Beautiful Day(52)

“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re here. Where are Nick and Finn?”

“At the house,” Margot said. “Getting ready.”

“I thought you were going to wait for them and drive them down.”

“They wanted to walk,” Margot lied.

“Well, they’d better hurry up, or they’re going to miss dinner,” Doug said. “They’re serving in five minutes.”

“Right,” Margot said. She took a breath. Launch? Or abort mission?

She had to know.

“So,” she said. “Representation from Garrett, Parker, and Spence seems a little light. Isn’t Edge coming?”

“He thought he’d be here tonight,” Doug said. “But I got a call from him about an hour ago. Today in court was a disaster, I guess, and he and Rosalie were still finishing the paperwork, and he didn’t want to fight Friday night traffic on I-95. Can’t blame him for that.”

He and Rosalie finishing paperwork, Margot thought. Or he and Rosalie screwing on top of his partners desk. Or he and Rosalie taking advantage of an empty city to snare seats at the bar at Café Boulud.

“So he’s coming tomorrow?” Margot asked. She sounded panicked, even to her own ears.

Doug gave her a quizzical look. “That’s what he told me, honey,” he said.





THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 2


The Invitations


Mail them six weeks in advance. (You don’t need your mother to tell you that, although it appears I just did.) Classic white or ivory—maybe with one subtle, tasteful detail, such as a starfish, sand dollar, or sailboat at the top. Maybe a small Nantucket? Pick a traditional font—I used to know the names of some of them, but they escape me now. Matching response card, envelope stamped.

I get the feeling you may have issues with this vision. I see you sending out something on recycled paper. I hear you claiming that Crane’s kills trees. I imagine you deciding to send your invitations via e-mail. Please, darling, do not do this!

My preferred wording is: Jennifer Bailey Carmichael and Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be, along with their families, invite you to share in the celebration of their wedding.

In my day, it was customary to list the bride’s parents by name, but my parents, as you know, were divorced, and Mother had remarried awful Major O’Hara and Daddy was living with Barbara Benson, and the whole thing was a mess, so I used the above wording, which diffused the whole issue.

No e-mail, please.





ANN


She was standing behind Chance in the buffet line when it happened. She had positioned herself there on purpose, like a sniper, waiting for Helen. Contrary to her earlier expectations, Ann wanted another shot at conversation; she wanted that thank-you, goddamn it.

Ann tapped Chance on the shoulder. “Hey, sweetie.”

Chance said, “Hey, Senator.”

Ann smiled. He always called her “Senator,” which was a good, neutral moniker—better than “Mrs. Graham” or “Ann.” Ann’s relationship with Chance had always been a tender question mark. What was their relationship, exactly? Technically, she was his stepmother, and she was the mother of his three half brothers. He was her husband’s son from another union  . She had grown to know and love him, but there was a certain barrier.

The buffet included clam chowder, mussels, grilled linguiça, corn on the cob, and a pile of steaming scarlet lobsters served whole. Ann had doubts about her lobster-cracking ability; she worried about lobster guts messing the front of her dress. There were plastic bibs on the tables, but the last thing Ann wanted was to be seen wearing one.

Ahead of her, Chance loaded his plate with mussels. He turned to Ann. “I’ve never had mussels before.”

“They’re yummy, you’ll love them,” she said, which was a glib thing to say, as, living three hours from the coast, she ate mussels about once every decade.

Chance pulled one from its shell and popped it into his mouth. He nodded his head. “Interesting texture,” he said.

Ann searched the party for the yellow of Helen’s dress. She spied Helen out on the patio, talking to Stuart.

Ann had been forced to swallow a whole bunch of unpleasant facts in the past twenty years, but the worst thing was that, for a time, Helen had been a stepmother to her children. Helen had coparented them every third weekend with Jim. Ann used to question the boys when they got home from weekends with their father and Helen. What had they done? What had they eaten? Had they gone out or stayed in? Did Helen cook? Did Helen read to them at night? Did Helen let them stay up late to watch R-rated movies? Did Helen kiss them good-bye before they piled into Jim’s car at seven o’clock on Sunday evening?