There had been strings of shimmering silver days like that, and golden days of autumn when they bundled in sweaters and Beth made a pot of chili or a bunch of sub sandwiches and they tailgated at the Yale-Columbia game. There had been Christmases and ski weekends and trips to Paris, London, the Caribbean. There had been regular days of school and work, court for him, the hospital for Beth, where she was constantly trying to stretch the budget, there had been family dinners most every night, sometimes movies or TV or school functions or neighborhood cocktail parties where the neighbors, he was sure, would gossip after they left, asking one another if the Carmichaels could really be as happy as they looked.
Yes.
All of it, he had loved all of it.
And it had officially begun on the day he saw Beth in this dress.
“You’re a vision,” he said to Jenna. “Stuart is such a lucky bastard, I hate him a little right now.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Jenna said, and she hugged him. He rested his chin on top of her sweet-smelling head.
“My hair,” she said, pulling away.
“Ah, yes,” he said, admiring it. It was in some kind of complicated updo, though she had yet to set her veil. She was wearing the sapphire earrings that his own mother, Martha, had worn on the day that she married his father here at this house. They were Jenna’s “something blue.” What did Doug and Beth used to say when Jenna was a baby? Wake up and show us the jewels. Her sapphire eyes.
“If your mother could see you,” he said.
“Daddy,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Please don’t. My makeup. And it’s hot up here. We should go downstairs.”
“I know,” he whispered. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s go.”
“But wait, first…” Jenna opened a plastic box that was resting on the dresser and produced Doug’s boutonniere. “I want to pin this for you.”
Doug stared over Jenna’s head into the dusty rafters as she attached the flower to his lapel. He couldn’t speak. Your father will be a cause for concern.
“And here,” she said. “Let me fix your tie.” She tugged on his bow tie, her eyes appraising him, and he basked in it. He had left his tie crooked on purpose, just so she could straighten it.
THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 29
The Registry, Part I: The Kitchen
I know you well enough to realize that you might skip over any section of this notebook titled “Registry,” because material things mean little to you, and if you got married tomorrow, you would ask everyone to donate to Greenpeace or Amnesty International instead of bringing a gift. However, here is another place where you must trust me!
You and I know that Margot doesn’t cook, she has a hard time with anything more elaborate than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and she’s too busy with work to entertain—which is a pity because that apartment is begging for a dinner party. But you, my darling, are a magnificent cook. You have been whipping up healthy things like steel-cut oats with bananas, and that chicken stew. I was only able to eat a few bites, but it was delicious. The fresh dill made it.
This established, a list of items for your kitchen follows. Remember, Jenna, people are going to bring you gifts no matter what you say. Better they give you something you can use.
Crock-Pot/slow cooker
10" and 12" nonstick frying pans (All-Clad is best).
3 qt. sauté pan with lid
large cutting board, preferably Boos
knives: Do not register for a “set.” Knives are too important. You want a 10" chef’s knife, a serrated bread knife, a hollow-edge Santoku, a sandwich knife, and two good paring knives.
8 qt. stock pot
immersion blender
KitchenAid stand mixer (I’ve had mine 35 years, never a problem.)
good coffeemaker
11-cup Cuisinart food processor
tall wooden pepper mill
1 qt., 2 qt., 3 qt. saucepans with lids
colander
Le Creuset Dutch oven
large wooden salad bowl (Check at Simon Pearce.)
MARGOT
Abigail Pease, the photographer, showed up fifteen minutes early with Roger at her side. Roger looked calm; he showed no anger or frustration at having the wedding nearly canceled then resuscitated. Probably it happened all the time. Margot wanted to ask, but she was caught off guard by the appearance of the photographer. Pictures at the groomsmen’s house had gone more quickly than anyone had anticipated.
“Why was that?” Margot asked.
“They were all ready to go,” Abigail said. She was about fifty years old, she had long, curly blond hair, she spoke with a touch of a southern accent, and she wore Eileen Fisher to great effect. “Most times the men take more time to get ready than the women. But these guys were in their tuxes, drinking beer and throwing the football around.”