Authors: Elin Hilderbrand
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Fiction / Contemporary Women
It was a strand of pearls—a choker, which was her preferred length. And it had a sparkling
diamond rondelle. Ann gasped as she fingered it.
“Do you recognize the stone?” he said.
She thought for a moment that it might be the stone from her grandmother’s ring, the
one Crissy Pine had walked off with.
Had Jim contacted Thaddeus Pine again and brokered a deal to get the diamond back?
But when she looked more closely, she realized it was the diamond from
her
engagement ring. Her first engagement ring.
“Full circle,” Jim said. “I love you, Ann.”
It had been a romantic moment, more romantic by far than the day Ann had walked down
the aisle to Jim thirty-three years earlier. It was more romantic because they had
fought for each other, and they had survived.
I am finding that dying has its advantages. The biggest advantage is that everything
is put into perspective. When you were twelve years old in seventh grade, you brought
home a sign that you wrote in calligraphy that said, “Only Family Matters.��� Your
father and I were struck by this lovely sentiment, and I insisted your father take
the sign to his office, which he did. He’s told me he looks at the sign each day and
that even as he works dismantling other families, he gives thanks for ours, crazy
and imperfect though it may be.
I am here now to tell you that you were wrong. Family is not the only thing that matters.
There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the
cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos
Williams, and the constellations in
the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers
are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff
in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving
the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter,
and kissing matters.
Whether or not you register for china, crystal, and silver does not matter. Whether
or not you have a full set of Tiffany dessert forks on Thanksgiving does not matter.
If you want to register for these things, by all means, go ahead. My Waterford pattern
is Lismore, one of the oldest. I do remember one time when I had a harrowing day at
the hospital, and Nick had a Rube Goldberg project due and needed my help, and Kevin
was playing Quiet Riot at top decibel in his bedroom, and Margot was tying up the
house phone, and you had been plunked by the babysitter in front of the TV for five
hours, and I came home and took one of my Lismore goblets out of the cabinet. I wanted
to smash it against the wall. But instead I filled it with cold white wine and for
ten or so minutes I sat in the quiet of the formal living room all by myself and I
drank the cold wine out of that beautiful glass crafted by some lovely Irishman, and
I felt better.
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.
T
hey 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.
Jenna and Stuart met at the altar. Doug kissed Jenna’s cheek
and gave her a squeeze and then leaned in to shake Stuart’s hand, then pulled out
a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. There were sniffles in the church. Doug sat
next to Pauline, who was wearing a rust-colored dress that made her look like a monk.
Reverend Marlowe raised his hands and in a commanding voice said, “Dearly beloved.”
Margot stood at Jenna’s side, she did not faint or falter, she did not throw up, she
lifted Jenna’s veil and held her bouquet—and in between performing these duties, she
sneaked surreptitious glances at Edge, who had put on his bifocals to read the program.
Rosalie looked interested in the actual ceremony; her eyes wandered from Jenna to
the groomsmen to the bridesmaids, then back to the groomsmen. Was she looking at Margot?
Did she know who Margot was, beyond being Doug Carmichael’s daughter? Did she know
that Margot and Edge had been lovers up until—well, until today, Margot supposed,
although the last time she had been with Edge was eight days earlier, and the last
time she had spoken with him was Monday night. Any way you sliced it, it was clear
that Edge had been cheating on Margot with his paralegal Rosalie, although it couldn’t
really be called cheating because Margot and Edge’s relationship had no official status.
Rosalie looked at the groomsmen again.
Beanie stood at the pulpit to do her reading. She was wearing a navy sailor dress
with white piping—typical Beanie. People didn’t change, Margot knew this, and yet
it constantly took her by surprise. People were who they were.
Beanie adjusted the microphone and cleared her throat. Margot was dying to sit down.
The ceremony lasted twenty-five minutes start to finish. Margot was still an hour
away from her first glass of wine.
Beanie started to read. “Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink. Nor slumber nor
a roof against the rain…”
It was a beautiful poem, an appropriate choice; Margot had really adored it until
this moment. Now, she defaulted to her philosophy of Love Dies. Or, in the case of
her and Edge, whatever was between them had died before it became love. At least for
Edge. Margot thought she felt love, but probably it belonged in another category.
It was pointless obsession with a man who had never wanted her the way that she wanted
him. Whatever the case, the fact was that looking at Edge sitting with Rosalie hurt.
It hurt.
“I might be driven to sell your love for peace, or trade the memory of this night
for food… It may well be. I do not think I would.”
A stifled cry came from the pews. Margot snapped from her own thoughts at the very
moment that Pauline stood up. Pauline pressed a tissue to her nose and mouth, but
another sob escaped. She rustled her way to the aisle, then executed a half run, half
walk in her high heels until she was at the back of the church. This caused no small
disruption. Everyone murmured and whispered, and when Kevin took the pulpit to read
the lyrics to “Here, There and Everywhere,” nearly everyone was facing the back of
the church, eyeing the door through which Pauline had disappeared.
Margot looked at her father. He was sitting with his eyes closed, no doubt wishing
that he could rewind the last thirty seconds and make them go differently.
Margot thought,
Dad, do something.
But what was he to do? Chase after Pauline and miss his daughter’s wedding?
Margot saw motion to her left. Rhonda stepped off the altar and hurried down the aisle
in the wake of her mother.
The Tonellis,
Margot thought.
The church was
really
a-chatter now. But Kevin, never one to doubt his own importance, took the microphone.
“Here, making each day of the year,” he read. “Changing my life with a wave of her
hand, nobody can deny that there’s something there.”
I’m not talking about a legal document. If you feel you need a pre-nup, or if Intelligent,
Sensitive Groom-to-Be comes from billions of dollars and wants you to sign a pre-nup,
consult your father. The kind of “pre-nup” I’m talking about are the agreements you
make with Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be before you marry.
It basically all boils down to who, in the marriage, will be responsible for the following:
Trash
Emptying dishwasher
Mowing lawn
Laundry
You take two, he takes two. I suggest taking the lawn mowing. You’ll recall I mowed
the lawn in the sunny middle of the afternoon wearing a bikini top with my headphones
on, playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” as loud as it would go.
Afterwards I always had an ice-cold beer and admired my perfect lines and the deep,
green smell. Do not automatically gift that slice of heaven to your husband—enjoy
it for yourself!
S
he had always drifted in church. No matter how hard she tried to pay attention, her
mind wandered. The same had been true for long sessions of the state senate. Some
windbag would have the microphone, loving the sound of his own voice, and Ann would
doodle or pass irreverent notes to Billy Benedict from Winston-Salem. She would think,
All the real legislating gets done in bars and good steak houses. Nobody’s mind gets
changed in here.