Beautiful Day(103)

“Not feeling well,” Doug confirmed, because any way you sliced it, that was the truth. “I sent Nick to get her. They should be here any second.”

He stepped to the sidewalk to take a look down the street, and there he saw Nick and Pauline, marching side by side, neither of them talking, neither of them smiling. They looked like they were going to a funeral or to the dentist for a root canal.

Doug turned to Abigail. “My wife, Beth, Jenna’s mother, died seven years ago of ovarian cancer.”

Abigail said, “Yes, I know. Roger told me. And Jenna showed me the Notebook. It touched me very deeply, I must say.”

Doug wondered if Abigail Pease had read the last page of the Notebook. He had been meaning to do so all day; he was hoping it was something that would give him strength.

“Beth was a remarkable woman,” Doug said. Now he really felt like he was confessing something. As Pauline drew closer, Doug spoke more quickly. He wanted to get the words out before she could hear them. “I mean, she was a hospital administrator and the mother of four children, and my wife, which may or may not sound remarkable, but she was also one of those people that everyone gravitated to. She was the magnetic north of our family, she held us together, she made us work. Every single one of us adored her.” He swallowed. “But especially me.”

Abigail’s hand rested on Doug’s forearm, and her pale blue eyes were glued to his face, and suddenly whatever physical attraction Doug had felt for her evaporated. What he wanted, what he really wanted, he realized, was someone to listen while he talked about how much he missed Beth. He had never been able to talk to Pauline because Pauline had always been jealous of Beth’s memory, and therefore unwilling to listen. But maybe if Pauline had listened, Doug would have been happier. Maybe, but maybe not.

“I’m sorry, Dougie,” Abigail said. “Today must be difficult.”

Doug nodded and stuffed his hands into the satiny pockets of his tuxedo pants. There was so much he wanted to say about how difficult the weekend had been, but there wasn’t time or opportunity because Pauline was approaching. Doug watched her march up the steps. Her hair was escaping the confines of her bun, and her eye makeup had been rubbed off. Her eyes looked like small brown holes. Her chest was mottled red, and her breathing was erratic, maybe from crying, or maybe from the brisk walk.

“I’m here,” she said. “Where do you want me?”

“We’re going to take a Carmichael family portrait,” Abigail said. “With Stuart.”

Abigail called everyone together and began arranging them: Doug, Pauline, Margot, Kevin, Beanie, Nick, Jenna, Stuart, the six grandchildren, and Rhonda—they nearly forgot to include Rhonda! Doug realized then that he hadn’t expected Pauline to show up. And worse than that, he had been hoping she wouldn’t show up. He wanted a Carmichael family portrait that was free of Tonellis. He wanted to insist on a photograph—maybe the photograph after this photograph—that included only him and his kids and his kids’ spouses and his grandchildren. Was that awful? Yes, he decided, it was awful, and as badly as he wanted it, he decided he would take the remaining pictures with Pauline standing next to him as his wife. Years from now when he reflected on this day, he would remember posing for these photographs as one of the last things he would do to make Pauline happy. He would include her now, in the center of his family, in a spot that rightly belonged to another.

“Smile, Dougie!” Abigail called out.

Doug smiled.





THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 11


A Letter for the Matron of Honor


Dear Margot,

Hi, it’s Mom! I will assume I’m talking to you here and not Finn or Autumn or some other friend that Jenna has made after I’m gone. If you and Jenna have had a falling out—if you, for example, fought over who was to inherit my copy of Rumours signed by Mick Fleetwood and Lindsey Buckingham, or my brand-new set of gardening tools from Smith & Hawken, get over it. Kiss and make up. You, Margot, need to stand at your sister’s side. She was there for you in Antigua, remember, and she was in the delivery suite for the birth of both boys. You are so lucky to have a sister. I only had cousins, which wasn’t really the same thing.

My cousin Astrid served as my maid of honor. We were very close, but she tended to be flighty, and in the days leading up to my wedding she was hormonal and cranky and more concerned about the pimple on her chin than anything else. I was worried I had chosen the wrong person—my cousin Linda was more steadfast—but on the day of, Astrid shone brightly, I am happy to say.

Here are some thoughts on how you can help your sister on the day of the wedding: