“Oh?”
“He’s ready to settle. I think his lawyer saw the handwriting on the wall. Anyway, it turns out he’s accepted a new job in New York. He’s moving immediately, and he wanted to know if I wanted to buy out his share of the house.”
“The mansion?”
“Whatever. There’s nothing there for me now.”
“Is the girlfriend going with him?”
“No. She’s gone to seek her fame and fortune in Hollywood. Ben didn’t sound too heartbroken about it. In fact, I think he was relieved.”
Wyatt turned to look at her. “How about you? Are you relieved? To have her out of the picture?”
She shrugged. “Funny you should ask. I find myself curiously apathetic about J’Aimee. Guess I’ve let go of the anger. I wonder what Paula would say about that.”
“I think she’d say you’ve had a growth moment,” Wyatt said, making two-fingered quote marks in the air.
“Maybe I have,” Grace mused. “I’ll have to write about that in my journal.” She reached over and laced her fingers through his. “How ’bout you? Had any growth moments of your own lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. A couple of them, actually.”
“Wanna share?” She kept her tone light.
“Dad and I had some long talks this week. Turns out, he’s not opposed to my selling Jungle Jerry’s to the state for a park.”
“Really? So … it’s a done deal?”
“We’re dealing with the state of Florida, Grace. Everything works at a snail’s pace with them. But it turns out they’ve got some kind of federal grant to develop what they call urban parklands. Smaller parks, under fifty acres, like ours, where the emphasis will be on community education rather than recreation. We’d keep the original gardens, get rid of the old playground equipment, and, in its place, develop demonstration gardens for heirloom Florida fruits, vegetables, and flowers. The guy with the state seems to think there’s a good chance I’d be offered the job as park superintendent, or whatever they call them these days.”
“That’s great, Wyatt!” she said, beaming. “It sounds perfect for you.”
“I know. If I had to write my dream-job description, this would be it.”
Sweetie perked up her ears and gave a low growl. They both looked up and saw an elderly man inching slowly down the beach toward them. He was shirtless and his sun-browned skin gleamed in the dying sunlight. Baggy black shorts hung from his hips to just above mahogany-colored knobby knees. Below these he wore what looked like white surgical stockings and thick-soled black rubber sandals. He didn’t appear to see or hear them—or Sweetie.
The old man wore a pair of enormous earphones connected to an unwieldy metal detector, and his eyes were glued to the sand as he waved the detector’s wand back and forth over a three-foot-wide swath of sand.
Grace nodded in his direction. “You think he ever finds anything valuable? From the looks of him, he must spend hours and hours with that thing.”
“He probably finds lots of bottle caps and pennies. Maybe the occasional set of keys or a piece of jewelry. Probably just enough to keep him in gas and beer,” Wyatt said.
“But he never gives up. And he walks for miles. I’ve seen him every day this week, on the beach outside Mitzi’s condo. I guess it gives him something to do,” Grace said.
“You said you had a couple growth moments this week?” Grace asked idly, her eyes following the treasure seeker’s progress. “What was the other one?”
“Mm-hmm,” Wyatt said. He rested his lips briefly against her right temple. “Callie showed up at the park again yesterday, begging me to give her a job. And another chance.”
Grace half stood and tried to pull away, but Wyatt gently tugged her back down beside him.
“I told her no,” he said, placing his hand on her cheek. “Hell, no. What you said just now—that there’s nothing there for you—back at your old house, with Ben. That’s how it is with me and Callie. I wish her well, for Bo’s sake, but that’s it.”
“You’re sure?” Grace held her breath.
“Never surer,” Wyatt said. “It’s you and me now, kid, if you’ll have me.” Slowly, he slid off the thick gold band on his left ring finger. He stood up, cocked his throwing arm back, and made his pitch.
“This is me, letting go,” he said.
The wedding band spiraled and looped, the dull gold catching glints of the fading sunlight. It landed fifty feet away, in the soft sand, maybe twenty yards in front of the old man, who seemed not to see it.
“Good arm, huh?” Wyatt said, admiring his own prowess.
