“You’re a genius,” Margot whispered.
She peered up into the funneled pinnacle of the tent, where she imagined her mother’s spirit residing. She heard someone clear his throat, and she turned to see Roger enter the tent.
“It looks beautiful,” Margot said.
He moved a fork in one of the place settings a fraction of an inch. “I’ve done a lot of weddings,” he said. “But this is one of the prettiest. I always say to my wife that there is no accounting for taste. But you girls knocked it out of the park here.”
“Oh,” Margot said. Why was it always in the face of kind words that she felt like crying? “It wasn’t us.”
When she entered the kitchen, Margot was met with chaos. There were people everywhere. Margot’s kids and the Carmichael boys were still in their wet bathing suits, tracking sand with each step.
“I thought I told you to go to the outdoor shower!” Margot said.
“No, you didn’t,” Ellie said.
Margot allowed that maybe she had forgotten that instruction, but didn’t her kids know they should always head to the outdoor shower after the beach?
“Go now,” Margot said. “Be fast.”
Autumn, Rhonda, and Pauline were sitting in the breakfast nook, eating crackers with smoked bluefish pâté. The people from the catering company were trying to work around them, moving between the kitchen island, where they were prepping food, to the dining room, which was serving as a staging area, to their refrigerated truck out in the street.
Then Margot noticed a new face.
“Stuart!” she cried.
Stuart was standing just outside the screen door with three other men, who were all wearing coats and ties.
Margot stepped out to greet them.
“Hey, Margot,” Stuart said.
He looked terrible. He was pale, and he had bruise-colored circles under his eyes, and he’d gotten a haircut that was too short. He worked ridiculously hard in a stressful industry. He was a food and beverage analyst for Morgan Stanley; he never took time off. He had gone twelve months without a vacation to take today off, and the next two weeks for his honeymoon to St. John. It looked like he hadn’t left his office in twelve months—or rather, it looked like he had left it only once, to visit a really incompetent barber.
And yet there lived in Stuart a kindness so pure that it caused Margot to marvel. He wasn’t flashy, he wasn’t slaying the market like Finn’s husband, Scott Walker, he would never buy a thousand-dollar suit, he would never, probably, own a car as nice as her father’s Jaguar, but Stuart was devoted to Jenna. He sent her flowers at the school “just because,” he lit candles for her bath, he stood at the finish line with hot tea and a muffin whenever she ran a race in Central Park. In the five seconds that Margot spent taking in the sight of him, she felt badly for all the times she’d tried to talk Jenna out of marrying him.
“You remember my brothers,” Stuart said. “H.W. and Ryan, and… Chance.”
Margot studied the other three men. H.W. and Ryan were identical twins, impossible to tell apart until they opened their mouths. H.W. was an overgrown frat boy, and Ryan was gay. Margot deplored stereotyping, but she knew right away that the one who was better dressed was Ryan. Ryan came over to kiss Margot’s cheek. He smelled divine; he was wearing Aventus, Margot’s favorite scent, which she had bought for Edge but he had not, to her knowledge, even opened.
“How are you, Margot?” Ryan asked. “Tell me everything.”
Margot laughed. “Oh, believe me, you don’t want to know everything.”
Ryan slid an arm around her waist and leaned her back into a dip. He was one of those men whose every move was smooth and elegant. “I’ve been bragging about how lucky I am to be escorting the maid of honor.”
Ryan was Stuart’s best man. Margot wondered if it had been difficult for Stuart to pick between his brothers, but Jenna said they had shot rock-paper-scissors for it.
H.W. raised his beer bottle in Margot’s general direction. “Hey,” he said.
Margot smiled. H.W. was paired up with Autumn. They would have sex before the weekend was over, Margot was sure of it.
Margot had seen the twins on numerous occasions—at Stuart’s thirtieth birthday celebration at Gramercy Tavern, and then more recently at the engagement party in a private room at MoMA. But Margot had never met this other brother. Chance. Whereas the other three Graham brothers were square jawed and dark haired and built like hale and hearty tobacco farmers, Chance was tall and lean and had strawberry hair. Really, his hair was nearly pink, and he had a matching pinkish skin tone. One of these things is not like the others. Chance was Stuart’s half brother, the product of an affair Stuart’s father had in the nineties. He was nineteen years old, a sophomore at Sewanee, the University of the South, a math whiz, apparently, a good kid if a bit socially awkward.