Body Surfing (19 page)

"I've brought you a present," Julie says, holding a small box aloft. The package has been wrapped in an artful manner--the bow arranged deliberately off-center, the ends of the moss-colored tulle ribbon uneven.

"Sit with me," Sydney says, gesturing to the bed. She hesitates before opening the box. "Is this going to make me cry?" she asks.

Julie shrugs and smiles.

Beneath the tissue paper lies a blue handkerchief, a patchwork of different materials. Sydney identifies a square of something that feels like oxford cloth, another of pale blue silk, a third of what appears to be a tie. Sydney touches a fourth patch and laughs. "Is this what I think it is?" she asks as she fingers a bit from Jeff's old, faded bathing trunks.

Julie nods. "I stole them. He's been looking for them for weeks."

"I know he has." Sydney smooths the handkerchief flat over the lap of her robe. There are nine squares, three over three. Each square is approximately two inches on a side. "You made it," Sydney says with wonder.

"I did," Julie admits. "The blue lace here is from the sash of your grandmother's wedding gown. The oxford cloth is from my dad's shirt. The tie is from your dad."

"They all knew about this?"

"Everybody gave something." Julie pauses. "Well, almost everybody. This one," she says, pointing to the bit of pale blue silk, "is from me, from the tank top I wore all last summer. This flannel piece is from your mother's old nightgown."

Sydney brings the handkerchief to her face and inhales the flannel square, imagining herself transported back to the nights when she would lay her head on her mother's lap while her mother read to her, a scenario that, in fact, may never have happened.

"And this one, with the tie-dye, is from your friend Emily. . ."

"I remember that shirt," Sydney says.

"This piece here is from my grandmother, who you never met, but I know she would want you to have it. It's from a Belgian tablecloth she always used when we had Sunday dinners at her house."

"Your mother's mother?"

"My father's.

"And this one," Julie says, pointing to the ninth and final square, "is from a baby blanket your mother said you had when you were born."

Sydney fingers the scrap of waffle weave. Each square is a different shade of blue--cornflower and lavender and indigo--all carefully stitched together with a wisteria-colored border, just as a patchwork quilt might be.

"Julie, thank you!" Sydney says, embracing the girl. "I will always treasure this." For a minute, Sydney is unable to speak. "I didn't know you could sew," she says finally, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose.

Julie shrugs again, as if sewing were a skill anyone might pick up.

"Where did you get the idea?"

"I just did," Julie answers, unable, as always, to explain the source of her creativity.

Sydney again studies the squares. She notes that there is no contribution from Mrs. Edwards or Ben.

Julie sits back against the headboard and surveys the room. "Is that your dress?"

"For tomorrow, yes."

"It's pretty."

"Thank you."

"It's the right color for your skin. Is that why you picked it?"

"I just liked the color."

"I wish Helene and I could get married," the girl says wistfully, drawing up her knees.

Sydney turns, surprised. "You're too young."

"I don't know if it's legal in Canada," Julie muses.

Julie is nineteen--old enough to marry in any country, Sydney guesses. But Julie doesn't mean that. "Have you discussed this with Helene?" she asks.

"We could have a ceremony," Julie says brightly, "and invite our friends."

Sydney touches the handkerchief.

"Would you come?" Julie asks.

"Of course I would come." Sydney turns her body so that she is facing Julie. She lays the handkerchief between them. "Julie, you have a lot of years ahead of you."

"I'm happy nearly all the time," Julie says in expert defense. "I'm only a little sad now because of Ben."

Sydney nods. "I tried to get him to come."

"Did you? And what did he say?"

"Not much. I think the invitation has to come from Jeff."

"I don't understand what happened," Julie says.

"I don't either."

"But you were there. Dad says there was a fight."

"Not a physical fight exactly. But, yes, it felt like a fight."

"They used to fight a lot when they were little. Dad talked to me about it."

When Julie was born, Sydney calculates, the brothers would have been seventeen and thirteen.

"And then Ben went away to college and it just stopped. But Dad thinks they didn't really, you know, work it out."

Sydney imagines Mr. Edwards trying to explain Ben's baffling absences at family gatherings to Julie. He would have hated the rift for her sake as much as for his.

"What are you wearing tonight?" Julie asks.

"A blue sundress. With a sweater if it's cold on the porch. How about you?"

"I have a dress Helene picked out. It's black. Black's okay, right?"

"Of course."

"It's kind of, I don't know. It has a low back."

Sydney smooths the hair on Julie's forehead. "This is the best present I ever got," she says.

Sydney showers in the bathroom she shares with the minister, trying to avoid a water-stained copy of Hemmings Motor News on the floor. Hanging from a hook is a much-worn toiletries kit with items inside that Sydney does not want to have to think about. Without even trying, she can see a small glass bottle of golden corn remover.

For a time, in her room, Sydney attempts a wave over her forehead to which she can then affix an onyx-and-rhinestone barrette she bought for the occasion. She is aiming for a 1940s look to go with the vintage sundress she bought in a thrift store in Cambridge. But after several attempts, she abandons the effort and draws her hair straight back into a knot made from a ponytail.

Guessing what Helene would do, Sydney tries on but then discards several pairs of earrings, finally opting for small buds of cut glass with screw backs, another find from the thrift shop. She examines herself in the small mirror at the back of the closet door. Her face has color from the rare bits of sun they've had over the last several days, but her hair, still wet, looks too severe. She unpins it, letting it fall and not touching it. The fake jewels at her ears are a perfect choice.

The dress fits well through the waist and hips. Below that, Sydney cannot see in the mirror and has to guess at where the hem lies.