Grace wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed her approval. “Good arm, good man,” she murmured. “Good everything.”
Epilogue
True Grace, Feb. 14
The old rules of etiquette for second marriages were stern and absolute. In her starchy 1957 Complete Book of Etiquette: A Guide to Gracious Living, Amy Vanderbilt opined that the second-time ceremony must be small, and that the “mature” bride should never wear white or a veil, or, heaven forbid, expect wedding gifts. She cautioned, too, that many ministers would actually refuse to perform a second wedding in a church! Invitations should not be engraved, as with a formal first wedding, but a handwritten note would be acceptable.
Thankfully, wedding rules these days have been relaxed, or sometimes, totally discarded. Although I’m a traditionalist at heart, for our own second wedding, my intended and I wanted something intimate and meaningful, with just a few close friends and family members.
We actually didn’t tell our guests that they were coming to a wedding at all. Instead, we invited them to what we simply billed as a garden party. Of course, we have the good fortune to have access to one of the most beautiful settings I can imagine, Wyatt’s family’s small but charming botanical park, here on Florida’s Gulf Coast.
The party was to be the last private family party at Jungle Jerry’s, an old-timey Florida tourist attraction founded by Wyatt’s grandparents shortly after World War II, before the park is turned over to the state of Florida.
Our guests arrived at the park’s front gate at dusk and were ferried to the party site by golf carts. When they reached the small enclosed butterfly garden, they were greeted with glasses of pink champagne, iced tea, or locally brewed beer.
Wyatt and I mingled with our guests and enjoyed the food he and I prepared together from local farms and fishermen—stone crab “martinis,” chilled shrimp and avocado gazpacho, and crab beignets with pineapple-mango salsa. All the food was set out on rustic wooden picnic tables that were hand-built years ago by Wyatt’s grandfather, with centerpieces of hibiscus, lilies, orchids, and other flowers picked right from the gardens.
Shortly before sunset, a small string quartet arrived and began to play classical music. At that point, we invited everybody to be seated in a semicircle of battered vintage lawn chairs and proceeded to the surprise event of the evening—our wedding!
The minister, a family friend who happens to be a regular at my mother’s bar, stepped in front of a weathered wooden trellis, which was lit by hundreds of tiny white fairy lights and blooming with pale pink New Dawn roses.
When the wedding march started, I joined Wyatt in front of the makeshift altar.
Amy Vanderbilt says that for a second-time-around wedding, the attendants should be limited to one each for the bride and groom and should be the bride and groom’s age. But, since Amy’s long gone, we broke the rules—just a little.
The bride (that’s me!) wore a 1960s vintage lace-over-silk minidress dyed the same exact hue as the roses. My bouquet was one made for me by Wyatt, from flowers he grew at the park, including hot-pink lilies, deep-violet hydrangeas, and my favorites—heavenly white gardenias. No other flowers were necessary, since the scent of the orange blossoms from the citrus gardens blanketed the late-afternoon air.
I promised Wyatt I wouldn’t ask him to get too dressed up, so he chose his own khaki slacks, a nice white dress shirt—and in a m
ajor concession to the importance of the occasion, a navy blue blazer, which he promptly ditched right after the ceremony. He also wore a boutonniere—of rosemary and white phlox clipped from the garden at our tiny newly restored cottage.
Since my own father is deceased, Wyatt’s dad, Nelson, agreed to give me away. Wyatt chose his six-year-old son Bo as his best man. Nelson wore his best (and only) good gray suit, and Bo was heartbreakingly adorable in his own khakis and blue blazer.
I’d begged my mother to be my maid of honor, but she gracefully declined with the excuse that she didn’t want anybody to mistake her for a maiden. As if!
Instead, my friend Camryn agreed to be my attendant. Camryn loves fashion, so she wore a chic one-shouldered deep-violet silk dress by a designer so trendy I’d never heard of her. And spike heels—Camryn says she feels barefoot unless she’s wearing at least four-inch heels—even during a garden wedding in February.
