Jim approached her and took her in his arms. “You okay?” he said.
“Wonderful,” Ann said.
“I would marry you again, you know,” Jim said. “Again and again and again, every day of our lives I would marry you, Annie.”
The band launched into “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”
“Let’s dance,” Ann said.
THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 42
The Wedding Night
Ha! Only kidding, sweetie pie! I’m sure you’ll do just fine without your mother’s input here!
MARGOT
All she had left to survive was the brunch. Then, at three o’clock, she would drive the Land Rover up the ramp of the ferry, the wedding weekend would be over, and she could get down to the business of putting her life back together.
Edge gone.
Griff gone.
Jenna married.
Her mother still dead.
Margot wouldn’t even be able to cry about these things in peace during the two-hour boat ride as she had planned, because now her father was driving home with them.
Pauline had thrown the Notebook into the bonfire, and it had gone up in flames. Margot had just accepted this as the final devastation of the weekend—until Jenna told them that Stuart really was the Intelligent, Sensitive Groom Beth had predicted. Stuart had scanned the Notebook, page by page, into his computer—so Beth’s words in Beth’s handwriting would be preserved digitally forever. Doug would finally be able to read the last page of the Notebook.
Pauline had spent the night in the guest room with Rhonda, and at the crack of dawn, she drove Doug’s Jaguar onto the early morning ferry. She was going home alone. Doug was planning to stay at the Marriott in Stamford until he found a place in the city.
Splitsville.
Rhonda, however, had remained at the Carmichael house. She had gotten up early to run, she’d made a pot of coffee, and by the time Margot and her twice-broken heart stumbled downstairs, Rhonda was home, sweaty and breathless.
She had seemed sheepish. “I’m sorry about my mother,” she said.
Margot poured herself a cup of coffee, hot and black; the more bitter it tasted this morning, the better. “It’s nobody’s fault,” Margot said. This had long been Doug’s party line in regard to 95 percent of the divorces he saw. “Things happen, people change, there’s no point placing blame.”
Rhonda nodded but looked unconvinced.
Margot said, “We should go out together sometime. Drinks or dinner or something. I’d love to meet Raymond.”
“Would you?” Rhonda said, brightening. “How about Thursday night? Are you free Thursday night? You could meet Raymond and me at Swine.”
Margot had been thinking of some vague future date, but she was charmed by Rhonda’s enthusiasm. “I am free Thursday,” she said. “And I’ve been dying to go to Swine.”
It was a date, then. Margot hoped that by Thursday the excruciating pain she felt about Edge and Rosalie, and, oddly, the even worse pain she felt from watching Griff walk away, would have subsided to a point where she could be halfway decent company. It seemed an awful irony that she and Rhonda would become friends now that their parents were separating. And yet Margot was happy to have gotten at least one positive thing from the weekend.
She grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray and stood in the buffet line with Ryan and Jethro, who both looked beyond haggard. Waves of alcohol fumes emanated off of Ryan that even the heady scent of Aventus couldn’t disguise.
Aventus. Damn Edge.
Ryan and Jethro told Margot they had stayed up until four in the morning doing Patrón shots with the bandleader, whose name was Ernie Sands. They had gotten into a long, discursive conversation about Moby-Dick, and Ryan had started calling Jethro “Daggoo.”
“Daggoo and I might come back to Nantucket next summer,” Ryan said.
Jethro said, “Yeah, we might get married ourselves.”
Margot clapped her hands and mustered what she hoped passed for enthusiasm, but the thought of anyone else getting married—even people as ideally suited for each other as Ryan and Jethro—depressed her.
Ryan said, “You look worse than I feel. We brought copies of the Times and the News and Observer so everyone could see the wedding announcements. You want to be the first one? We’re sitting over there.”
“I would,” Margot said. “But I have to talk to my mother’s cousins. I’ve been putting it off all weekend.”
Margot fixed a plate of things she didn’t normally allow herself to eat—fried chicken, hash browns, and a big scoop of cheesy grits topped with barbecue. What did it matter if she weighed five hundred pounds? No one had loved her when she was thin.