Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (29 page)

“Good girl!” Lenore beamed, and she linked her arm with Justine’s. Justine did not pull away, and Lenore felt herself
yielding to the support unwittingly offered by that young, strong limb. It was only when she accepted it that she realized how truly exhausted this day had rendered her. Still, she had made it through and accomplished at least one important task. There were others—Gretchen and Mitch, Caleb—that awaited. Turning her face to the window, she glanced out again.

“I’m so glad the rain finally stopped,” she told Justine. Justine did not say anything but stood there alongside her, and together they looked out at the slowly brightening sky.

T
he musicians were playing Mozart, the waitstaff were circulating Parmesan crisps topped with caramelized pears, and the grounds crew, under orders from Pippa, had done their best to shake the water from the dozens and dozens of fragrant roses that filled the garden. True, the lawn under the swaths of periwinkle carpeting—it really
did
look nice after all—was still spongy from the afternoon’s downpour, but the sky had cleared, and the only droplets visible were those that hung suspended and glistening from the leaves of the surrounding trees.

Betsy surveyed the scene and permitted herself a small sigh of almost relief. After the Sturm und Drang of the day, the evening seemed to be unfolding in a particularly idyllic fashion. She mingled easily with the guests, a mosaic of young and old, light and dark, Ashkenazi and Sephardi. Looking at the members of Ohad’s large family—three sisters, two brothers-in-law, assorted nieces and nephews as well as his mother, aunts, and uncle—Betsy thought how
similar they seemed in appearance and in gestures to so many of the faces here.

“There you are!” said Azar, who was now wearing a crinkled black silk dress; the pointy toes of her black lace shoes peeked out from the floor-length hem. “How are you holding up?”

“Still in one piece,” Betsy said. “Though, an hour ago, I wouldn’t have said that.”

“And your mother?” Looking for Lenore, Azar scanned the crowd. “Is she all right? Any residual issues from the fall?”

“Is she all right?” Betsy said. “Take a look at her; she’s amazing!” She pointed to where Lenore stood presiding over a small crowd of her friends. A glass of white wine was in one hand; her gold clutch blazed in the other.

“No crutches,” Azar observed.

“They didn’t go with her dress,” Betsy said and then felt herself whisked around by a first cousin who wanted a hug.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Azar said, moving off.

“Thank you, Azar!” Betsy called out. “I’ll look for you later.” She hugged her cousin Jimmy—when had she last seen him?—asked after his family, and then continued to circulate.

Betsy was actually able not only to participate in but to savor this long-awaited evening, largely thanks to Pippa’s behind-the-scenes efforts to keep everything moving along smoothly. There had even been time for some prewedding
family photos after all; Pippa had rounded everyone up and made sure the photographer could do her job quickly.

Pippa. What a total turnaround. Betsy had simply not understood it would take but a few sharp words to snap this woman into line. Her previous efforts to accommodate, placate, negotiate—useless. Instead Pippa reacted like a dog in a pack: once she understood that Betsy was dominant, she retreated into easy—and efficient—compliance.

Over at one corner of the garden, Betsy saw Justine talking to a tall, dark-haired boy. One of Ohad’s nephews or cousins; she could not remember which. Her granddaughter looked very animated, gesturing with her hands and talking rapidly. She was drinking something too; what was it? Betsy hoped Pippa had remembered to speak to the bartenders about serving alcohol to the kids, although she did say that everyone could have a glass of champagne after the wedding. Maybe she’d better check with her again just to be sure. But really, on the whole, things were going extremely well.

The only thing that still abraded, still hurt like a stone in her shoe she could neither dislodge nor ignore, was Angelica’s earlier comment that she, Betsy, had somehow wanted to sabotage this day. How could her daughter even have entertained such a belief? And as if that wasn’t hurtful enough, how could she have said it out loud—such a casual, damning accusation—in front of everyone? Even knowing Angelica as Betsy did, this was a painful surprise and one from which she was still smarting.

There had been no chance to speak to Angelica; clad in the stunning dress that Betsy had not, up until that moment,
been allowed to see, Angelica had disappeared upstairs again. Her door stayed closed when Betsy had knocked; she’d said only, “I’ll be out soon, Mom.” Betsy had stared at the impervious paneled wood surface and brass knob for several seconds before heading back downstairs. It was showtime, and no matter what, the show had to go on.

Back in the rose garden, the Parmesan crisps had been supplanted by thin slices of salmon tartare topped with pinprick-sized dots of wasabi; Betsy saw the trays being held aloft by the waiters in their black cutaway jackets. People looked happy and relaxed; there was no particular urgency about starting the ceremony.

Nevertheless she wandered over to the tent where the ceremony was to be held. There was the
chuppah
, just waiting for the bride and groom to sanctify it. Ohad was the one who had suggested it, and looking at the simple, open-sided structure, whose poles and top were entirely covered in white flowers and tendrils of variegated ivy, Betsy was so very glad that he had. Her family had never been religious, and she knew they were not about to start now. Still, there were moments in a life—birth, marriage, death—when ritual suddenly mattered; ritual was the patient, waiting vessel for all that feeling, all that love.

