Smoke (31 page)

About ten minutes before we’ll be called to take our seats for dinner, Ben and I find ourselves on the outskirts of the dance floor caught by our own wedding song. “Us” by Regina Spektor. Someone looking for deeper meaning would read all kinds of things into that choice; we just liked the song. Monuments being built to love. Cities named after it. It seemed so big. So permanent. What we were hoping to create on a more modest scale.

I love this song. But it’s not a song I would expect to hear here.

I turn to Ben, and he’s standing there, looking shy, holding out his hand.

“Did you . . . ?”

He just waits, and I put my hand in his. He steps us into the slightly muddled crowd, his hand returning to the small of my back, the other gripping my left hand tightly, folded between us. We shuffle slowly in a circle.

“What does this mean?” I ask.

“Shhh,” he says. “Let’s be happy, tonight. We’re going to have a baby.”

His face breaks into that smile I’ve been waiting for, and I tuck my chin against his shoulder. We spin to the quick piano beat that’s a bit too fast for a classic slow song. The music soars and crashes around us, and I have one of those movie moments, where scenes of my life flit through my brain like a highlight reel. Our first conversation. That tenuous moment on the Majestic. Our wedding day. The time we spent apart. The times we came back together. Our last good night. How broken Ben looked this morning.

“Ben?”

“Yes,” his lips say into an escaped tendril of my hair, wafting it against my neck.

“I love you.”

He holds me away from him, silent, still turning slowly.

I want him to say something. To say it back. To mean it. For it to be enough. And maybe he’s about to, but it will have to wait until another time.

“Please take your seats, folks,” Kate Bourne’s voice crackles through the sound system as Regina’s voice is cut off midverse.

Ben and I stand there, still in a dancing pose, looking at each other as the lights begin to flicker above our heads.
On/off. On/off.

“We should probably sit,” Ben says on the third flicker.

I nod, and we leave any progress on our détente for another time. I can’t help but feel hopeful, though, as I take a seat on a fabric-covered chair that, though a rental, is nicer than anything we have in our own home.

Kate’s voice booms through the speakers again, welcoming us. She’s standing at the microphone in the middle of the stage. She’s wearing a floor-length black dress made of silk chiffon. The material’s gathered at the shoulders and has a plunging V neckline. Her collarbones stand out in sharp relief, almost like a coat hanger that the dress has been placed on for safekeeping. I guess she rethought her dress choice after seeing me at Caroline’s. Given how my dress already feels like a weight around my neck, I’m wishing I’d done the same.

The fire rages behind me. Ben is seated to my left, and a business associate of his father’s is on my right. His parents are across from us. I straighten out the silverware next to the bone-china salad plate and shift uncomfortably. I catch Grace watching me fidget. I give her a tentative smile, and she looks away.

Did she really tell Ben about the pregnancy by mistake? We haven’t spoken today, other than a few polite words in the car. Her public face doesn’t reveal anything, but after all these years of knowing her, I can’t believe she acted maliciously.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I tell Ben.

“Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be back.”

I rise and weave through the tables as Kate tells the crowd what it’s been complaining about for the last couple of days—this night is in honor of John Phillips, all of the proceeds raised will be given to him so he can find a new home when this is all over, et cetera, et cetera.

I search the room for Mindy. She called me early this morning while I was sleeping, leaving only a missed call on my phone. I haven’t called her back. In all the chaos, I forgot until now.

I don’t see her anywhere, certainly not at Kate’s table, where I would’ve expected her. But of course. Angus. There’s no way she’d come to this event with him sitting in a cell. How could I have forgotten? And that’s probably what she was calling me about this morning too. I should have called her back. A long time ago.

I reach deep into the pocket of my skirt and extract my phone. I can, at least, do one thing right tonight. I walk out of the tent, pull up Mindy’s contact, and tap to dial her number. It rings so long I almost hang up, but then her voice mail clicks in.

“This is Mindy. Leave a message.”

My voice catches at the familiarity of hers.

