If Margot needed to talk to someone, she called Jenna, or her sister-in-law, Beanie, or her father. She sometimes talked to Edge. At the start of their relationship, he had been sweet and attentive, but lately the sweet attentiveness had dwindled. For the past four or five months, he had sounded like a man of fifty-nine who had been married and divorced three times, who had seen it all, survived it all, and could barely conceal his impatience that Margot was still in the life stage where she cared what other people thought.
Margot eyed Jenna and Finn with envy. Then she worried that the fact that she had never had a best friend was another indicator—like the fact that she didn’t garden—that there was something wrong with her. And her marriage had failed! Was that due to some inability to connect in a meaningful and permanent way with others? Was she a coldhearted bitch? Jenna would, no doubt, be just as devoted to Stuart as she was to Finn. Margot wondered if all family wedding weekends were doomed to be exercises in painful self-examination.
She turned her attention to Autumn.
Autumn had ordered the chowder, which was the least expensive thing on the menu, and Margot wondered if that was why she had ordered it. Maybe Autumn really was financially strapped. Of course, she wasn’t rich; she was waiting tables and living in a rented bungalow. At that moment, Margot decided that she would pay for dinner. She had a great job, she could afford it, she was the maid of honor: she would pay.
She took a bite of her crab cake. It was drizzled with a lemony sauce. More wine. She was starting to feel a little drunk, but this came as no surprise. Anytime she had thought about the wedding in the past twelve months, she had thought, When I don’t know what else to do, I’ll get drunk. I’ll just stay drunk all weekend, if need be. And here she was.
Finn got up to use the bathroom. She hadn’t even touched her foie gras, and Margot eyed it covetously. Margot loved foie gras, but she hadn’t ordered it because it was bad for you, and it was a travesty the way they force-fed the poor French geese. But it looked so yummy—plump and seared golden brown, topped with ruby red pomegranate seeds.
Margot noticed Jenna watching her with a concerned expression on her face. She realized that she had to tell Jenna about Alfie’s tree branch; she had to tell Jenna that the second tent wasn’t coming tomorrow. The second tent wasn’t coming at all.
Forty percent chance of showers.
Margot lifted the bottle of white wine out of the ice and found it empty. She flagged the waiter.
“Another?” she said.
Jenna bit her bottom lip, and Margot didn’t like the way that looked. She wanted to ask Jenna if she was having fun. She wanted to ask Jenna if this night was memorable. It was too early to tell, they had barely started, but Margot feared it wasn’t memorable enough. What could she do? Should she suggest a game? Some kind of bachelorette game? In general, Margot found bachelorette parties distasteful—the penis lollipops, the ludicrous sashes the bride-to-be was forced to wear, the hot pink T-shirts with lewd sayings. And at that moment, Margot realized she had forgotten to bring the hideous bow-and-paper-plate “hat” that Jenna was supposed to wear. Jenna would most definitely be thrilled that Margot had forgotten the hat, but Margot still felt like she was failing at her maid-of-honor duties. Finn would have remembered to bring the hat.
Forty percent chance of showers. Griffin Wheatley, Homecoming King. He had taken the job at Blankstar; he was happy there. Margot could relax. No harm, no foul.
The restaurant was loud. The other tables were talking and laughing, and under all that, Bobby Darin sang “Beyond the Sea,” and champagne corks popped, and knives and forks scraped plates. Margot thought of her mother, wearing the blue paisley patio dress. She had seemed like the most beautiful woman in all the world, and Jenna looked just like her.
Margot said, “Is it me, or has Finn been gone a long time?”
Jenna said, “I’m sure she’s texting Scott.”
“Oh,” Margot said, collapsing back in her seat. She wondered if she should take her phone to the ladies’ room and check her texts. She knew the answer was no. She was determined to be present. She would eat her crab cake. She wouldn’t worry about Alfie’s tree branch or about what Edge was doing, or about whether or not Carson needed to repeat fourth grade or about whether it had been rude to pick such an expensive restaurant for this dinner. She wouldn’t feel the weight of her age, even though it had been difficult to see Emma Wilton all grown up. A blink of an eye ago, Emma had been six, and Margot had been twenty-one. Forty was too old to be a maid of honor, Margot thought. And yet that was what their mother had wanted.