Summer Snow (30 page)

The church was richly decorated and dazzling with dozens of candles and massive urns that overflowed in cascades of green hydrangeas and bursts of perfect roses the color of strawberries and cream. A string quartet sent classical music spinning through the fragrant air, and well-dressed couples spoke quietly as they bent over the guest book and scrawled quick notes of blessing.

We weren't late, but the pews were already nearly full and I noted without much surprise that Francesca's side contained even more people than Thomas's. Never mind that her relatives lived all over the country. I knew that Mr. Hernandez had offered to fly out anyone who wanted to come to Iowa for the wedding, and it seemed that the entire clan had taken him up on his generosity.

Grandma and I flowed wordlessly with the crowd and were just ready to join a short queue of people lining up before one of the aisles when I felt a hand on my arm. Someone spun me into a tight hug.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're here!” Mrs. Walker gushed into my hair.

I pulled back and held her at arm's length, smiling at her lacquered hair and professionally done face. “Bit of a crazy day?” I asked, knowing the answer by the harried look in her eyes. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Mrs. Walker groaned. And then, smoothing her dress, she shrugged almost shyly. “Do you think so?”

“Absolutely,” Grandma agreed, wrapping Mrs. Walker in a hug of her own. “And everything looks great.”

“I think they like it,” Mrs. Walker whispered, giving us a discreet thumbs-up. We didn't have to ask who
they
were. “They are very nice,” she assured us. “
Very
nice. Why am I so nervous?”

“Probably because your son is getting married today,” Grandma said. “It's a big day.”

Mrs. Walker sighed dramatically. “I know. I know. I'm a mess. I can't imagine what I'll be like when they tell me I'm going to be a grandma!”

I wasn't offended, but suddenly Mrs. Walker glanced down at my belly, and beneath her dusty rouge her cheeks went white. “I'm sorry, Julia,” she said quietly.

“Don't worry about it,” I said sincerely, but her horrified air made me feel like maybe I should be insulted.

“I didn't mean—,” Mrs. Walker tried to continue but was interrupted by a frenzied Maggie bursting into our little group. She was wearing a soft pink dress with a chocolate sash, and her hair was pulled up in a pile of curls on top of her head. I wanted to tell her that she looked lovely, but she barely glanced in my direction.

“Get behind the dividing wall, Mom!” Maggie barked, yanking her mother's arm. “You're not supposed to be seen yet! The seating of the parents won't happen for another—” she glanced at the clock on the wall—“four minutes.” She huffed crossly. “And now people have seen me, too!”

Mrs. Walker rolled her eyes at Grandma and me and let herself be dragged away, mouthing something to us that I couldn't make out. When they were a few paces away and she finally gave Maggie her full attention, I overheard her say, “It's not like I'm the
bride
. Who cares if I'm seen?”

Grandma and I giggled a bit at the drama, but I couldn't suppress a feeling of disappointment that Maggie had hardly even noticed me. We used to be so close, but ever since the night I teased her about having a boyfriend, her loyalties had slowly shifted from me to Francesca. I told myself it was better this way. After all, Francesca was going to be Maggie's sister-in-law; I was merely the next-door neighbor. But that didn't change the fact that I missed Maggie and I couldn't help mourning the way things used to be. She had been right in her accusation all those nights ago: I had changed. Everything had changed.

Francesca walked down the aisle to a song I had never heard before. It wasn't the traditional wedding march, but it was bright and joyful and so stunningly beautiful that I felt myself choke up, though I'd promised myself it was the last thing I would do. We stood for the bride's entrance and she was a vision in white, a sparkling angel floating on the arm of her equally handsome father.

He will never walk me down the aisle
, I thought with a raw stab of loss.

Strangely, it was one of the first things I had thought of when my dad passed away—that quintessential moment in the relationship between a father and his daughter, the act of giving your baby away—and I thought that I had dealt with it. But watching Francesca walk down the aisle with her dad made it seem very real and very new. I let myself cry.

