Find Her, Keep Her (17 page)

According to the forecast, today’s high will reach sixty-eight degrees. That’s pretty nice for this side of the country. I decide to wear a dreamy, powder-blue cashmere wrap-dress and gold two-inch high heels. I’ve already accepted the fact that by the end of the day, my feet will be throbbing, burning, and stinging. Only another warm bubble bath, this time accompanied by Belmont Lord, will sooth them. I know I should call him to thank him for what he’s done for my mother and me, but the pressure of six weddings in ten hours is weighing down on me.
 

I straighten my hair with the flatiron and twist it into a chignon at the back of my head, allowing loose strands to fall around my face. By ten thirty a.m., I’m behind the wheel of the rental car and plugging all the addresses into the navigator. Three of them are at farms, two are at lighthouses, and one takes place in a meadow. One reception is in the courtyard of the Ocean View Inn in Edgartown and the other in Vineyard Haven.
 

The Martha’s Vineyard landscape is becoming familiar to me. My senses have gotten used to the oak, birch, maple, cedar, and sassafras trees. I expect to be swamped by trees at every turn, but there’s a surprise around every corner. You’re driving or walking along and then out of nowhere, a meadow of wildflowers opens up or a shimmering pond where ducks play appears. And I can tell how gentle a place is by the varieties of fowl that live there. Wild geese flap through the sky, safe and secure, knowing that there are no hunting seasons on Martha’s Vineyard.
 

The first three weddings go just as planned. I take pictures. I always choose the bride’s side because her guests are the most talkative ones. I make comments to strangers about how beautiful the flowers are, how fantastic it is that the day has finally come, and embellish by saying “I saw
her
already, and she’s stunning.” That’s how I usually get the name of the bride.
 

“Yeah, Tabatha picked the right dress this time.”

“Leanne deserves this moment.”

“I’m so happy Rachel decided to go through with it.”

“Hell, it cost her enough… Sidney is always big on spending big…”

Of course I can’t use these tidbits in the article, but I become part of the guest list just as if I received my own invitation with the big day announced in gold lettering.

I’m in the meadow at wedding number four and have been going at it nonstop. Sidney’s chipper friends Carly and Linda have taken a liking to me. The attendees are from Chicago, and we’ve already discussed ad nauseam the sheer number of men who live on the island while waiting for the tardy bride to step on her mark.

“Dirty hands, dirty mouths… plain old dirty,” Linda remarks in a plain old dirty way.

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” Carly says for the fifth time as she squints at me. “How do you know Sidney?”
 

And now I’m forced to confess. “I don’t know her.”
 

“Then you’re friends with Emil?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m a travel writer, and I’m writing a story about weddings on Martha’s Vineyard.”

Carly snaps her finger. “That’s it! You write that taxicab series! I mean, the photos of you leaning on the taxicab alone make you want to read the articles. I’m like, ‘I want to go wherever she’s going.’” She laughs.

“What taxicab series?” Linda asks, still confused.

Before I’m able to say a word, Carly explains my work. “And Sidney is a bigger fan of your articles than I am! She would die if she knew you were here, at her wedding. Wait, I’ll be back.” She shoots out of her seat and trots up the aisle.

The next time I see her, she’s standing in the aisle waving for me to follow her. Everyone looks concerned as she takes my hand and nearly drags me along. It does appear as if something has gone terribly wrong.
 

But au contraire–I hit the jackpot!

Sidney, the bride, gives me permission to snap as many photos as I like. She says she would really like to have an editorial-quality shot of the moment they turn to face the audience after being pronounced man and wife. On top of that, she’ll grant me an interview tomorrow morning before they ship out for their honeymoon on the French Riviera. They chose that location after reading my article and plan to follow my excursion step by step.
 

I also lucked out that she’s a stunning bride. Her figure, face, and dress are very editorial. Sidney is tall, curvaceously fit, and she has wavy brunette tresses streaking down her back. Her dress is white—that’s classic—and I’m so happy she’s wearing a vintage pearl necklace.
 

