The Romantics (28 page)

“That was quite a little speech,” he said. “Very honorable.”

She set her gaze on the Gettys’, prayed he would lose interest.

“I personally would have cut it shorter. You know what they say. Less is always more.”

Laura channeled her energy into her feet, willing them to move.

“For example, when I told Lila I’d seen Tom,” he went on, “I didn’t tell her I’d seen you, too. I felt it confused the issue.”

Laura paused for a split second, but quickly checked herself for her credulity.

“She is my sister, of course,” Chip went on, “and I thought she deserved to know he was alive. But that’s all I thought she deserved.”

Laura stalled again, a reflexive attempt to verify Chip’s claim. She knew better than to take him at his word, but there seemed to be truth under his glib tone. Could it possibly be a genuine note of compassion?

“You did?” she whispered.

Chip nodded.

“You didn’t tell her,” she confirmed.

Chip shook his head.

“So I did that for nothing?”

“Come now.” Chip paused, and in the pause, he betrayed the contents of his heart. “You did that for integrity,” he said. “And that is the difference between you and everyone else here.”

Chip smiled at Laura with sincere admiration, then turned and headed back across the lawn toward the bustling estate.

T
he Reverend Hipp arrived at eleven o’clock, an hour before scheduled. He was, of course, officiating the ceremony, so technically he was not the first wedding guest. But he was, after all, a close family friend and would be attending the reception, so he was greeted with all the thrill and momentousness of the first arrival. Augusta met him in the driveway then ushered him to the porch. She had asked the caterer to set up a tray of fruit and lemonade in anticipation of just such a deviation from the day’s schedule. Standing on the porch, she seemed to vibrate with the voltage of so much excitement. She remained with the reverend for a few, efficient minutes, inquiring about his time at the rehearsal dinner and summarizing last-minute revisions to the ceremony logistics.

She had realized, for example, at four in the morning, that Betsy should be the first flower girl to process. Even though she was younger than her cousin, Sarah, she was the more poised of the two and more likely to set a good example to the subsequent fleet. God forbid the first flower girl failed to throw her white rose petals as charged or parade at an adequate pace, causing an unattractive bottleneck on the wedding aisle. This was hardly the image she
wanted for the first impression of the day. No, she must inform Betsy herself, as opposed to her mother, Kate, for Kate was sure to protest in defense of her elder daughter’s capabilities.

In addition, Augusta had forecast a major organizational error. The wedding party’s formation at the altar was sure to look fine to the attending guests, but would likely appear hideously two-dimensional in photographs. The only solution was to tell the bridesmaids and groomsmen not to form a straight line, as planned, but rather to fan out and stagger, one slightly ahead of the other, so that the whole formation created a subtle “v” like a flock of migrating gulls. She needed to find one of the bridesmaids—any would do—to convey the message to the group.

As she stood, Augusta indulged in a quick survey of the lawn. The repaired wedding tent stood gracefully at the center, its white canvas seemingly starched and bleached by the rain of the night before. A trio of uniformed service staff hovered at the edges of the tent. A pair passed through, delivering heaping crates of wineglasses. Blue ribbons billowed playfully from the poles like a stage curtain the night of a premiere. When the breeze rustled the tent, the ocean revealed itself, its silver and navy sheen offsetting the white of the canvas. Exhaling, Augusta congratulated herself—the color scheme was a triumph, a blessed union. She only hoped the bride and groom would entwine so harmoniously.

A
t the Gettys’, uncomfortable silence was quickly usurped by the blow-dryer’s buzz as the girls reconvened in their porcelain war room to begin the grooming process. It was still a bit early to start getting dressed, but they were too wired to go back to sleep. As a
result, the typically jovial ritual was joyless. Even Tripler was quiet as she ran the water for the shower and waited for the temperature to rise.

Laura’s arrival was met with an awkward shift in the ambient noise. Just as she entered, Tripler gave up on the prospect of a hot shower—she would simply bathe in the cold—and Annie switched off the blow-dryer, causing all noise in the room to drop out but the rhythmic swoosh of Weesie’s toothbrush.