Though I had felt more or less indifferent when we stepped into the church, by the end of the wedding ceremony I was a hopeless mess of crude emotion. It was like watching my life flash before my eyes: the life I was
supposed
to have. But my reality was a life without. Without Dad, without Thomas or a white dress, a wedding ring, a father for my baby. I wanted to close my eyes when the pastor told Thomas, “You may kiss your bride,” but it was like watching an accident in slow motion. I couldn't look away.

The wedding program informed us that the receiving line would take place at the reception hall, and I was thankful that I wouldn't have to greet Thomas and Francesca in my current state. There would be time for a bathroom stop, a tall glass of water, and best of all, a half-hour drive with Grandma so I could clear my head and arrange my face to survive the rest of the festivities.

We clapped and cheered when the bride and groom ran down the aisle arm in arm, exuberantly laughing and crying in the same shared breath, and then the ushers stood to tell us that we could depart at our leisure. Three hundred guests rose as one, and I quickly tried to pull myself together, feeling lost in the melee and yet also exposed as the crowd began to talk animatedly and survey the sanctuary full of their peers.

“You okay?” Grandma whispered, sliding her arm around my waist to give me a gentle squeeze.

I attempted a smile. “I'm fine. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

Grandma nodded in agreement. “Weddings always make me cry.”

“Apparently me too.” I laughed self-consciously and pressed a tissue beneath my eyes. Taking a calming breath, I tried to relax my face. “Can you tell I've been crying?”

“Maybe a little,” Grandma said honestly. “But look around you—nearly everyone looks like they've been crying.”

It was true. The knot between my shoulder blades loosened slightly when I glanced around and saw a number of people still dabbing tears.

The church emptied quickly, guests making a beeline for their cars to steal a few moments of peace before the reception started in an hour. Grandma and I melted into the crowd, eager to be swept outside and thinking maybe we could still grab a latte, when for the second time that day someone grabbed my arm from behind.

I turned promptly, ready to see Mrs. Walker and prepared to compliment her on the beautiful ceremony. On the marriage of her son. On her new daughter-in-law. I had rehearsed what I would say, and I was afraid I could say it only once if I hoped to be sincere. The words were on the very tip of my tongue.

But Mrs. Walker wasn't standing before me. It was Michael.

Surprise must have been written all over my face because Michael said with a smile, “Didn't expect to see me here, did you?”

“N-no,” I stammered, trying to recover. There was nothing I could do about the state of my face, but I touched my hair insecurely and wished that I could disappear into thin air. I managed to choke out, “I didn't know that you knew the Walkers.”

Michael dropped my arm and pointed over the crowd to where Thomas's siblings stood clustered around Francesca's extended family. “I played on a summer league slow-pitch team with Thomas and Jacob a few years ago. We hung out a bit. How do you know them?”

“Next-door neighbors,” I explained. “We've known each other for years.”

Michael snapped his fingers. “Of course. I thought of that when I dropped you off that night your car was going
click
.”

I smiled a little in spite of myself and was about to attempt some comment about his obvious grasp of mechanics or lack thereof when I felt Grandma beside me.

“Is this the young man who brought you home?” she asked, a sweet look twinkling in her eyes.

“Oh, Grandma, I'm so sorry.” I put my arm through hers and motioned at Michael. “Grandma, this is Michael Vermeer. We work together at Value Foods. Michael, my grandmother, Nellie DeSmit.”

It was nice to have somewhere to look other than at the man in front of me. For slightly longer than necessary, I studied Grandma's profile so I didn't have to acknowledge the tailored lines of Michael's charcoal suit or the lay of his sky blue tie. I tried not to notice that the pin-striped tie was the exact same color as his eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. DeSmit,” Michael said politely, shaking her hand.

“Call me Nellie,” Grandma insisted. “Mrs. DeSmit is my mother-in-law, and she's been gone for almost thirty years.”

Michael laughed. “Okay, Nellie. You can call me Mr. Vermeer.”

Grandma's eyes widened. “He's cheeky, isn't he?” she said, elbowing me. Her voice was light, pleased somehow.

Because it was the complete opposite of the truth and because I felt more comfortable teasing him than having a real conversation, I quipped, “I'll say. He's a pain to work with.”

Michael feigned indignation. “Hey now. We were being nice.”

