Everything Changes (21 page)

The Seacords have transformed the main hall of their penthouse into a party room with a harvest motif. Rust, gold, crimson, and brown banners descend in long arcs from the chandelier to the four corners of the room, creating a tented effect. Carving stations featuring all manner of meats have been set up along the far wall behind the staircase, while lighter fare like pasta and sushi is served from behind crescent-shaped tables scattered along the perimeter of the room. A circular wet bar manned by two bartenders has been established in the center of the room, between two large potted trees with multihued leaves. Tuxedoed waiters stand ready to circulate hot appetizers on polished silver trays. On the first landing of the staircase, members of the four-man band have finished setting up their instruments, and are now hanging out in the loose manner of musicians as they fasten their ratty cummerbunds and clip-on bow ties. The grand double doors on both sides of the anteroom have been opened, allowing access to the living room and dining room respectively. As with their lesbian daughter, Hope’s parents are compensating for their disapproval with an extravagant demonstration of acceptance, and into the chaos of this charade I stride, with the mother of all headaches throbbing in my temples.

“Hello, Zack,” says Vivian, her lips like dry tissue paper against my cheek. “What do you think?” Her hair and makeup are done, but she’s overseeing the final preparations in her bathrobe.

“It looks amazing,” I say.

“The banners aren’t draping the way they were meant to, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, I suppose. They’ve already dismantled the scaffolding.”

“I think they look great,” I say. “And the trees are a very nice touch.”

“Aren’t they? They were trucked down from a nursery in Vermont.”

“Where’s Hope?”

“She’s in her room, touching up. She asked me to send you up when you got here.”

I find Hope sitting in front of her vanity, blotting her lipstick, her hair done up in a French braid to show off the graceful lines of her neck. “Hey there,” she says to my reflection. “You look sharp.”

“Thanks,” I say, straightening my tie in the mirror. I walk up behind her and place my hands on her shoulders, studying our reflection in the mirror. There we are, the happy couple, ever after, till death do us part. The bride glowing, the groom blushing, either from excitement or from the inadvertent Viagra dose that even now renders the skin of his face hot and prickly, like a sunburn. I have somehow pulled this off, landed this gorgeous, vibrant woman, and there is a whole life out there waiting for us. There will be travel, and children, and ultimately a house of our own. We can have a room for Pete, who will be an adored uncle and who will probably come to stay for longer intervals as Lela gets older. We’ll make friends in the neighborhood, become active in the school, immerse ourselves in the wonder of our growing family, and through it all I’ll wake up every morning to the flawless beauty of Hope’s face, go to bed at night enveloped in the soft warmth of her naked embrace. All I have to do is dismiss the delusion of a higher love with Tamara; this ephemeral fantasy triggered by nothing more than an untimely attraction and sublimated fears.

Hope meets my gaze in the mirror, her eyes questioning and kind. “You ready for this?”

I nod and lie. “You bet.”

An hour later, the place is hopping. I am introduced to couple after couple of her parents’ friends, and after my third drink or so, they all merge into the same couple, silver, tanned, and expensively preserved, and I stop feeling the need to impress. Norm and Lela arrive together, which is a whole ball of weird all its own, Lela glammed up in a regal black gown and borrowed jewelry, Norm looking uncharacteristically dapper in a dark suit and a water-stained tie. Pete follows behind them, looking scrubbed and spiffy in a new black suit and tie, his curly hair gelled into temporary submission.

Norm pulls Hope into a bear hug, kissing her cheek on the way in and then again as he releases her. “We finally meet,” he says, grinning broadly, steadying her by holding on to her arms just above the elbows.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Hope says, a little shaken, but smiling nonetheless.

“You, my dear, are positively breathtaking,” he says, shaking his head in wonder, still holding on to her arms.

“Thank you,” Hope says, embarrassed.

“Stunning. Absolutely stunning.” He winks at her. “Just remember, if things don’t work out, I’m always available.” He leans in to kiss her cheek one more time. “I taught him everything he knows.”

Hope laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You didn’t tell me he was such a flirt,” Hope whispers to me, still blushing, after Norm lets go of her to meet Jack and Vivian.

“Is that what that was? I thought it was more like mauling.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, giving me a light shove. “He’s very charming, in his own way.”