“It’s Beth. Elizabeth Martin. Of course you know who it is. Sorry. Strange night. Strange week. I just wanted to say I’m so sorry about Angus. And sorry also for not calling you back, earlier. If there’s something you need, anything, please let me know. I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of all of you.”

I end the call. There’s nothing more to say.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and start the semitreacherous walk across the lawn toward the public bathrooms. It’s fully dark now, and although I have no trouble seeing between the lights on the hill and the phosphorescent glow of the tent, someone forgot to lay down a walkway between it and the cement slab five hundred yards away where the bathrooms are. I’m not quite sure how I’ll manage with my dress once I get in there, but at least there are no Porta Pottys to deal with.

“Can I help you?” asks an older male voice. An arm slips through the crook I’ve created by holding my dress up off the moist lawn. When I turn to look, he has a face I recognize but can’t place.

“Do I know you?”

“Graeme Fletcher. You missed an appointment with me earlier this week.”

Graeme Fletcher? Graeme Fletch—oh, God. The lawyer. The divorce lawyer I was supposed to see earlier this week. I glance over my shoulder.

“No need to be nervous, young lady. I’m only escorting a woman to the bathrooms.”

I smile at him. He’s nearing sixty, with steel-gray hair and matching eyes. His tux fits him comfortably.

“Does that happen a lot?” I ask.

“People anxious about being seen with me in public? Frequently, I’m sad to say. Nature of the business.”

“I’ve always wondered why anyone would choose to do what you do, to be honest.”

“It can be steeped in misery, I’ll admit. But only if you let it get to you.”

“How do you
not
let it get to you? All the terrible things people who used to be in love do and say to each other.”

He stops. We’ve arrived at the bathrooms. “Because I hope I make it easier for them. To move on. Get closure.” He releases my arm. “But I’m guessing your missed appointment means you won’t be needing my services?”

“No. I . . . I mean, I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

I thank him for the escort and enter the building. It all takes a bit of maneuvering. I make a mental note not to drink much of anything tonight so I won’t have to repeat the process. Of course, I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol at all. Because I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. What will it take for me to really believe this? How can it be true after all this time? Now?

I struggle out of the stall. When I get back outside, Ben is there. Talking to Mr. Fletcher.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Ben turns toward me. “You were taking so long, I came looking for you.”

My heart is beating like a drum. “Mr. Fletcher was kind enough to help me walk across the grass.”

“He said.”

“It was nice talking to you, Ben,” Mr. Fletcher says, and walks away.

“Can you help me back?” I say to Ben.

I loop my harm through his, and we walk onto the grass. My heels dig into the soft grass, thoroughly moistened earlier today by the fire crews in case the worst happens.

“How do you know Mr. Fletcher?” I ask.

“He’s an old friend of my folks. Have you . . .”

“Yes.”

“What?” Ben drops my arm. A siren wails in the distance.

“I don’t want to lie to you. So yes. I had an appointment with Mr. Fletcher. But I didn’t go to it. And I told him I wouldn’t be needing his services. Because I won’t.”

“You had an appointment.”

“It was the only way I was going to bring myself to leave.”

“And that was so important to you? Leaving?”

“It felt like it was.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I’ll speak as loud as I goddamn want.”

“I told you I wanted to split up. What did you think I was going to do?”

“I didn’t think you really meant it.”

“Well, I did.”

We stand there, trapped by our anger and frustration. And then it hits me.

“You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s the truth, right? You never forgave me for hiding those tests results from you, and now I’ve done something worse. You’re not going to get past that. So what’s the point?”

“What’s the point? Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

“I’m not asking you anything! I’m telling you the truth.”

“The truth. Ha! You don’t even know what that word means.”

“That’s what you really think of me, isn’t it? I’m just a lying, cheating mistake who abandoned you when things got too hard.”

“Well, didn’t you?”

This statement is such a mixture of truth and misconception that it stops me. Stops me cold.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say.

“You can’t believe it? Jesus Christ, Elizabeth. You’re the one who made it happen!”

