by Jeff High
"Clayton was blessed with the ability of enjoying to the utmost, the most ordinary thing." A smile had re-entered her voice. "He amazed me. He lived with the conviction that attitude was destiny. He was pragmatic, mind you. But he had this remarkable ability to smile at whatever came his way. He saw life as an adventure." She paused, turned her eyes toward me, and spoke in a voice of warm gratitude. "And for all those years I was lucky enough to tag along."
I nodded and smiled, my thoughts still off balance. “So, since we were just talking about weddings, I’m guessing that you and Clayton had a grand one?”
Polly's eyes drifted tenderly toward the floor. "Oh, yes. There were so many parties. We met at Vanderbilt and became engaged right after we graduated. I grew up in Belle Meade, and Clayton's family had been here forever. We always laughed because it seemed our parents were in competition as to who could throw the largest and most elaborate bashes. Mind you, this was when the world was quite a bit younger. But they were a lot of fun; highball evenings, big earrings, Chinese lanterns flickering on neatly cropped lawns, and loads of laughter and champagne. It was quite wonderful really. Clayton and I were so amused by it all. You see, Dr. Bradford, we both had come from money, but we knew who we were. We weren't a glitzy couple. We were rather plain, actually, compared to the opulent crowd we ran with. But we had each other. We were in our early twenties and thought we could simply dream our future.”
I nodded politely, letting my silence encourage her to continue.
"But then, shortly after we moved here Daddy's business fell apart. Bankruptcy. They had to sell everything. What was left was all family name and no fine china. After that, all of our friendships in Nashville seemed to evaporate. I was devastated, but Clayton never thought twice about it. I think he spent the rest of his life trying to make it up to me like it was his fault. Absurd, I know. But he loved me like that. We had one incredible adventure after another."
I smiled warmly. “Well, it sounds like the two of you had an interesting life together.” Even as the words left my mouth, I realized how patronizing they must have sounded. It was little more than superfluous commentary and not reflective of the deeper empathy that I felt for Polly’s story.
But the damage was done.
Polly again looked toward the floor, seemingly self-conscious, if not a little embarrassed at having spoken so openly about her past. I searched for something else to say, but it seemed a barrier had come between us. She exhaled a small gesture of fortification and stood. “Would you like more coffee?”
Spontaneously, I stood as well. “No, thank you. I probably should be going. But let me help you get everything back to the kitchen.” I set my cup on the silver tray and proceeded to pick it up.
Polly spoke with kind resignation. “Dr. Bradford, there’s really no need.”
I responded briskly, trying to proffer a kindness with my actions that I was unable to do with my words. “No, I insist. Please, let me help.”
At first Polly resisted, but ultimately, she shrugged. "Very well."
I followed her to the kitchen and set the tray on the counter near the sink. She thanked me, and I made a movement toward departing when a question came to mind. “Polly, how are you with your medications?”
At first, she seemed at a loss. “What medications, Dr. Bradford?”
For a moment, her uncertainty was contagious. I stared at her blankly. “Polly, I’m pretty sure I’ve written you a prescription for anxiety and one to help you sleep.”
Her eyes were searching. Her air of confusion persisted. “Do you mind waiting a moment? I’ll be right back.”
“Certainly.” She exited down a hallway. While waiting, I folded my arms and leaned against a small built-in desk, casually glancing at the stacks of bills and magazines. That's when I noticed something interesting. There was a letter size calendar on Polly's desk that oddly, was open to June. There were two handwritten notes. In the small box of June first was written, “The day I married Clayton. The best day of my life.” Three days later, in the small box of June fourth was written, “The day Clayton died. The worst day of my life.”
I looked up as Polly re-entered the room. She was oblivious to my nosy curiosity. “Here they are Dr. Bradford. They were in my medicine cabinet. I guess I had completely forgotten about them.”
The two prescription bottles were full. “It’s fine,” I replied. There’s no call to take one unless you need it.”
Polly shook her head, still in a kind of frustrated disbelief. “I guess being forgetful is just a part of age.”
I stared at her for a moment, weighing out what she said. Polly was more than a little distraught with this realization about her medications. There seemed to be something larger troubling her.
“Polly, we all forget things. Is there something else bothering you?”
At first, she didn’t respond, still wanting resolution for the doubt that clutched her. But as she returned to the present, she schooled herself to a more ordered manner. “No, I’m fine,” she said, doing her best to appear recovered and at ease. I pressed my lips together and nodded. She followed me to the front door. As I said goodbye I couldn’t help but notice that Polly had a veil of weariness upon her, something she wore like a vague perfume. More than I had ever noticed before, it seemed to define her. She thanked me again for stopping by, and I walked to the car.