“I will never understand women,” I say. Hope squeezes my hand.

“This place is something else,” Norm tells Jack, shaking his hand and nodding appreciatively as he surveys the apartment. “What is it, twelve thousand square feet?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Jack says, looking somewhere over Norm’s shoulder.

“I can see where Hope gets her beauty from,” Norm says, taking Vivian’s hand in both of his.

“Thank you,” Vivian says graciously.

“Thank you,” Norm says flirtatiously, raising her hand to his lips. Vivian laughs nervously and seems relieved when her hand is released.

Lela is altogether more reserved, greeting the Seacords with a stiff, rehearsed elegance. “Your house is lovely,” she says.

I introduce Pete to the Seacords, who both shake his hand obsequiously, but when he launches himself at Hope for a long hug, Jack looks agitated, wondering if he’ll need to call security. Pete has brought a little address book, and he asks Hope for her number, which he scribbles into it. “I’ll see you later,” he says to me before wandering into the crowd. We watch him approach one woman and then another, asking for their numbers and e-mail addresses.

“What’s he doing?” Hope asks me.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s how he deals with crowds. He collects numbers from all the women.”

“Does he ever call them?” Vivian asks, prepared to be mortified.

“No. He can’t read his own handwriting.”

“Oh. Okay, then.”

When he gets comfortable, if he follows his usual MO, he’ll start asking the women to kiss him, but I don’t see any reason to worry Vivian with that information.

We’re interrupted by the arrival of a gaggle of Hope’s girlfriends, who descend upon us in a flurry of shrieks and kisses. In the confusion, Lela slips away to keep an eye on Pete while Norm attacks the buffet. He doesn’t take a plate, but simply picks pieces of food off the platters with his hand and places them into his mouth whole, working his way down the table, to the guarded consternation of the other guests. Hope frowns as she watches him, then, when she sees me watching her, shrugs and offers a wan smile.

“Charming,” I say.

“In his own way,” Hope says.

“I could use another drink.”

“I think we both could.”

I take the scenic route to the bar, stopping in the guest lavatory to splash some water on my face, which feels hot to the touch. I realize that I didn’t think to ask Norm about drinking alcohol while on Viagra. Too late now, I suppose. I get an apricot sour for Hope and another rum and Coke for myself, leaning against the bar for support. The bartender, a girl in her mid-twenties with intelligent eyes and a diamond stud in her nose, hands me the drinks with a smile. “It’s your party, right?”

“And I’ll cry if I want to,” I say. She laughs, and I immediately envy her the presumed simplicity of her own life. She’ll go home after this, to her apartment downtown, maybe to a boyfriend or maybe to a cat and a DVD, will lie back on her couch with a mug of tea and phone a girlfriend, talking lazily as they make plans for a late brunch. I want to cut out with her, find a nearby bar, and tell her my whole, sad story, see if she can help me figure things out. I’m sure she’ll understand.

“Congratulations,” she says, handing me the drinks.

“Thanks.”

I turn around just in time to see Tamara tentatively enter the room, dressed in the little black dress she bought on our Bloomingdale’s outing, her hair blow-dried straight, her face uncharacteristically made up with lipstick and blush. Standing slightly pigeon-toed in her heels, eyes casting about nervously in search of a friendly face, she looks exposed and vulnerable, and I have to forcibly restrain the impulse to charge over to her and throw my arms around her. Instead, I chug my drink—my fourth or fifth of the evening—in four quick swallows and ask the bartender for another. I watch as Hope greets Tamara, the two women smiling and speaking animatedly to each other, and suddenly I’m missing Rael so intensely that it stops me in my tracks, overwhelming me with a momentary vision of where life was headed before the accident sent it careening in a new direction. Rael is right there, walking in with Tamara, giving Hope a congratulatory kiss on the cheek before heading into the crowd to find Jed and me and hit the bar. Tamara is nothing more or less than my best friend’s wife, my feelings toward Hope are pure and uncomplicated, I’m celebrating with my two best friends, and it feels like I have the universe wired, like I’m exactly where I was always meant to be. Instead, Rael’s dead, Jed’s pissed and probably won’t even show up, and I’m staring at Tamara with a mixture of longing and dread so potent that it burns my eyes.