The groom is an ordinary tall, thin, shaved guy. He makes me wonder,
How in the world did he land her
? This, of course, makes the article even more appealing. They represent the promise. If you have your wedding on Martha’s Vineyard, even if you’re an average Joe, you just might end up with a Sidney. There’s no way Dusty Burrows will turn down the article once I send the shots.

I’m in writer mode, paying attention to all the little details. I snap a shot of the little girl with ginger ringlets at the moment she’s handed the satin pillow with the ring by a smiling bridesmaid; the awestruck expression on the groom’s face the moment the bride appears; two women whispering about how breathtaking she looks; how her father’s face turns from dutiful to pleased the moment he hands her to the new leading man in her life. I certainly get the money shot that Sidney requested. The birds in the trees, the sky with its bulbous clouds, and the yellow wild flowers are also featured in nearly every shot.

After the ceremony, Linda and Carly insist that I attend the reception. They promise there will be a horrible wedding band belting out all of the hits from the eighties and nineties, but no one will care how bad they sound because they’ll be wasted as soon as the party starts.
 

I’m not a big social drinker, so I decline until I’m offered a spot at the dinner table—I can’t refuse food. I hadn’t realized it, but it’s going on six o’clock and I haven’t eaten at all. This happens frequently when I’m working. Only when I’m on the verge of fainting do I remember it’s time to eat.
 

The wedding party proceeds from the meadow to the docks where a number of boats wait to whisk them across the shores to a mansion in Edgartown that once belonged to a sea captain.

I head back to the car to call Belmont and let him know where I’m going. I search my wallet for the card he gave me, but I can’t find it. And he’s never called my phone, so I don’t have his number.
 

I chuckle at this minor disaster. I make a split-second decision to drive to his house and knock on the door, but there’s no answer.

This time, fate isn’t on our side. I retrieve my notepad from my bag, rip out a sheet of paper, and write out a note telling Belmont that I’ve gone to a wedding reception in Edgartown. I leave the address. It’s actually kind of disappointing that he isn’t at home.
 

The drive to the reception is a solemn one, and I can’t help but speculate about where he might be. Maybe he was called away on business. Maybe I was right and I was a game he played. But then why would he go through the trouble of flying my mom here? Apparently they had a serious conversation. Nope, he’s serious about me. He truly cares about me—me, Daisy Blanchard.
 

That puts a smile back on my face as I navigate the dark roads. Daylight Saving Time is no more and I already miss it. I roll into Edgartown and find a parking space just large enough to accommodate one Mini Cooper.
 

This street brings back bad memories. Boy, did I overreact the other night. Instead of escaping, I should’ve remained at the table, kissed Belmont proudly, and replied, “So what? Now are we done here?” Thus, wiping that smug look off Maya’s face. If only life granted do-overs after cooler heads prevail.

I snap photos while advancing up the street. There’s nothing more enchanting than Main Street of a small town in autumn. Almost all the quaint storefronts have white lights strung in the windows, and the glass-house streetlamps add to the ambiance. Usually the sidewalks are made of red brick, and the one street separating them is so narrow that I could hop right across it in two leaps.

On a scale from one to ten, the pain in my feet has reached seven and a half. I’m sort of limping with each step and alter my plans for the night. I won’t stay for dinner. I’ll take photos, thank the bride for her generosity, and confirm our interview for seven a.m. at the Day Harbor Café where we’ll have a light breakfast.

Finally, my aching feet bring me to the lawn of the mansion. What a novel idea. Blocks of white lights carve out a pathway leading to the white canvas tent. With the lights twinkling in the bulbous shrubs and feathery trees and the mansion rising in the distance, one would think that they’ve just stepped into the pages of a fairy tale.
 

The closer I get, the more chatter I hear. The guests erupt in laughter. A woman is speaking into a microphone. It’s too early for a toast, but that’s what it sounds like. Aching feet and all, I pick up the pace to capture the moment.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…” the crowd chants.

“Ah, what the hell!” the woman says.

I make it just in time to catch the kiss, camera in hand. My mouth is caught open. I’m frozen behind a table of people cheering on the kissers.