By now the sun had set. I drove home, fed the dogs, and ate a bite of dinner. Afterward, I walked out into the backyard to see the stars. The night was dark as velvet; silently intense, and gorgeous. I had seen a different side of Polly Shropshire, one that I was uncertain as to how to categorize. In her own home, surrounded by the strength of her things, she had been courteous and vulnerable. And our conversation weighed upon me because I had handled it so poorly. Previously I had only known her as a haughty woman who seemed to keep a list of every social injustice served upon her. No doubt, the list was long and its keeper sour. Yet now I understood how her husband had been the center of her heart and life. His death had dismantled the order of her world, and without him, she felt incomplete. And perhaps I was a little haunted by her words about Christine and me. It seemed they rang a bit too true. Christine was the one with the strength, with a zest for life, and a seemingly unassailable optimism. It was impossible not to make comparisons. This left me as the uncertain one who could easily turn bitter when life failed to unfold as I planned. The thought struck a little too close for comfort.
I stretched my arms high above me and gazed into the vast ocean of stars, exhaling a deep and glorious yawn. As I turned to make my way to the back porch, I thought of Polly’s words. “We thought we could simply dream our future,” she had said. Perhaps this one statement impacted me so powerfully because my conversation with her had somehow availed an encapsulated understanding of their life together; of its joys and its richness.
And in that moment, I realized my grand failure, the grand fallacy of my previous logic. I had been dreaming our future, not we. It was time to tell Christine everything; about the offer, about the money, and about my resolve to stay in Watervalley. It also occurred to me that revealing such a long-held secret might appropriately invoke some hurt feelings, doubts, and mistrust. The matter needed to be handled with some careful forethought. Then, an idea struck me about “how,” and most importantly, “where” to do it. “When,” would take a little planning.
Chapter 30
PLANS
Christine sat studiously in the leather chair across from my desk. She was leaning forward with her elbow firmly planted on the top of her crossed legs, her chin in her palm, and her lips together in a small pout of concentration. Spread out in front of her were five different examples of wedding invitations displaying various fonts and wording. She was scrutinizing them with the kind of intensity normally attributed to Russian chess players. I was seated in the chair beside her doing my best to exhibit great facial interest. But in truth, I was studying her more than the invitations, and my thoug
hts had delightfully drifted to a much more primitive realm. Soon enough, this side trip of my wanton imagination was detected. Christine glanced at me reproachfully.
“Bradford, you need to be focused.”
“Oh, I’m very focused.” I countered innocently.
She responded with a sly, admonishing smile and returned her gaze to the invitations. “Luke, dear. It’s the first week of April. The wedding is June tenth. We have to get things decided. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.”
“Sure I am. Wedding invitations are fun.”
“Humph,” she gushed under her breath. “Said no man ever.”
“No, really. This is...you know, great.”
“Shouldn’t your pants be on fire right now?”
I needed to redirect this inquisition. “Which one do you like best?”
“You go first.”
“Okay.” I thoroughly reviewed the five options for a full and exhausting two seconds. “I like that one.”
Christine's face knotted into a twist of disapproval. "No, that one's a little too pretentious. I like this one better."
"Gee didn't see that coming."
“You don’t like it?”
"No, no. It's perfect. I mean, look at it. All the letters are swirly, and there're no misspelled words. What's not to love?"
Christine leisurely collapsed to the back of her chair, a telling sign of uncharmed resignation. “Bradford, sometimes I think you’re just a toddler on growth serum.”
I thought for a moment. Then, I partially stood and shifted my chair so that it faced her. I leaned back, extended my legs, and laced my fingers behind my head. "Christine, the only thing that is important to me about this wedding is that in ten weeks I hear the words, ‘I do.' Every one of these invitations tells who, what, where, and when. The fact that everybody in Watervalley and most of their pets already know these details makes it even less critical. So, whichever one makes you happy is grand with me."
She smiled artfully and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, okay.” She said reluctantly. “I guess you’ve redeemed yourself. But only a little.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
She returned to business quickly. "So, here's the next question. Mom and I have been putting together a list of names, and it comes to over two hundred. It could easily jump to three hundred."
“Three hundred? Are you inviting people from an alternate universe?”
She ignored me. “The problem is your side of the equation. Everybody in town knows you. You’re their doctor. For many of them, they think of you as family.”
“Which means they will be hurt if I don’t invite them.”
“Correct. It seems to be an everyone or no one proposition.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“So, how many people are we talking about here?”
"As far as how many would show I'm thinking maybe two to three hundred."
"The sanctuary at First Pres will hold seven hundred. That shouldn't be a problem. The problem is the invitations. Do we send one to every patient or do some blanket invite."
“I don’t know,” I said, slightly bewildered. “We would be talking about almost four hundred families along with your three hundred invitations.
“Taking out the likely overlap we’re looking at five hundred plus invitations. And all of them have to be individually addressed by hand.”
“By hand? Seriously?”
“Yes, Luke. By hand.”
"We have everybody's address on the computer. We could just run labels."
For a long moment, she stared at me with a face that I could only describe as a mix of affection and disbelief. "Luke," she said patiently. "This is a wedding invitation, not a notice to get your flu shot. They have to be hand addressed."
“I guess an e-vite is completely out of the question?”
Christine crossed her arms, offering only an indignant drop of her chin.
"Okay. Hand-addressed it is. And, contrary to my profession, I actually have excellent handwriting. I can help."
