Attach ments(86)

<<Beth to Jennifer>> I really am sorry. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me about what happened.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Please. Who else am I going to talk to? Tell me about the wedding.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> All right. But I warn you, it’s a pretty long story. It might take me longer to tell you about the wedding than it did to actually attend the wedding, Catholic Mass included. Give me a few weeks to type it out.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I’ll give you a few hours. I suppose I can find something to edit while I’m waiting.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Are you sure we’re cool? Because I can apologize some more. I give great penance.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Just tell me about the wedding.





From: Beth Fremont

To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

Sent: Wed, 02/16/2000 4:33 PM

Subject: To have and to hold.

All right, I actually typed this out in a News document and saved it on the system so that I wouldn’t lose it and have to start over. Make sure it doesn’t get filed for the bulldog edition, okay?

Now, you’re sure you’re ready for this? It’s a really long story.

And you’re sure you aren’t still mad at me? Do you want to talk more about the baby? Because the wedding will hold. (It’s not exactly breaking news at this point.)

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Yes, I’m ready, and no, I’m not mad. Now, out with it!

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Okay, well, here goes …

The wedding itself was perfectly lovely.

As expected, I looked fairly monstrous in my bridesmaid dress. But I seemed to be the only one who noticed, and even I was sick of hearing me complain about it, so I put on my brave face. Which turned out to be far more attractive than the faces most of the other bridesmaids put on. They all wanted “smoky eyes”—“you know, like Helen Hunt at the Oscars.” I’m pretty sure that my sister Gwen and I are the only ones who won’t look like domestic abuse victims in the wedding pictures.

The ceremony had its moving moments, but it was so god-awfully long—a full Mass, like I said— that it was hard for me to concentrate on anything but trying not to lock my knees so that I wouldn’t pass out. (That happened at my cousin’s wedding. One of the groomsmen fell into a chair and cut his ear. He bled all over his rental tux.) I thought that if I fainted into the tiny little Tri-Delt behind me, I might crush her.

Chris was a total trouper. He sat with my parents during the ceremony, and afterward, he met every single member of my extended family. He was so charming, I started calling him Stepford Chris.

And when it was time to take the big family picture with all of the spouses and grandkids, Kiley insisted that Chris be included. She didn’t even give him a chance to protest. “You’ve been around longer than any of these husbands,” she said.

Dinner was delicious—the old Italian ladies from my parents’ church made baked mostaccioli and Italian sausage with red peppers. My sister was so afraid of staining her dress that she wouldn’t eat anything but garlic bread. (Did I eat her pasta? Why, yes, I did.)

Kiley and Brian were adorable dancing to Louis Armstrong. She looked gorgeous. I had to dance with one of the Sigma Chis during the wedding party dance—the theme from Titanic—and he was totally looking down my dress, which was mostly gross, but a little bit flattering. Apparently, I’ve still got it.

As soon as my official duties as bridesmaid were done, I put on my cardigan and felt a million times better. I was in a fantastic mood, actually, relieved that the hard parts were over and truly excited to spend the rest of the evening with Chris. I felt as madly in love with him as I’d ever been.

First of all, he looked dangerously handsome. He was wearing the charcoal jacket that I bought him with a floppy, blue satin bow tie-ish thing he’d found somewhere. It made him look like he should be writing French poetry. (Expressly to seduce virgins.) My mom asked him if he was wearing a scarf.

And second, I knew that he was being so engaging only because he loved me. As a favor to me. I felt like his good behavior was overwhelming proof that he cared. I shouldn’t need proof, but proof can be very reassuring.

During dinner, Chris went outside to smoke and get away from my family, and when I found him outside the back door, he acted as happy to see me as I was to see him. “Are you mine now?” he asked.

He told me I looked beautiful. He kissed me. He told me to take off the cardigan. “Let’s go home,” he said.

I told him that I couldn’t go, that I’d promised my sister that I would dance. She didn’t want one of those receptions where only toddlers dance, so all the bridesmaids swore to stay on the floor at least until the ChickenDance.