“I made a mistake. One mistake. And you’ve been blaming me for it ever since. I don’t deserve this. I don’t.”

I turn to leave, and Ben reaches out for my arm. I shrug it off.

“Let go of me.”

“Everything okay here?” Andy asks. He’s wearing his firefighter gear and is slightly out of breath.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Ben asks.

“Stop it, just stop it. Andy’s never done anything but be there for me.”

“Oh, right. Because that’s what I haven’t done. I wasn’t there for you. I’m not here for you now. I’m the bad guy.”

“Will you two stop it!” Andy says. “We need to evac the tent.”

My eyes go automatically to the mountain. Flames are dancing along the ridge, an orange flickering band that would be pretty if it wasn’t a disaster. The sirens I heard in the background are now an approaching wail, and they match the panicked rhythm of my heart.

“When did it crest?” I ask Andy.

“About ten minutes ago. The wind swept it right past the firebreak. Two men down.”

Two men. Two men I probably know. I push that thought aside.

“What do you want us to do?”

“We need to get everyone out of there without causing chaos.”

The tent is the worst kind of place to evacuate, full to the brim with older people who’ve had a few drinks and with only one point of egress.

“Will you help?” I say to Ben.

“Yes, of course.”

The three of us run across the lawn. I stumble over my shoes, and Ben arrests my fall. I kick them off, and we resume our sprint.

When we get there, Kate Bourne is still at the microphone, but now John Phillips is standing next to her. He’s almost unrecognizable in a pair of dark pants and a dress shirt, and he’s holding a massive check for $105,000. He looks petrified.

“It’s superimportant that nobody say the word
fire
,” I say to Ben quietly.

“What do we do?”

“We have to get up to the stage,” Andy says examining the doorway we’ve just come through for a way to make it larger. “We’ll say we need to evacuate the tent and ask people to disperse in an orderly fashion. It’s the only way. Even then—”

“We can do it,” I say. “You deal with the door, and I’ll go up.”

Andy and I make eye contact, agreeing on a course of action. He walks toward the bar to enlist the help of the waiters to open the doorway and stabilize it. If we don’t handle this properly, the tent could easily collapse.

Ben and I walk briskly toward the stage. The uneven floor scratches at my bare feet, and the sirens’ moan fills my ears. A few people give us curious glances, but most seem intent on the food in front of them.

We reach the stage and climb the stairs. Kate stops midsentence.

“What’s going on?”

“I have to make an announcement.” I place my hand over the microphone and speak quietly to Kate. “The fire’s crested the ridge. We need to get everyone out of here.”

Her hand flies to her mouth, and Ben steps in front of her, pushing her back, fencing her in so she doesn’t cause a panic.

I take my hand off the microphone and speak in my most soothing voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the tent in an orderly fashion. This is merely a safety precaution. Move rapidly but carefully. If you need assistance, please stay at your table and someone will be there to help you shortly.”

“What’s going on?” someone yells.

A plane rattles overhead, and now the crowd is muttering and looking around.

“Fire!” another voice yells. He stands and points toward the window. “I can see the fire!”

The room erupts in shouts and shrieks. Chairs scrape back. Several glasses are overturned, the red wine they contained staining the white linen beneath them.

“Please remain calm,” I say loudly into the microphone. “Please listen to the instructions I’m about to give you . . .”

I stop because it’s hopeless. My voice is being completely drowned out by the crowd. Three hundred people want out of here, stat, and they aren’t going to wait patiently for instructions.

Everyone is standing now, jostling, pushing. I see an older man get knocked over. I look to our table but Ben’s parents aren’t there.

“Ben!” I shout, but it’s Andy who comes to my side.

“People are getting hurt,” he says, his eyes skimming the room, trying to find a solution.

“Do you have something to cut the tent?” I ask.

“Good idea.”

“What?” Kate says, having escaped from Ben. “No, we’ll lose our damage deposit and—”

“I don’t think that’s the most important thing right now.”