“Hello?” Ann had said.
“Ann?” It was Jim calling. The sound of his voice still caused her heart to shimmy with anticipation. She continued to wait for the phone call where he said he was coming back to her.
“Hi,” she said. “Happy Easter.” She was always civil on the phone. Despite all her anger and pain, she couldn’t bring herself to hate the man. She was doomed to love him.
“Easter?” Jim said.
“Yes, Jim,” Ann said. “It’s Easter.” Could he really not know this? Helen was a philistine, that had been proved, but had she brainwashed Jim as well?
He said, “I’m calling to tell the boys that they have a new brother. Chance Oppenheimer Graham, eight pounds, eight ounces, twenty-three inches long. Twenty-three inches, can you believe that?”
Ann had started to sob, and then she hung up the phone. She couldn’t believe Jim had just delivered the news so blithely. Did he not remember when it was she in the delivery room—the first time when Stuart’s heartbeat had dropped dramatically after the doctors gave Ann a shot of Pitocin. The second time when she had popped out not one baby boy but two. Nine pounds, two ounces; six pounds, five ounces; five pounds, fourteen ounces. Stuart had been twenty inches long, the twins each nineteen.
Jim hadn’t realized it was Easter because Helen was in labor and had then delivered a baby. Jim had another son. A new family.
Chance, Ann thought. It was a bizarre name, not to mention unsuitable. That baby hadn’t been born by chance. That baby had been in Helen’s plans for a long time.
Ann heard the strains of the band playing “Witchcraft,” and she decided to head back in, find the boys, and enjoy the party. This was Stuart’s rehearsal dinner; she wouldn’t spend it moping.
She danced like a woman who didn’t have a care—first with Ryan, then H.W., then Devon Shelby, and then, finally, Stuart. She went to the ladies’ room to freshen up and emerged just in time to see Jim, Helen, and Chance coming around the corner. The three of them looked like they had just shared a joke; Helen was laughing. Ann had an urge to fill her pockets with rocks and drown herself in the harbor—but Jim saw her. “Ann! Ann, we’re back!”
Ann let them approach her. She looked only at Chance. “You okay, sweetie?”
“Yeah,” he said shyly. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ann said. “You didn’t know.”
“But we know now,” Jim said. “No shellfish for him, ever again.”
“I could have died,” Chance said.
“But you didn’t die,” Ann said. “Though I’m sure it was terrifying.”
“Terrrrrrrrrifying!” Helen sang out. “And now Chance is hungry. He’s starving! Can y’all get him a hamburger?”
Ann thought, Do I look like a short-order cook? Because Chance was going to be okay, Ann could now let her ungenerous thoughts float to the surface: she hated Helen, she wanted to stab Helen in the heart with her stiletto heel, the day of Chance’s birth had been one of the worst days of Ann’s life. She resented that she had been forced to witness Jim and Helen fussing over their son when this weekend was supposed to be about Jim and Ann and their son. Ann was a strong woman, but Jim Graham was her kryptonite. When he’d come back to her, crawling on his hands and knees, begging for her forgiveness, she should have kicked him in the teeth. But she had only felt love and gratitude. She was a saint, not a queen. Helen was a queen: imperious, demanding, entitled. Asking Ann to rustle up a hamburger. Why don’t you find him a hamburger? Ann thought. He’s your son! Ann should never, ever, ever have invited Helen to the wedding. What had she been thinking? She had been thinking that she wanted that thank-you, goddamn it. And while she was at it, a big fat apology would be nice.
Ann said, “A hamburger? Why, yes, of course.” She cast her eyes about the room for a server, someone to ask. Where was Ford from Colgate when you needed him? Ann saw Olivia staring at her, eyes about to pop out of her head and land in her ramekin of melted butter; she saw Pauline Carmichael throw back a healthy slug of chardonnay. She saw Jethro blow her a kiss. Ann decided she would find Chance a hamburger. She would make that happen.
THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 37
The Rehearsal Dinner
The rehearsal dinner is normally the responsibility of the groom’s family, and there is no reason for me to believe anything will be different in your case. However, assuming your Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be hasn’t spent every summer of his life growing up on Nantucket, here are my thoughts on the perfect rehearsal dinner.