Then she sees me, and her face lights up with a smile, warm and knowing, as she makes her way across the room to me. Her kiss is soft and chaste on my cheek, and the familiar scent of her shampoo, slightly cooked by her blow-dryer, fills my nostrils and then, it seems, the rest of me. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“You look like you got some color.”

I hold up the glasses. “Just a lot of drinks.”

She looks at me. “You’d better pace yourself. The night’s young.”

I nod and look at her, wondering what the hell I’m going to say. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sophie made you a card,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a piece of pink construction paper decorated with jagged crayon streaks. On the bottom, written in crayon, it says, I love You Zack.

“I didn’t know Sophie could write.”

“I wrote that part.”

I nod and she looks away. “I love you too,” I say.

Tamara laughs, like I’m joking, and starts to fold the paper. “You’ve got your hands full,” she says. “I’ll hold on to this for you.”

“No,” I say, putting my drinks down on the bar. “I want it.” I take the picture from her, fold it once more, and put it in my inner jacket pocket. Over Tamara’s shoulder, I can see Hope watching me. “Listen,” I say. “I have to go for a second. Why don’t you get something to eat, and I’ll find you in a few minutes, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she says. “You’ve got to meet and greet. Press the flesh. I’ll be fine. Is Jed around?”

“I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Oh, well. I’ll amuse myself, then.”

She wanders over to the smorgasbord, and I head back up to Hope, who takes my drink and kisses my cheek. “It was so nice of her to come,” she says, her eyes following Tamara around the room. “Who’s babysitting?”

“Rael’s folks, I would imagine.”

“She looks great, doesn’t she?” Hope’s feminine survival instincts, exacerbated by the overt sexiness of Tamara’s dress, are in conflict with her natural generosity, and the tension adds a complex texture to her remark, which manages to extend goodwill and cloaked scorn simultaneously.

My response must be seamless, or she’ll sense something. “She looks good,” I say.

“I hope I can wear a dress like that after I have a baby.”

It’s a backhanded compliment, launched like praise but falling on the ear with a calibrated disdain.

“Dance with me,” Hope says. We walk across the room and join the handful of couples dancing in the clearing right below the band, which is playing a slow, bare-bones version of “The Long and Winding Road.” I can feel the eyes of the crowd on us as we sway to the music, Hope smiling grandly as her eyes dart around the room, while I cling to her, dizzy and flushed, wishing we could just disappear. As we turn, I catch a glimpse of Tamara standing in the living room doorway, drink in hand, watching us dance. Our eyes meet and she offers a bittersweet smile, lifting her drink in my direction. The milling guests crisscross between us, blocking my view, and when I can see her spot again, she’s not there.

“You feel hot,” Hope whispers, her cheek against mine.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re sweating.”

The band segues into Gershwin, and no one under sixty can dance to Gershwin, so we stand there awkwardly until Jack steps over and says, “Can I cut in?”

“Be my guest,” I say, but by then they’ve spun away from me and I’m talking to myself.

Matt arrives, dressed in leather pants, a pin-striped suit jacket, and his Elton John wig. He’s standing by the vegetable table, dipping celery stalks and carrots into the hummus with the regularity of a machine, tapping his foot to the band as he surveys the scene.

“Matt.”

“There he is,” he says, stepping forward to give me a quick hug. His jacket carries the unmistakable whiff of marijuana. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

“Mom’s here?”

“With Dad.”

“Is he behaving?”

“He hasn’t been asked to leave yet.”

“Well, thank God for small favors,” Matt says, eyeing the dance floor. “Is that Hope dancing?”

“Yep.”

“Who’s the guy grabbing her ass?”

“That’s her father.”

“Yikes,” he snickers.

“So it’s not just me?”

He shrugs. “What do we know about fathers, right?”

Later, the band falls silent and the singer speaks into the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? The father of the bride would like to offer a toast in honor of Hope and Zack.”

Applause all around as Jack steps up to the makeshift bandstand, glass in hand, and the grand foyer fills as everyone surges forward from the ancillary rooms to hear what he has to say. “Where’s Viv?” he asks into the microphone. A small commotion ensues as Vivian is coaxed to join him on the stairs.