Mystic Summer (11 page)

“Okay, so here's the section on venues.” Peyton flips methodically
to a tabbed section. “Do you still want outdoor or can we look indoors?”

Erika thinks. “Start outdoors. But I don't think we're going to have any luck.”

“Nonsense.”

I watch in silence as Peyton sifts through glossy folders of brochures with one hand and flips open her laptop with the other. It's no wonder she's climbed to the top of her firm so quickly. Just her confidence is intimidating. Maybe I should put her on the task of finding me a new job.

“Let's begin with a thirty-mile radius of Boston.”

I can't help but let out a laugh.

“What?” Peyton asks.

“Nothing. It's just that you two sound like you're launching an FBI search.” I put on a mock voice of authority. “Thirty-mile radius of downtown. The suspect must have a liquor license. And an outdoor patio that can seat three hundred!” I can barely get the last part out, but neither one of them cracks so much as a smile.

“Maggie. This is serious.” Peyton places a sympathetic hand on Erika's back.

“Just trying to lighten the mood.” I trudge into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

Two hours later, the radius has extended to seventy-five miles and beyond. The patio requirement has been scratched. Peyton's bottle of wine is empty.

“Well, we have a few options,” I say, trying to sound hopeful. With all of Erika's first-, second-, and third-tier choices reserved, we've only been able to find two places that were available, an Italian hall in the South End and a loft space outside
Back Bay that had been renovated into a trendy gallery with a rooftop deck.

Erika covers her face in her hands. “Vinny's Trattoria is not an option.”

“Nor is the loft,” Peyton says sadly. “Four flights of stairs. No elevator.” We all sigh.

“I don't know, Erika,” Peyton says wearily. They were now working on their cold coffees. “Maybe you should consider changing the date. At least you get exactly what you want. And it's only a few months later.”

If I have any hope of going to bed tonight and not being late for school again in the morning, it's my turn to talk some sense into Erika. “What about the Cape house?”

Erika shakes her head. “Trent's mother offered it when we got engaged, but even with tents we can only manage one hundred. Save-the-dates for one hundred sixty already went out.”

And then it hits me. “Wait a minute. If you're going to move it outside of Boston altogether, why not just keep moving south?”

Peyton is shaking her head “no” already. “Like where? Providence?” She purses her lips.

“Hear me out. What about a Connecticut wedding? At home?”

“In Mystic?”

Peyton is still shaking her head, but Erika is listening.

“Think about it,” I go on. “Not just Connecticut countryside, but seaside. You've got the historic village with all its clapboard houses. And the marinas full of sailboats. You can take pictures at sunset at one of the piers—just imagine it!”

Erika nods. “It would let me keep the summer date.”

I'm getting excited just talking about it, myself. “There're plenty of hotels and cute B-and-Bs in the area. And beaches.”

“And tourists,” Peyton groans.

Erika's nose wrinkles.

“True,” I concede. “But also fresh seafood. And salt air. And gorgeous weather.”

“I don't know—that sounds like starting over. New venue. New decorations. New caterer.” Peyton is ticking the list off her fingers.

“Not exactly starting over,” I remind them. “The dress is done. The band will travel. I'm sure that Boston florists leave the city to handle destination weddings all the time. The rest we will help you with.”

Erika closes her eyes and leans back against the couch cushions. We sit in silence, awaiting her answer.

“My mother always wanted me to get married close to home,” she says, finally.

“Exactly!”

“But it would have to be at our yacht club,” she says, sitting up straighter.

“We'll call them first thing tomorrow,” I promise.

“And we'd need to get a local photographer. Someone who knows all the best spots for sunset pictures,” she adds.

“Of course.”

Peyton's head is snapping left and right between us. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Mystic is so far from Boston.”

I throw her a look. “It's not like we're trekking to Manitoba. Besides, half of the guests are from that area anyway. It's her hometown.”

Finally Peyton concedes with a shrug. “I guess we could do a nautical theme.”

“We can go to Mystic this weekend!” Erika says. “My mom
can set something up with the club, and we'll make a girls' weekend out of it.” It's the happiest she's looked all night, and neither Peyton nor I are going to argue with this.

“I could use a weekend away,” Peyton says. She looks to me for backup.

“Perfect. School ends this week, so I'm free.” Potentially indefinitely so, I think with a sense of dread.

Erika stands, a sea of white tissues cascading off her lap like the skirt of a bridal gown. She dabs her nose one last time and looks at us. “I can't thank you guys enough for your help tonight. You have no idea what this means to me.”

It's been a long day. My Darby worries have faded somewhat, dim with sleep deprivation and wedding planning. Right now we all need to call it a night. “Get some sleep,” I tell Erika. “Everything will work out. We'll make sure of it.”

The relief on her face is palpable. Before she shuts her bedroom door, Erika holds up her pinky finger, and I raise mine back. “Promise?”

I nod.

“What's with that little thing you two always do with your pinkies?” Peyton whispers.

“Nothing,” I say. But seeing Erika flash it, I feel the same way I did when I was ten years old. It's still everything.

W
ith Erika's wedding safely relocated to Mystic, and just two days left until the end of the school year, I decide it's time to share the news of my possibly imminent unemployment.

“They haven't decided anything yet,” Evan says sympathetically, when I tell him the next morning on the phone. “The dean likes you. I'm sure he'll find a way to keep your job.”

