Well, yeah, Margot thought. It was bad enough that he was a love child, the product of a midlife crisis, but then someone—Stuart’s father? the other woman?—had thought it would be acceptable to name him “Chance.” No wonder the kid was socially awkward. The other woman—Margot had never learned her name—had been married to Stuart’s father for a few years, then they had split, and Stuart’s father married Stuart’s mother a second time. It was the kind of story that people had a hard time believing, except for the Carmichael children, who had been hearing bizarre divorce-and-marriage stories their whole lives.
Jenna found the story of Stuart’s parents romantic.
Margot thought, Yeah, romantic—except for the living, breathing, six-foot-four reminder of when things had not been so romantic.
But this was a wedding, what had happened in the past could not be undone, and so everyone would simply have to roll with it—smile, chitchat—and then gossip about the darker reality later.
“Hi, Chance,” Margot said. Oh, how she would love to rename him something normal, like Dennis or Patrick. “I’m Margot Carmichael, Jenna’s sister.”
“Nice to meet you,” Chance said. He had an elegant southern accent; he sounded—and looked—just like Ashley Wilkes from Gone with the Wind. He gripped Margot’s hand and gave it a nice, strong shake. Margot’s line of work caused her to evaluate everyone’s handshake and eye contact. Eight, she thought. Not bad.
“Can I get you a beer?” Margot asked.
“I…” Chance said. He swallowed. “I’m only nineteen.”
“Who cares?” H.W. shouted, momentarily animated by his favorite topic. H.W. had a twangy accent straight out of The Dukes of Hazzard. “Grab a beer, Chancey, come on!”
Chance turned even pinker. Margot had never seen anyone with such unusual coloring. It was almost a birth defect, perhaps indicating the murky circumstances of his conception. And with this thought, Margot suddenly felt protective of Chance. Clearly he was a darling, scrupulous kid. It wasn’t his fault that Jim Graham had made an atrocious error in judgment.
“How about a Coke?” Margot asked.
Chance nodded. “A Coke would be great, thanks.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “It’s, uh, kind of hot out here.”
“It is hot,” Margot agreed. “And look at you guys, all ready to go.” She stepped back into the kitchen to grab Chance a Coke from the fridge and narrowly missed hitting a woman holding a tray of empty vol-au-vents. At the breakfast nook, Autumn, Rhonda, and Pauline were telling stories about the incompetent masseuses they had known; they were getting along like a house on fire. Jenna would be pleased about that, wherever she was. Probably upstairs, putting on the showstopper backless peach dress.
Margot handed Chance the Coke. She said, “It’s nearly four thirty.” Four thirty! Margot wondered if Edge was on island yet. She got a Mexican jumping beans feeling in her belly. “I’ve got to get cracking!”
THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 3
The Dress
You should feel no compunction or sense of duty to wear my dress; however, it is available to you. I fear you might find it too “traditional”—as I watch you now, you are twenty-one years old and you primarily wear clothes you sew yourself or that you get at Goodwill. I’m guessing it’s a phase. It was for me, too. I wore the same prairie skirt for five weeks in the spring of 1970.
The dress will fit you, or nearly. You seem to be losing weight. I’d like to believe that’s because you’re away from the dining hall food of college, but I fear it’s because of me.
My mother and I bought the dress at Priscilla of Boston, which was where every bride on the East Coast wanted to buy her dress back in those days, much like Vera Wang now. My mother and I argued because I wanted a dress with a straight skirt, whereas my mother thought I should choose something fuller. You don’t want everyone staring at your behind, she said. But guess what? I did!
The dress has been professionally cleaned and is hanging up in the far left of my cedar closet. If you need to get it altered, go to Monica at Pinpoint Bridal on West 84th Street.
I have to stop writing. I am growing too sad thinking about how captivating you will look in that dress, and how seeing you wear it might undo your father.
I am crying now, but they are tears of love.
DOUG
He wanted to say that golf had calmed him. He had played with a couple about his age named Charles and Margaret and their friend Richard, who was a decade younger and had a very, very fine drive. Doug had a wonderful time chatting with them about the elite courses they had all mutually played—Sand Hills in Nebraska, Jay Peak in Vermont, and Old Head in Ireland. They spent four delightful hours of talking about nothing but golf, and Doug couldn’t ask for a more appealing course than Sankaty Head on July nineteenth. The sun illuminated the rolling greens, the Atlantic Ocean and Sesachacha Pond, the red-and-white peppermint stick of Sankaty Lighthouse. Doug had joined his companions for lunch at the turn; he drank a cold beer and ate chilled cucumber soup and a lobster salad sandwich as they talked about the formidable prairie wind at Sand Hills. After lunch, Doug went out and slew the back nine.