To my utter shock, it’s Belmont and a sultry brunette, and they’re engaged in some serious tongue action. My fingers involuntarily snap the shot as I take steps backward. Before I know it, I’m running away from the tent, across the lawn and down the street.

Heck, I can’t win for losing!

I snatch the car door open, forgetting to turn off the alarm first, and it starts blasting. After fumbling with the keys, I’m able to silence it. Once I close myself inside, I preview the photo.

His hand is on her waist. Their lips are locked. My heart once again shatters. I can’t take this any more. Instead of pain, I feel numb and resolved to the fact that every decision I’ve made regarding my love life has been a bad one.
 

I close my eyes to settle my breathing. Maybe I had to meet Belmont in order to make things right with my mom. And maybe he can’t help himself. He was, or is, a man whore. He’s a nice guy, well meaning, but maybe his sexual cravings are unquenchable. Since I left him wanting, he found another woman to fulfill them.
 

There… that’s how I make sense out of what I just saw. I sift through my contacts and call Leslie, my travel agent. I wait with bated breath for her to answer.

“Charter One Travel, Leslie speaking,” she says.

I expel a sigh of relief. “Hi, Leslie, this is Daisy Blanchard…”

“I know who you are!” she says excitedly. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

The fact that she speaks to me as though we’re not the same age doesn’t bother me this time. Instead, I go right into spouting out instructions.

“I need you to find me a house to rent that’s not in Chilmark or owned by a Belmont or Jack Lord. Please tell the owner that he or she is not to divulge my whereabouts to anyone; as a matter of fact, don’t even provide my name. Make sure there’s a wireless Internet connection. I need the rental until Saturday morning, and book me a flight out of Logan to Lima, Peru that afternoon. Oh, and make sure it’s a refundable ticket. I might fly back to LAX instead.” I’ve decided to accept the Peru offer, but I’m also itching to have that conversation with my father.
 

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asks, concerned by my dry, unemotional tone.
 

“I’m sorry, Leslie, I didn’t even say hi.”

“That’s okay, but are
you
okay?”

“I’ll feel better if you could secure a house for me within the hour. Don’t worry about the expense. I’ll pay it.”

“Of course I can,” she claims in her usual overconfident manner. “I’ll call you shortly with the details.”

I tell her thank you before she hangs up.
 

I’m on automatic pilot but still numb as I drive back to Belmont’s house. I rush inside and dash upstairs to pack everything. I want to cry but refuse to. I go to the office and pack up my computer. I search the cabinets until I find paper bags to take the food that I bought. I make six trips to my car and, as a result, work up a sweat.
 

My cell phone chimes as I stand in the doorway with my suitcase in one hand and computer bag hanging on the opposite shoulder. Leslie’s name is on the screen.

“Hello!” I exclaim hopefully.

“Get ready, sweetie, here’s the address…”

It’s official. I’m leaving. Suddenly, I can no longer hold back the tears, and they pour out of my eyes without much effort.

Chapter 11

Looking For Her

***

Belmont Lord

Belmont Lord thought he saw a familiar face out of his peripheral vision. He tried to do a double take, but Mandy Hill had yanked him by the collar to slather him with a wet kiss. She tasted like vodka and a breath mint. His tongue went numb, which meant that, along with being drunk, she was high. He wanted to be anywhere but there.
 

Suddenly he had what felt like an out-of-body experience. He was watching himself kissing her and wondering when in the hell she was going to stop. Everybody was egging them on. A sick feeling rose up in the pit of his stomach, and he felt as though he was making a monumental mistake.

Her tongue dug deep in his mouth, threatening to stab his tonsils. He had to put a hand on her chest and shove her back as gently as possible. Dinner hadn’t been served yet, and most everyone was already wasted–including the bride, the groom—who was a friend of his—the best man, all the groomsmen, bridesmaids, and even the goddamn parents.
 

“Finally!” Mandy slurred, shooting her arms up victoriously. “I’ve been wanting to do that since college!” She fell down on her knees and announced that she wasn’t going to blow him, at least not yet, but she asked him to marry her. Then, in a shocking move, she tried to unzip his pants.