In the space of a year, she has gone from someone who might or might not have been introduced to visitors to being the center of attention. She senses there is something inherently unstable in such a rapid rise, a governess elevated to the status of wife. A suspect promotion.

It occurs to Sydney that she hasn't seen or heard Jeff come up from the beach. She walks to the window and spots him sitting on a kayak, watching two boys skim-board in a small lagoon made by the receding tide. He looks as though he wishes he could join them.

Sydney carefully folds her new handkerchief and tucks it into the pocket of the blue sundress. She will show it to Jeff and to her mother, but not to Mrs. Edwards, who may or may not have been asked for a piece of cloth. Who may have refused to give one. She takes a long breath. Apart from worrying about her mother and father and a possible killing frost that may occur if the two are inadvertently paired for any length of time, as well as not wishing to upset the delicate truce she has managed with Mrs. Edwards, not to mention trying to ignore the clanging gong of Ben's absence, she thinks the evening should be fun.

When she steps into the upstairs hallway, she can hear a man singing in the shower--doubtless the happy minister with vehicular interests. From below, there is chatter, a female voice with which she is not familiar. The caterer perhaps. She hears then a distinct exclamation of surprise and joy from Mrs. Edwards, though the latter sound has become so rare of late, Sydney isn't at all certain she is correct. If Jeff is still on the beach, Sydney will go out to him and tell him to hurry and dress. Ivers will arrive soon, doubtless cranky about his missed Yankees games. Sydney rounds the newel post and descends the stairs.

She sees him in the mirror, a round mirror with gold braid that sits over the telephone table. He has on a dress shirt; he has come from work. Over his shoulder is a garment bag, and in his hand a small duffel.

She stops on the stairs. In the mirror, he spots her, but there is no change in his expression. Sydney now understands Anna Edwards's exclamation of joy. In seconds, there will be other cries of surprise.

Sydney tries to smile, but his rigidity is inhibiting. She descends another step, and he moves in her direction. He looks drawn and slightly pale, bluish where his five-o'clock shadow would be. Not as robust as when she spoke to him in the bar. He seems a man not in command.

"Did you really think I'd skip your wedding?" he asks when she reaches the bottom step.

Not Jeff's wedding, but hers.

"I'm glad you're here," she says.

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

He brushes past her, the duffel briefly touching her hip. She listens to ascending footsteps behind her. She puts her hand into the pocket of her dress and touches the blue patchwork handkerchief.

Mark Edwards generously insisted on providing the roses for the wedding. A week earlier, he took Sydney on a formal tour of the garden to pick out specific species for her bouquet. It would have to be a simple arrangement, he said; he could grow the flowers, but he had no skill at arranging them. Simple would be fine, Sydney responded, and together they settled on a series of colors that ranged from tinted ivory to a red-orange, all picked to coordinate with Sydney's salmon silk. Mr. Edwards will wrap them so that she won't prick her fingers. Sydney will carry them loosely, as if someone had just laid a bouquet in her arms.

Predictably, Mr. Edwards is on his knees. She notes that he wears pads now, something that wasn't necessary the year before. He has on a sun visor and is working a pair of clippers, pruning stray shoots. It is early July, peak season for roses in New Hampshire. That he has been able to cultivate so many species so close to the ocean is something of a marvel, and those who know about gardening often stop to see the flowers. It is not unusual to notice a strange car parked on the street, a man or a woman wandering--with Mr. Edwards's permission--the rows of blossoms.

For a time, Sydney stands at the edge of the garden. The plot is laid out in the shape of an arched rectangle and is wonderfully tended, the roses set in mounded hillocks and evenly spaced. Sydney knows the wind off the water is a constant menace; often, when she glances out the kitchen window in the mornings, so many petals have been blown off during the night that the plot resembles the aftermath of a party at which a great deal of confetti was tossed into the air.

Mr. Edwards notices her then, an expression of pleasure on his face.

"Don't get up," she calls, but she is too late. She watches with some concern as he stands.

"I'm filthy," he says as she approaches. He takes off his gloves and bends and kisses her cheek. "How is the bride on the day before her wedding?"

"Very well. I just saw Ben."

"Isn't it terrific? I spoke to him when he pulled in. He's up now having a shower. Quite a surprise. Anna is thrilled. Did he say much to you? How do you think he looked?"

"He didn't say much," Sydney answers. "He looked a bit, I don't know, tired maybe."

"I thought so, too. Works too hard. Has, um. . .?" Mr. Edwards claps his gardening gloves together hard. "Does Jeff. . .?"

Sydney shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"It will be good for them both," Mr. Edwards says firmly. "A reconciliation. Not speaking is never a good thing. Never. Tears families apart for years. Usually, it's money that does it. Not sure what did it in this case. But there's a kind of loyalty there, don't you think? Perhaps you know more."

Sydney shakes her head. "I don't," she says.

Mr. Edwards waves an arm to take in the entire garden. "I've selected all your blossoms. Won't pick them till morning, of course."

"We should be having the wedding here. It's incredibly beautiful."

"Never have a wedding in a rose garden. Wind picks up, you're left with empty stalks."

"I just came to thank you," Sydney says.

"Gives me a chance to show off," Mr. Edwards says. "Don't you know that every gardener is at heart a braggart?"

She smiles.

"I'm glad you're marrying here," he says, making a gesture to take in the entire house. "Lots of history. Want to sit?"

It is clear to Sydney that Mr. Edwards needs to sit. "Yes, I do," she says.

With a small whisk broom propped up by the side of the stone bench, he carefully brushes off its surface.

"You interested in history?" the man asks. He knocks the loose dirt from his trousers.