Amy Vanderbilt probably never considered the idea of including a pet in a wedding party, but since our little rescue dog, Sweetie, is such an important part of our blended family, she had to have a role in our big day. Bo was proud and happy to walk her down the aisle, although he did state loudly that he thought the pink tulle ruffle I fastened around her neck was “disgusting.”
After we said our vows, my mother revealed her masterpiece—a three-tiered lemon pound cake with strawberry cream cheese frosting—topped with an ingenious bride and groom crafted by Bo—from Legos.
We cut the cake, had some toasts, and, when it got dark and chilly, we all repaired to the after party at the Sandbox, my mother’s bar in nearby Cortez.
I don’t know what Amy Vanderbilt would have thought of our second-time-around wedding, but I know, for us, it was definitely an affair to remember.
* * *
Grace was rushing around the bar, greeting guests, when she spotted a newcomer out of the corner of her eye. She threw her arms around the woman.
“Suzanne! You came back. I’m so happy to see you.”
“There’s no way I would have missed your garden party—and then to sneak in a wedding, well, what can I say? It was beautiful, unexpected, and so romantic, Grace. Like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Thanks,” Grace said, beaming. She gestured to the willowy young woman at Suzanne’s side. “And this must be Darby.”
“It is. Darby, meet our beautiful, blushing bride, Grace.”
Wyatt wandered up and wrapped an arm around Suzanne’s and Grace’s waists. “And don’t forget the blushing bridegroom.”
Darby was a slender brunette, two inches taller than her mother, but with the same striking olive-green eyes. “Congratulations,” she said shyly. “Mom’s told me all about you, and the rest of the group.”
“Look who’s here,” Camryn shrieked, enveloping Suzanne in a hug before standing back to critique her appearance. “You look amazing,” Camryn said. “How’s life in North Carolina? And the new job?”
“It’s good,” Suzanne said. “I’m slowly getting used to winter. And snow! I had to actually go out and buy a wool coat and boots. The job is good.” She glanced at Darby, who’d drifted off and was chatting with Camryn’s daughter, Jana. “Elon is a good fit. For both of us.”
Camryn leaned in, her eyes dancing with a mischevious glint. “And what about men? Are you getting any action?”
Suzanne blushed violently. “I’ve actually had a couple real dates. The men’s soccer coach. He’s a good bit younger, but…”
“Ooh, Suzanne. You’re a cougar!” Camryn linked her arm through Suzanne’s and Grace’s. “Look at us now, y’all. Grace and Wyatt married. Suzanne moved off and prowling around up there in North Carolina…”
“What about you?” Suzanne asked. “Grace says you left News Four You.”
“I sure did,” Camryn said. “There was a senior producer’s slot open, but I got passed over, so I up and left. I’m producing the six o’clock news at channel two. The money’s not quite as good, but I get to sleep in for the first time in twenty years. And I sub-in on camera when somebody’s out sick or on vacation.”
“Men?” Suzanne raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I was seeing somebody, but it didn’t work out,” Camryn said. “That’s one thing I learned from my divorce. If it’s not right, it’s not right. Cut your losses and move on.”
“Has anybody heard from Ashleigh?” Suzanne asked, looking around the room.
“Oh, sure,” Camryn said. “You can’t keep that girl down. She did some work-release thing as part of her sentence for trying to kill her ex’s baby mama. She’s working for another plastic surgeon and living down in Naples. She has to wear one of those electronic-monitoring bracelet things, which she hates, ’cuz she says it makes her ankles look fat, so she has to wear pants and can’t show off her legs anymore.”
“Ashleigh would have been here today, except the idea of being around all the party stuff—you know, with liquor and everything, made her a little anxious,” Grace said. “She’s been clean and sober for six months now.”
“Really?” Suzanne looked taken aback. “I mean, you two are on speaking terms? After everything that happened?”
“Grace has a much more forgiving heart than I do,” Wyatt said. “I’m good with Ashleigh now, although Grace is banned from ever getting in a car with her again.”
Grace laughed. “She’s changed a lot since that day. I think it was a turning point for her.”
“You’ll never guess who Ashleigh’s AA sponsor was,” Camryn said.