Laura paused in the doorway, then proceeded toward the sink, turning on the water and leaning over the basin to wash her face. As she cupped her hands and let them fill, she struggled to reaffirm her existence. The cold water only helped to a degree. She could make out one or two fingertips.

“How’s Ben?” Tripler asked.

Laura rose to stand upright and met Tripler’s gaze in the mirror. She opened her mouth, poised for a sharp defense. But Tripler’s expression gave her pause. Her brow was furrowed in an uncharacteristic show of compassion, and her eyes were raw and swollen.

“He’s fine,” Laura said.

“You must miss him,” said Tripler.

“No, not really,” she confessed. She paused and searched Tripler’s eyes, then losing her trust, she added, “A night apart is never a bad thing.”

“True enough,” said Tripler. “Would you agree with that, Weesie?”

“Agree with what,” Weesie mumbled, her words garbled by a mouthful of toothpaste.

“A night apart from your husband is a good thing.”

Weesie brushed her teeth with new vigor before answering with
an emphatic spit. Ignoring the question, she leaned into the mirror, bared her teeth, and gave them a careful inspection. “You would know better than me,” she said. “It was your idea. Remember?”

The four girls stood in silence for several seconds until Annie assumed Weesie’s traditional role and attempted to diffuse the tension.

“I hope the food is yummy,” she said. “I hate when the food’s not yummy.”

Weesie and Tripler stared at Annie as though she’d uttered the thought in a foreign language.

“The worst is that chocolate-and-raspberry shit,” Annie continued. “Someone should ban those two flavors. They don’t taste good together.”

Laura looked from Weesie to Tripler, rapt with curiosity. What a relief to see controversy surround someone other than her. But Tripler refused Weesie’s challenge, and Weesie lacked the courage to press it further. Remembering the running water, Laura leaned back over the sink and cupped her hands under the faucet.

O
ne floor above, Pete stood in the hall, waiting outside a locked door. Sun sifted through a shaded window, saturating the entire landing with specks of floating dust. By the heat and color of the light—it had warmed from the silver of dawn to the yellow of morning—Pete guessed it was close to ten o’ clock.

“Oscar, hurry up,” he said. He rattled the door with renewed urgency. He waited for a response then banged the door with his fists. “What the fuck, man,” he yelled.

“Chill out,” said Jake.

Pete turned to find Jake approaching from the stairs.

“Let him be,” Jake said. “From the looks of things, Annie’s been giving him the gate.”

Pete stood, staring at Jake for a moment like a deer assessing a hunter’s shot. Finally, he exhaled a mild, reluctant laugh.

Jake took another step toward the door.

The two stood in thwarted silence while steam seeped from the closed bathroom door.

“You can go first,” Pete said.

“That’s fine,” said Jake. “You were here.”

“I already showered,” Pete said. “I just want to brush my teeth.”

Jake nodded slowly as though Pete had revealed incriminating information. His tone had already betrayed a tremendous amount of guilt.

Another moment of silence passed as both boys stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” said Pete. “Me too,” said Jake.

Pete turned to the door as though it might offer its own apology. The muffled rush of the shower added a strange element of suspense.

“Wait,” said Jake. “Why are you sorry?”

“Come on,” Pete said. “Don’t be lame.”

“No,” said Jake. “I want to know. For saying it or doing it?”

Pete was spared further interrogation as the sound of running water gave way to a cascade of drops, and Oscar emerged, towel wrapped around his waist.

“You boys showering together?” he teased.

“You wish,” said Pete.

“You sure?” Oscar pressed. “You two look awfully cozy.”

“Nah,” said Jake. He pushed past Oscar. “Pete’s all good. He already got some from my wife.”

B
y noon, the calm of the morning had given way to controlled frenzy. Parking had been diverted to a discreet part of the property, but a select group of vehicles had been granted access to the gravel driveway leading to the house. They might as well have been stagecoaches, hitched to horses, awaiting a royal cadre. Activity on the lawn signaled the guests’ imminent arrival. The servers had all changed to a neat uniform of black morning coats, and they stood in their assigned positions like soldiers defending a fort. A few select guests—all members of the Hayes and McDevon families—stood in tentative clumps on the lawn or advanced slowly toward the assembled chairs. Seen from above, the pastels of their dress made them look like eggs in an Easter basket.