Erika's take is empowerment. “Think of this as an opportunity. You love to teach, but that private school has never paid you what you're worth. This is your chance to aim for the job you deserve.”

Peyton is quick to tie it all up with a corporate bow. “Absolutely. Narrow your target region, garner multiple offers, and you'll be the one in control.” She points a manicured finger at me. “Don't be afraid to negotiate.”

Clearly, Peyton has never worked in the public sector, and I resist the urge to correct her about the nonnegotiable reality of district salary scales and state policy.

My mother flies the flag of maternal despair. “Oh, honey. This is terrible. How could the dean
do this
to you? Just think—all
those lovely poems you had the children write for Mother's Day? And those adorable skits they created for the class play? All for nothing! They're throwing their best teacher overboard!” Perfect. Perhaps I should take matters into my own hands and jump before they do. But, just in case I am considering that possibility, she adds a final directive. “I'm sure everything will be just fine! Come home as soon as you can. I'll bake scones.”

Jane goes political. “If the board needs to clean house, they should dump the baggage who just show up for a paycheck. Forget seniority. You should start a petition. Or consult the union. Or something. Jesus—I've got to go—Randall just peed on the rug again.”

After the onslaught of input, it takes some effort to sort through the pileup of everyone's feelings to find my own. But when I eventually do, I realize that as much as I love Darby, there is a small flutter inside my chest when I think of starting over fresh. Erika nailed it. Darby was a wonderful place to get my feet wet. But I've always meant to teach in the public school system. The pay would be better and the benefits, too. Sure, the class sizes would be larger. And there would likely be more underprivileged or special needs children to accommodate, beyond Darby's sole “Scholarship Butterfly” that the board of directors loves to boast about each fall. But that is exactly what appeals to me. There would be some diversity. And that is something I suddenly feel hungry for.

With the last days of school upon us, I try to keep these thoughts at the forefront as I navigate the halls of Darby, only to be stopped by both parents and teachers offering me pitying looks and, often, unsolicited job tips. Gossip has spread. The art teacher's
Catholic church runs a lovely school in Wellesley. (I'm not Catholic.) Andy Goldman, a third-grade teacher, sends his kids to a progressive Jewish day school. (Nor am I Jewish.) One of my classroom parents has a sister who also teaches fourth grade and is going on maternity leave. (In Chicago!) By the week's end, I am full up on advice and mostly just impatient for some kind of decision from the board. Not knowing has suddenly become the hardest part.

Aside from Sharon, the kids are the ones I will miss most. When I get teary-eyed at each final task: the final spelling test, the final read-aloud book, and ultimately, the final day, I try to remind myself that I still don't know for sure that I'll be saying goodbye. And our year together would be over with the arrival of summer anyway.

But on that last day, when the last bell rings, I can't help it: the tears are threatening. The class rises in one amoebous mob and heads for the door. There are hugs and handshakes and high fives. There are promises to send postcards over the summer, which cause my eyes to sting just a little. I've almost made it without breaking down when Anna Beth taps my arm. “Here,
Miss Griffin. This is for you.” She hugs me hard in the doorway and presses a handmade pink card in my palm, before dashing down the hallway. A stray tear escapes.

Timmy Lafferty is the last to exit the classroom. I catch him in the doorway as he tries to duck out. “Did you really think you could escape without a goodbye hug?” The boy blushes, but he lets me give him a quick squeeze.

“I'm writing another story,” he says shyly.

“I can't wait to read it,” I tell him.

Timmy hesitates in the door. “You're my favorite teacher, Miss Griffin. I'll miss you.” With that, he bolts down the hall for his bus.

And then I need a box of Kleenex.

Sharon finds me in the parking lot as I'm attempting to stuff the last box into my car. She peers into the trunk of my Volkswagen. “Wow, you packed a lot.” She narrows her eyes. “You didn't hear a final decision from the board yet, did you?”

I shake my head. “No. This is just extra stuff I need to clean out anyway.” I don't add that I started to pack up my desk, and then stopped myself. One small part of me still held out hope that I'd be coming back in the fall. “But this,” I say, reaching for a small box on top, “is for you.” I hand her the little African violet that I have somehow managed to keep alive for the whole school year.

“Mags, I can't take that. Didn't one of your kids give this to you on the first day?”

“Yeah, Beth Matthews.” A tear rolls down my cheek.

Sharon squeezes my hand. “Oh, sweetie. I can't believe the board left you hanging like this. But whatever happens, you are going to be okay. You know that, right?”

We hug goodbye, and promise to meet for lunch sometime over the summer.

“Don't have that baby until you get home from the Vineyard!” I tell her, wagging my finger.

“Are you kidding? It may be the last trip I ever take. This kid better stay put until August!”

I walk her to her car and watch as she attempts to slide her belly behind the wheel. “I have to say, I'm sort of jealous,” she
admits, sliding her seat back. “At least you get to wear a real bathing suit on the beach, and not some skirted maternity frock that makes you look like a beached whale in a tutu. Did you decide what you're going to do with your summer yet?”

“I suppose I should start sending out job applications just in case. But first I'm thinking about going home to Mystic. Erika needs some stuff done for the wedding, and I think it might be good to get away.”

“Good,” Sharon says. “Don't let her boss you around too much. Weddings are meant to be fun.”

I narrow my eyes. “Have you
never
been a bridesmaid?”

“Pay attention at the wedding,” she teases. “Who knows? Next summer it could be your own!”