switching on a light.
She found the Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, and one of the new crystal glasses she had bought on a shopping spree with Lily and Bea. She filled the glass at the little sink on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stood there drinking the Alka-Seltzer and then closed her eyes.
Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.
“Good. I’m glad you feel better.”
“Thank you,” she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn’t it? A beautiful melodious voice.
She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.
He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been raw, heartfelt. But the expression on his face was a little colder, and entirely human. Slightly hurt perhaps, but not imploring as it had been that night in Tiburon. No, not that at all.
This had to be a real man. It was a joke of some kind. This was a real man. A man standing here in the kitchen, staring at her, a tall, brown-haired man with large dark eyes, and a beautifully shaped sensuous mouth.
The light through the French doors clearly revealed his shirt, and the rawhide vest he wore. Old, old clothing, clothing made with hand stitches and uneven seams, and big full sleeves.
“Well? Where is your will to destroy me, beautiful one?” he whispered, in the same low, vibrant, and heartbroken voice. “Where is your power to drive me back into hell?”
She was shaking uncontrollably. The glass slipped out of her wet fingers and struck the floor with a dull noise and rolled to one side. She gave a deep, ragged sigh, and kept her eyes focused upon him. The reasoning part of her observed that he was tall, perhaps over six feet, that he had heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. That his face was perfect in its proportions, and that his hair was softly mussed, as if by a wind. Not that delicate androgynous gentleman she’d seen on the deck, no.
“The better to love you, Rowan!” he whispered. “What shape would you have me take? He is not perfect, Rowan, he is human but not perfect. No.”
For a moment her fear was so great that she felt a tight squeezing inside of her as if she were going to die. Moving against it, defiant and enraged, she came forward, legs trembling, and reached out across the counter, and touched his cheek.
Roughened, like Michael’s. And the lips silky. God! Once again, she stumbled backwards, paralyzed, and unable to move or speak. Tremors moved through her limbs.
“You fear me, Rowan?” he said, lips barely moving as she focused on them. “Why? Leave your friend, Aaron, alone, you commanded me, and I did as you commanded, did I not?”
“What do you want?”
“Ah, that would be a very long time in the telling,” he answered, the Scottish accent thickened. “And he waits for you, your lover, and your husband, on this your wedding night. And he grows anxious that you do not come.”
The face softened, torn suddenly with pain. How could an illusion be this vital?
“Go, Rowan, go back to him,” he said sadly, “and if you tell him I am here, you will make him more miserable than even you know. And I shall hide from you again, and the fear and the suspicion will eat at him, and I will come only when I want to come.”
“All right. I won’t tell him,” she whispered. “But don’t you harm him. Don’t you bring the slightest fear or worry to him. And the other tricks, stop them! Don’t plague him with tricks! Or I swear to you, I will never never speak to you. And I will drive you away.”
The beautiful face looked tragic, and the brown eyes grew soft and infinitely sad.
“And Aaron, you’re never to harm Aaron. Never. Never to harm anyone, do you hear me?”
“As you say, Rowan,” he said, the words flowing like music, full of sorrow and quiet strength. “What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan? Come to me when he sleeps. Tonight, tomorrow, come when you will. There is no time for me. I am here when you say my name. But keep faith with me, Rowan. Come alone to me, and in secret. Or I will not answer. I love you, my beautiful Rowan. But I have a will. I do.”
The figure suddenly shimmered as if a sourceless light had struck it; it brightened and a thousand tiny details of it were suddenly visible. Then it became transparent, and a gust of warm air struck her, frightening her, and then leaving her alone in the darkness, with nothing there.
She put her hand to her mouth. The nausea came again. She stood waiting it out, shivering, and on the verge of screaming, when she heard Michael’s soft but unmistakable tread coming through the pantry and into the kitchen. She forced herself to open her eyes.
He had slipped into his jeans, and his chest and his feet were bare.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he whispered. He saw the glass gleaming in the dark; against the bottom of the refrigerator. He bent down, past her, and picked it up and put it in the sink. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Michael,” she said thickly, trying to control the trembling, the tears springing to her eyes. “I’m sick, just a little sick. It happened this morning, and this afternoon and yesterday too actually. I don’t know what it is. It was the cigarette just now. I’ll be OK, Michael, honestly. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know what it is?” he asked her.
“No, I just … I guess it’s … cigarettes never did that to me before.… ”
“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “You sure you don’t know?”
She felt his hands on her shoulders. She felt his hair brush her cheek gently as he bent to kiss the tops of her breasts. She started to cry, her hands clasping his head, feeling the silkiness of his hair.
“Dr. Mayfair,” he said. “Even I know what it is.”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “I just need to sleep, to go upstairs.”
“You’re pregnant, honey. Go look at yourself in the mirror.” And very gently he touched her breasts again, and she herself felt the plumpness, the slight soreness, and she knew, knew absolutely from all the other little unnoticed signs, that he was right. Absolutely right.
She dissolved into tears. She let him pick her up and tumble her against him, and carry her slowly through the house. Her body ached from the tension of the awful moments in the kitchen, and her sobs were coming dry and painfully from her throat. She didn’t think it was possible for him to carry her up that long stairway, but he did it, and she let him do it, crying against h
is chest, her fingers tight around his neck.
He set her down on the bed, and kissed her. In a daze she watched him blow out the candles, and come back to her.
“I love you so much, Rowan,” he said. He was crying too. “I love you so much. I’ve never been so happy … it comes in waves, and each time I think it’s the pinnacle, and then it comes again. And this of all nights to know … God, what a wedding gift, Rowan. What did I ever do to deserve this happiness, I wish I knew.”
“I love you, too, my darling. Yes … so happy.” As he climbed under the covers, she turned away, tucking herself against him, and feeling his knees draw up under hers. She cried against the pillow, taking his hand and folding it over her breasts.
“Everything is so perfect,” he whispered.
“Nothing to spoil it,” she whispered, “not a single thing.”
Forty-one
SHE WOKE BEFORE he did. After the first round of nausea, she packed the suitcases quickly, with all the prefolded bundles of clothes. Then she went downstairs into the kitchen.
Everything clean and quiet in the sunlight. No sign of what had taken place last night. And the pool sparkling out there beyond the screened porch. And the sun filtering down softly through the screens onto the white wicker furniture.
She examined the counter. She examined the floor. She could detect nothing. Then, filled with revulsion and anger, she made the coffee as quickly as she could, so as to get out of the room, and she brought it up to Michael.
He was just opening his eyes.
“Let’s take off now,” she said.
“I thought we wouldn’t leave till this afternoon,” he said sleepily. “But sure, we can go now, if you want to.” Ever her agreeable hero. He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, his unshaven beard deliciously scratchy. “How do you feel?” he whispered.
“I’m fine now,” she said. She reached out and touched the little gold crucifix tangled in the dark hair of his chest. “It was bad for about half an hour. Probably it will come again. I’ll sleep when it does. I’d love to get to Destin in time to walk on the beach in the sunshine.”