Augusta had chosen a dress in a radiant red over numerous more conservative pieces she’d considered. But finally, navy and baby blue, even gold or an elegant silver did little to compete with the magnificence of this dress. A thick-woven brocade and the designer’s signature buttons gave the suit a regal quality. The skirt, which flared slightly below the knee, was traditional while still au courant. It was a style she could imagine her own daughter wearing. The color was certainly not one she had pulled from the wedding’s palette. But why should she match the flowers and table settings? She was not a part of this wedding; she was its orchestrator. It was fitting that she stood apart from its elements just as a conductor stood apart from his musicians.

Satisfied with her appearance, Augusta emerged from her room and descended to the lawn for a final sweep of the grounds. She glided down the stairs and through the house like a winged creature, patting pillows, smoothing creases, pivoting picture frames without compromising her pace. It was only habit. She knew that the house already looked its best.

Outside, she traversed the porch in four strides, then nearly jumped the steps to reach the lawn. Still moving, she surveyed the beautiful precision of her marching orders. Her delight doubled as she entered the tent. The green tablecloths were the ideal choice, playfully echoing the grass outside. The tables lay in wait for the guests, china set, napkins folded, silver glinting with anticipation. The beauty of the flowers was matched by the thrill of their fragrance. She had been absolutely right to combine peonies, gardenias, and lilies of the valley. The peonies offered the arrangements desirable heft and the scale they needed to appear full at a short distance. The lilies provided a wonderful winning surprise for the more intimate viewing. And the gardenias—well, their scent was simply intoxicating. She had to fight the urge to swoon.

As she approached the back of the tent, she was cheered by one final realization: Her centerpieces were a triumph. How could she have doubted the choice? Even without the illumination of candlelight, they transformed the tent into a shimmering underwater kingdom.

Exiting the tent, she approached the final object of scrutiny: the venue for the ceremony. White chairs had been assembled just as she’d asked, in straight, perfectly spaced rows. The backs of the chairs had been laced with fern and more lilies of the valley—a last-minute change when the ivy revealed an unappealing brown
wax residue. A simple white-lattice arch had been miraculously transformed with flowers and ribbons, unifying the elements of the landscape. The wedding party would complete the tableau with their dress and bouquets.

Turning back toward the house, Augusta paused for the first time, taking in the enormity—and completion—of her endeavor. She inhaled deeply. There was both satisfaction and sadness in her achievement. There was Minnow, of course. But she would never again plan the wedding of her first daughter. For the first time since learning of Lila’s engagement, she was overcome with grief.

She was quickly rescued by a thrilling revelation. Of all her accomplishments, she had yet to add her greatest one to the list. Her meticulous planning and rabid prayers had been rewarded with extravagant weather. The day was more resplendent than she imagined a day in heaven itself. The air was soft and warm, and the breeze still bore the faintest trace of rain—or was it the promise? It didn’t matter. The wedding was hours away. Not even God could prevent its temperate resolution.

T
he girls arrived at the Hayes’s and advanced to their scheduled meeting, gathering at the door to Lila’s bedroom like nervous children awaiting a punishment. With Tripler subdued, Weesie enjoyed a lapse from the typical hierarchy. She eyed the others, mocking their timidity, and knocked on the door herself.

Even before she’d rapped a third time, the door flew open. Lila stood in a white bustier and high-heeled white satin shoes.

“This fucking bustier,” she hissed. “I swear to God. I forgot it had seven thousand hooks.”

The girls stood at the threshold, paralyzed for a moment. In white lingerie and heels, Lila looked strangely promiscuous and virginal at once, and her friends stalled, embarrassed by the confusion of imagery.

“Someone get over here now,” she shrilled.

The girls remained still for another moment, as though temporarily detached from their senses. En masse, the wisdom of the bridesmaids’ dresses revealed itself. The silver fabric, though not especially flattering to any girl in particular, had a pleasing effect when viewed en masse, making the bridesmaids look like a shiny string of pearls.