“Who?” Suzanne was still scanning the room, looking for familiar faces.
“None other than Paula Talbott-Sinclair,” Camryn said.
“I wondered what happened to Paula,” Suzanne admitted. “I know you all might disagree, but I really think she did eventually help all of us in our group.”
Wyatt pulled Grace into his arms. “I, for one, am eternally grateful to Paula. Without her, I might never have met the love of my life.”
Grace rewarded her new husband with a kiss, then looked at her friends. “He’s a sweet-talking fool, but he’s right about Paula. If she did nothing else, she brought us all together, at the lowest point in our lives, and forced us to look at our attitudes and expectations about love.”
“Don’t forget what we did for her,” Camryn chimed in. “She might still be mixed up with that parasite Cedric Stackpole if we hadn’t exposed him for the scum-sucking dog he really is. I bet she never would have had the nerve to rat him out to the state if it hadn’t been for us. And she damn sure wouldn’t have been able to reinvent herself like she has without me.”
“Paula reinvented herself?” Suzanne looked puzzled. “How? And what did you have to do with that?”
“Paula is now a certified laughter coach,” Camryn said. “She works with people dealing with depression, terminal illness, and severe emotional problems. I did a feature story on her before I left News Four, and now she’s got her own syndicated radio show.”
“Any news about dear old Stackpole?” Suzanne asked.
“He’s actually been in the news a good bit recently,” Grace said, not bothering to suppress her glee. “The feds raided his new law office and seized all his tax records. My lawyer says the IRS is going after him big-time for falsifying tax records and tax evasion, among other things.”
“That’s one story I would have loved to have been in on,” Camryn said. “What I wouldn’t give to stick a live microphone in his sorry face.”
“Just his face?” Wyatt asked. “And don’t forget, Stackpole still has to deal with the lawsuit filed by that guy who filmed his wife and girlfriend’s hair-pulling match in Sarasota. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, huh?”
As they chatted and caught up on each other’s lives, music began to filter into the room. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as they were cleared out of the way, and guests began to edge onto the makeshift dance floor.
“You hired a DJ?” Suzanne asked, looking around the room.
“Better,” Rochelle said, joining the group. “When Grace was making me clean up the place, I finally got rid of Butch’s old Ms. Pac-Man game. It was broken, and I couldn’t get anybody to fix it. Instead, I found an old jukebox at the flea market and had it restored. I put in all the records he and I used to dance to.”
“And even some music from the last half century,” Wyatt teased.
Grace tugged at his arm. “Okay, enough talk, mister. This is our wedding night, and you are going to dance with me, and that’s final.”
“Gladly,” Wyatt said, leading her into the middle of the cramped floor.
Suzanne looked at Camryn. “Dance?”
“Damn straight,” Camryn said. “But just so you know, I always lead.”
* * *
The party was still in full swing at ten o’clock, when the two grizzled barflies known as Miller and Bud approached the Sandbox door. Miller pushed on the door, but it didn’t move.
“Hey,” he said, puzzled. “The lights are on, but it’s locked. What’s up with that?”
Bud pointed to a small hand-lettered note taped to the door.
CLOSED DUE TO PRIVATE PARTY
“They can’t do that to us,” Miller protested. “It’s Sunday night. We always watch the games on Sundays.”
Bud pressed his bulbous pink nose against the glass door and peered inside. “Man! They got all kind of food on the tables, and balloons and decorations and shit, and some kind of fancy pink drinks in martini glasses.”
Miller shoved him aside and took a gander for himself. “They’re dancing!” He turned to Bud in astonishment. “They’re actually dancing in there.” He frowned. “I see a couple guys—there’s an old dude in a suit, and a younger guy dancing with Rochelle’s daughter, and some little kid—hey, the kid is dancing with Rochelle.”
“Lemme see.” Bud elbowed him out of the way. He looked disgusted. “It’s mostly women in there. And they’re not even watching the game.”
“Must be a ladies’ night thing,” Miller concluded sadly as he turned away from the door. “Looks like we’re gonna have to find ourselves someplace new, Bud.”
Ladies' Night Page 51
