Beautiful Day(65)

“She told me,” Jim said. He whipped his belt out of the loops, removed his pants, and tossed them unfolded into the gaping mouth of his suitcase. Ann, of course, had placed all her clothes in drawers, neatly folded, except for the things she had to hang, which were in the closet. Neat Ann, Catholic school Ann, Saint Ann.

“She told you when?” Ann said.

“In the car ride,” Jim said. “I asked her how Brad was doing, and she said they’d split. She got tired of him, she said.”

“She got tired of him?” Ann said. The lover Brad was ten years Helen’s junior, he was a successful doctor, and she got tired of him? Ann didn’t like this one bit. Helen was single, she was free, and everyone, especially Ann, knew that Helen didn’t do well alone. “And she told you this? In the car?”

“Ann,” Jim said. “If you wanted to know what Helen and I talked about, you should have come along to the hospital. I wanted you to come. I was practically begging you.”

“It was Stuart’s rehearsal dinner!” Ann said. She was starting to hit her upper register, which was never a good sign. She took a moment to regroup, but the vodka martinis were wringing out her brain like wet laundry. For twenty years she had been a reasonable woman when dealing with Jim and his situation. But not tonight. “Stuart is my son, and he’s getting married tomorrow! I didn’t feel like I should miss his rehearsal dinner because Chance got sick. Chance… isn’t my son, Jim. He’s your son, and he’s Helen’s son.”

“Please calm down, Ann,” Jim said. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I know I’m absolutely right!” Ann said. She walked over to Jim and automatically turned her back because she needed him to unzip her dress. He did so, and then he helped to slip it from her shoulders, but she batted him away. The dress dropped to the floor in a pink puddle, and she left it there. She pulled on the white waffled robe over her bra and panties. “I hate her.”

“Ann…”

“I. Hate. Her.”

“Well, then,” Jim said. He paced the room as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Well, then, you shouldn’t have invited her here.”

Ann thought, And you shouldn’t have fucked her. And you shouldn’t have knocked her up. And you shouldn’t have married her.

Inviting her had merely been a generous, considerate way of dealing with the heinous predicament Jim had put them in.

She pointed to the door. “Get out,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“Get out!” Ann said. “I want you out!”

Jim took one, two, three steps in her direction, but she did not lower her finger. “I’m serious, Jim. Get out of this room. I don’t want you here tonight.”

“But Stuart…”

“What do you care about Stuart?” Ann said. “What do you care about any of us?”

“So let me get this straight,” Jim said. “You decide for some reason unbeknownst to me or anyone else to invite Helen to this wedding. It was your decision, Ann Graham, and yours alone. I was dead set against it, and I think I made that clear. And now, because Helen is here and because Chance had an unforeseen allergic reaction—where, I might add, he almost died—I am now paying the price.”

“Paying the price?” Ann said. Jim hadn’t “paid the price” the way Ann had paid the price, not by a long shot. He had come back to Ann as contrite as a man could be; he had cried, he had sent flowers, he had attended counseling with Father Art, their parish priest, he had shown up for every one of the boys’ school and sporting events with his hat in his hands begging forgiveness, he had done everything short of renting a billboard on I-80 renouncing his sins—but had he actually paid a price? Ann thought not.

She dropped her arm. “Get out,” she said quietly.

“Annie?” he said.

“Please,” she said.





THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 19


The Cake


It has been my experience that people don’t eat the cake, or that by the time people eat the cake, they are so drunk that they don’t remember the cake. Therefore, my suggestions regarding the cake are going to be loose. You want a pretty cake; it will be featured in photos. They do a basket-weave that is very Nantuckety. Use buttercream icing—NOT FONDANT. Fondant is impossible to eat. Decorate with flowers? Sugared fruit? Ask for matching cupcakes for the kids?

My one hard-and-fast suggestion is that when you and Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be cut the cake and feed each other, you do so nicely. Maybe this shows my age, but I don’t like playing around with the cake, smearing it in each other’s face or hair. Yuck!