Beautiful Day(96)

It was probably the wine, not the glass, but you get my meaning. I will remember the impressive heft of the glass in my hand, and the way the cut of the crystal caught the day’s last rays of sunlight, but I will not miss that glass the way I will miss the sound of the ocean, or the taste of fresh-picked corn.





MARGOT


They changed the order at the last minute, at Jenna’s request. Finn first, Rhonda second, Autumn third, Margot last, followed by Brock and Ellie. Margot knew that Jenna wanted Finn as far away from her as possible.

She was the bride; she could do as she wished.

Finn, Rhonda, and Autumn processed to Pachelbel’s Canon in D, played by two violins and a cello.

Before she processed, Margot checked on the children behind her. Brock held the velvet pillow with the two rings attached. Ellie had a basket of New Dawn rose petals filched from the vines that climbed the side of the house. She was wearing the silly hat, which would add comic-and-cute relief.

It was Margot’s turn. She stepped forward in her dyed-to-match pumps. She thought, Smile. Be poised. She thought, All this planning, all this money, for this one moment. She thought, I saved this wedding. Maybe that was overstating the case, maybe Jenna would have come down from the church tower with the same conclusion on her own, but Margot liked to think that she had been the catalyst. Maybe tonight, or maybe forty years from now, Jenna would tell someone the story of how scared and hurt she had been—and how Margot had hunted her down and how the wedding had been saved.

It was amazing, really, how many thoughts could ricochet through a person’s brain in the period of time it took to walk thirty feet.

Margot was halfway down the aisle when she saw Edge. Her breath caught. He was gorgeous. He wasn’t gorgeous in the way Brad Pitt or Tom Brady was gorgeous; he was gorgeous in a sophisticated, graying, wealthy, powerful way. The manner in which he held himself commanded attention, along with the fine cut of his suit, the sweet, tight knot of his lavender tie. He looked tan, which was impossible because he’d been in court all week—but yes, he had color, his skin glowed with the sun.

Then Margot noticed the woman beside him, a youngish woman with red curly hair and a million freckles, the kind of freckles that Margot would do everything but sell her children to avoid. The woman wore an off-the-shoulder emerald green dress that cinched at her impossibly tiny waist. She and Edge weren’t touching as Margot passed, but Margot could sense they were together. They were together. Edge had come to the wedding with a date, and he hadn’t warned her.

Or maybe he had. There were those two text messages on her phone, and possibly others since then.

Margot kept the smile plastered on her face, but it was a chore; it felt like one of the straps of her dress had snapped and she was trying to keep the bodice from slipping. At that very moment, Abigail Pease appeared a few steps in front of Margot in the aisle and snapped her picture.

It didn’t matter how good a photographer Abigail Pease was, that picture would show heartbreak.

Margot took her place at the altar, just as they had practiced at the rehearsal, but now she was trembling, and she didn’t know where to look. At that moment, the church broke out in delighted gasps and muted laughter as Brock and Ellie processed. Abigail was going crazy with the camera, the hat was a stroke of genius, Ellie was both cute and composed, and Margot knew she should savor the moment because this would most likely be the only time Ellie served as a flower girl. But Margot’s eyes were drilling into the back of Edge’s head. Who had he brought with him?

Suddenly everyone rose.

At the back of the church stood Jenna and Doug.

Margot watched Edge touch the emerald back of the freckled redhead’s dress and lean over to whisper something in her ear.

It was Rosalie, Margot realized. His paralegal. All those tedious hours of work had led to… sex on Edge’s desk or in Edge’s burgundy swivel chair or in the partners’ lounge after hours—or all of the above. Of course, all of the above! Margot’s vision started to blotch. She felt like the turtle who had long ago veered off the side of their dining room table and crashed to the ground, landing upside down. She could not right herself.

Jenna was processing down the aisle on her father’s arm. Her father was holding it together better than the day before; there were no actual tears, although his expression was pained, as though his shoes were too tight. Jenna smiled beatifically, she was a Madonna, Margot couldn’t remember a time when she had ever looked more beautiful. Margot checked on Stuart. His eyes were brimming with tears, and he mouthed, I love you.

Margot bowed her head. Edge would be looking at her and thinking… what? That she was a good, cool kid, a pretty girl, a great lay, but that it had been doomed from the start. Margot was Doug’s daughter. Edge had always held a part of himself in check because of this fact. But was dating his paralegal any better? Rosalie, from the look of her, was ten years younger than Margot; Margot put her at twenty-eight, so she was thirty years younger than Edge. Thirty years younger! Men were disgusting creatures; the younger the woman they took to bed, the more powerful they felt. Or something like that. Wouldn’t Doug have an issue with Edge and Rosalie together? Maybe not, maybe it was standard practice to screw the paralegals, what did Margot know? She knew nothing. Nothing at all.