We chuckled for a moment, but then there was a gap in the conversation, a moment when we all looked at each other but could think of nothing more to say. I stole a peek at Michael, and he raised his eyebrows at me. Caught in the act, I turned to Grandma and found that she was staring at Michael. The silence was about to become uncomfortable, and I opened my mouth to wish Michael a good evening and slip back into the crowd.

But he spoke first. “Nice wedding, wasn't it?”

Grandma and I nodded.

“Beautiful,” Grandma said.

“I've been to lots of weddings,” Michael told us, “but you don't always see two people who are so obviously meant for each other.”

I tried not to look skeptical thinking of the bumpy road that Thomas and Francesca had traveled to this day. I wasn't even sure that Thomas's family would agree with Michael's assessment of the now blissfully wedded couple. But then again, they had seemed like the happy ending of a fairy tale as they repeated their vows to each other. I smiled tactfully in agreement with Michael's proclamation and found myself earnestly wishing that, from now until death do us part, his assessment would be true for Thomas and Francesca.

“They have an incredible life ahead of them,” Michael continued. “A happy home.”

I knew he was just making small talk, trying to say the right things because it was the solicitous thing to do. I also knew that every group scattered around the church was having the same flattering conversation as though they could will each word into being by saying it aloud. But Michael's statements felt like little assaults. I told myself that he couldn't know what Thomas's wedding meant to me. He couldn't understand that each reference was a reminder. A glimpse of what could have been. A happy home. Together forever.

Grandma said something back to Michael, and I listened to them chat for a few more moments, their niceties washing over me but not sinking in, before someone suddenly called Michael's name. I was relieved and disappointed to see him look past us and wave, pointing out a group of young people lingering near the door.

“That's my ride,” Michael said apologetically. “Guess I gotta go. See you at the reception?”

I nodded but wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to see Michael at the reception. The guys at the door were attractive and laughing, jock types with broad shoulders and matching smiles, and the girls spun on their high heels to give me an appraising look. It didn't seem that they were very impressed with what they saw. I wondered which one of them was vying for the position of Michael's girlfriend.

“Nice to meet you, Nellie,” Michael said, taking off in the direction of his friends. “Talk to you later, Julia.”

I smiled my good-bye and then turned away as if there were someone else I wanted to talk to. In reality, I just didn't want to watch him go.

And I also didn't want to deal with the thought he had inadvertently solidified in my mind: a baby was intended for a happy home. A home like the one Thomas and Francesca had just created.

The kind of home I couldn't provide.

Christening

W
HILE
G
RANDMA AND
I were at the wedding, Janice and Simon were having so much fun at the beach that they commandeered the following Saturday and insisted that we all go to the lake together. Grandma loved the idea, and she immediately and enthusiastically jumped on board by planning a picnic that would send every ant within a five-mile radius into a fit of pure, unadulterated joy. It was going to be the family event of the summer.

But I couldn't stop myself from wondering if Janice had ulterior motives.

Twice before Saturday I caught her on the phone when no one else was around. She seemed secretive, cagey, and she looked at me with barely concealed guilt at being caught doing something that she should not have been doing. Had she ended the conversations with a smile and a simple good-bye, I wouldn't have thought anything of it. But she didn't. It made me very suspicious.

The first time was shortly after ten on Wednesday night. The weather was beyond hot—energy sapping, strength draining, exhaustion inducing—and by nine thirty everyone in our little farmhouse had gone to bed. The television was turned off, lights were extinguished, and we flopped into our beds, sweaty and sleepy.

Although I was asleep within minutes, I had started to get up more and more during the night as my pregnancy wore on, and I often stumbled through the kitchen a handful of times nightly on my way to the bathroom. Usually I was half-asleep and hoping to remain semiconscious, but that night I emerged from the stairs to the sound of a voice in the mudroom. Shocked and startled wide-awake, I crept toward the door and peeked cautiously through the leaded window. A small square of clear glass in the very center afforded me a glimpse of Janice, pacing the floor with the telephone pressed securely to her ear. She was framed and indistinct, a shadow of softly blurred color in the darkness.