“Good. That settles that,” she said. Once again, she seemed energized with a sense of progress. But then, reality sunk in. “Luke, how long do you think it will take to do that many?”
“Well, let’s think about it for a minute. Provided we don’t take any breaks, I’d say probably until the end of time.”
She said nothing, and I couldn’t quite tell if she wanted to laugh or hit me. But eventually she shook her head and proceeded to gather the five invitations. “Look, we’ve decided which invitation. So, we’ve made a little headway. Let’s table the ‘how many’ question and let me talk to the wedding planner. Maybe she can think of a creative way to invite your patients.”
“Perfect. What’s the next order of business?”
“I’d like your opinion on something.”
“Sure.”
"Well, as you know, the reception afterward is going to be outside on the lawn at the farm. The photographer has quoted an option to have a drone make aerial photos and videos which sounds like such a great idea. What do you think?
I shrugged. “Sure. I guess. How much is he talking about?”
Christine retrieved a paper from her folder and handed it to me. I blew out a short whistle and handed it back. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just re-task a satellite.”
“It is quite a bit. But grandmother Chambers loves the idea and has offered to pay for it.”
“Fine by me. If she’s buying, I’m flying.” I paused, shaking my head lightly. “You know, by my calculations, this wedding is costing about the same as the Hoover Dam.”
Christine raised an acknowledging eyebrow. “Don’t remind me. I mean, I have thought about it, about doing something small and simple. But then, so many people that I care about and who care about me would be left out. I don’t think there’s an alternative.”
I leisurely scratched the back of my head. “Hey, a girl only gets married once.”
A soft smile eased upon her. She leaned toward me. Her voice was warm and yielding. “That’s certainly my plan, Dr. Bradford.”
To admit that I was charmed would be an understatement. I could do little more than plunge delightfully into the deep well of her brown eyes. But a moment later, she put her hands together and spoke with great animation.
“Oh, by the way. Mr. Clancy has offered to drive us away from the reception in his horse-drawn carriage. It’s white with an open top like the ones used for tours in Charleston.”
“Are you talking about Lester Clancy, the little fellow out on Williamsport Pike?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I know him and his horse. They rode with Roosevelt over San Juan Hill. I mean, don’t get me wrong. The whole carriage thing sounds nice, but have you seen Mr. Clancy’s horse? He voted in the last three elections. I'm not sure he'd win out against a strong headwind. And Lester is no spring chicken either. His eyesight is terrible. It’ll be like being chauffeured by Mr. Magoo.”
Her response was affectionate but noticeably instructional. "I think that he could take us from the reception down the driveway to the front entrance. It's only a few hundred yards. From there we could hop in your car and make our getaway." I could tell by both look and tone that this was an idea in which the decision had already been made.
“Come to think of it, I’ve always wanted to ride away in a white carriage.”
Christine responded with contented diplomacy. "Good answer, Bradford. I thought that's how you felt. Now, a couple of other things. I've got three bridal showers coming up in the next few weeks, and Uncle John and some of Mom's friends want to throw a big party for us."
The mention of John’s name made me curious. “Have you talked to your uncle recently?”
“Not really. Why? I thought the two of you were big chums.”
"Well, I'd say we are. But lately, he seems to be spending most of his spare time wi
th Ann. Not that that's a bad thing."
“I do remember that mom said he’s not drinking as much as he was.”
“That may not be saying much. To drink any more he’d have to be doing it in his sleep.”
Christine nodded and spoke wistfully. “I know. Uncle John. I love him dearly. But his drinking worries me.” After a moments reflection, she added. “But you say he and Ann are a steady item?”
“Yes. It’s amazing, actually. Ann is as smart as they come, and you’d think the key to loving a man like John is to have a poor short-term memory. But lately, they’ve been inseparable.”
Christine seemed pleased with this news. Then as she gathered everything back into her folder, she spoke with fresh exuberance.
“So, how are plans for the bachelor party coming along?”
“Not sure on that one. John hasn’t really mentioned anything.”
“Well, surely he’ll come up with something. Have you said anything to him?”
“Only that I wanted it to include a bouncy house.”
“Very funny, Bradford. And have you decided who the groomsmen are going to be?
“Yes. I’ve chosen the groomsmen very carefully, based on their ability to answer yes to a critically important question.”
“Which is?”
“Do you want to pay for your own tux and be in my wedding?”
Christine gushed an exasperated sigh and for a long moment, stared blankly into the room. She spoke to the general air in a searching, reflective voice. "How did I ever fall in love with you? There is not an adult bone in your body."
She uttered an exasperated "ugggh," and playfully shoved my shoulder. Yet all the while she was doing her best to stifle an irrepressible laugh.
Before I could respond there was a simultaneous knock and opening of my office door. Nancy Orman leaned in. “We’re getting ready to close up Dr. Bradford. Do you need anything?”
Christine and I were bubbling in smothered laughter. “Yes,” I said buoyantly. This woman just assaulted me. What do you think should be done about that?”