Love, yes. How much she loved Angelica, her beautiful baby, her winning and accomplished child. Loved her despite her bursts of offhand cruelty, her occasional disdain, her supreme aplomb, which had, even when Angelica was a child, made Betsy feel superfluous. She’d always known herself to be vital to the well-being of her other children,
but with Angelica she often felt that she was simply being tolerated.

Of course Angelica had had that special bond with her father; it had been true from the start. Lincoln, who had always resisted the messy, tedious aspects of child care, had given himself over completely to Angelica: cheerfully bathing, burping, and changing her, patiently spooning the oatmeal into her rosebud of a mouth, and not complaining when she dipped her tiny fingers into the bowl and smeared his face with the gooey paste.

As if summoned by her internal meandering back into their shared past, Lincoln appeared in her line of vision; he was carrying a plate in one hand, a glass in the other. Instinctively she found herself hoping that it was soda, not liquor, in the glass. But then she halted that train of thought dead in its tracks. It was no longer her business what Lincoln did or did not drink. It had stopped being her business a long time ago.

“Betsy,” he said when he’d reached her. “Betsy, we did it.”

“Not yet,” she said, looking meaningfully at the
chuppah.
“They’re still not officially married; let’s not jinx it!”

“Yeah, I guess I am kind of a jinx,” Lincoln said somewhat ruefully. He was poking his tongue around in the back of his mouth between his words; why was he doing that? It was annoying and unattractive.

“No!” she said earnestly. “Don’t say that. Not today of all days. I told you before: you were the hero. Are the hero.”

“Better a hero than a jinx,” he said. He’d stopped the
poking, much to Betsy’s relief, only to start it up again seconds later. “Delicious salmon,” he said, inclining his chin toward his plate. “I don’t want to get too full though; I know you’ve got quite a spread after the ceremony.”

“There will be a lot of food,” she said neutrally. She leaned in—not too obviously, she hoped—to see whether she could catch a whiff of his drink. A familiar sweetness rose to her nostrils. Coca-Cola. Unless he’d laced it with something, it was perfectly benign.
But why should you care?
she scolded herself. And then she realized: of course she cared. She would always care. Lincoln was a part of her and she of him. It was as simple as that. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“You are?” He sounded surprised.

She nodded. “You’re her father. The one she loves best.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Lincoln said, looking uncomfortable.

“Because it’s true,” Betsy said. There he was—doing that thing with his tongue again. “Lincoln, what is going on inside your mouth? Do you have some food stuck in there or something? Because I can get you a toothpick if you need one.”

“Cracked a molar this morning,” he said, raising a hand to his jaw as if to shield it. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Your poor thing!” she said. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “There was enough going on here today already….”

“Have you been taking anything for it?” She was genuinely concerned.

“Just some over-the-counter stuff that I had with me. And that I’m all out of now anyway.”

“Well, I’ve got something that will tide you over until you see a dentist,” she said. “You are going to see a dentist, right? You do have insurance and all that.”

“Yes, Betsy, I have insurance
and all that
.”

“Good.” But Betsy did not believe him and was already thinking about making him an appointment with her own dentist—and picking up the tab—before he left. “Now wait here and I’ll be right back.” Betsy hurried into the house and sped up the stairs to her bathroom, where that bottle of painkillers was, and back down again. On the way she checked on the dog—asleep on Betsy’s bed, thanks to the tranquilizer—and the kitchen, where everything seemed to be under control. She was just about to head through the French doors and back out to where she’d left Lincoln when she ran into Angelica.

She slowed, not sure of what if anything to say. She did not want to start another argument. But it was going to be hard for her to take the kind of pleasure in this day that she had dreamed of and felt entitled to without saying something.

“The dress…” Betsy began. “Your dress. It’s so beautiful.”

Angelica looked down at the heavy folds of satin as if they were new to her as well. “Thank you,” she said. A beat. And then, “Mom, I’m sorry about what I said before. I was just so upset, I lashed out.”

Ordinarily Betsy would have said,
I know, I understand, of course you’re
tense; it’s your wedding day.
But although she was grateful for the apology—it meant she would not have to go through this day with a heart like a lead weight—she didn’t want to let her daughter off quite so easily, not this time.

“You hurt me,” she said simply. “You hurt me, and I didn’t deserve it.”

“Mom!” Angelica’s hands, pale and graceful as a pair of doves, flew to her lips. “You know I didn’t mean it!”

“If you didn’t mean it, you shouldn’t have said it, darling,” Betsy replied gently.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Angelica said. “Say you me forgive, please!”

“Of course I forgive you,” Betsy said. “I’ll always forgive you. I’m your mother. But I’m not your doormat, okay? And, Angelica—” She stepped closer and enfolded her daughter in a hug so that her next words would be delivered with the love she intended. “Neither is your husband. I want you to remember that.”

Angelica said nothing, only returned the embrace and then let go. Betsy stood watching her, the train of the white dress shimmering as she moved. Then Betsy looked down at the bottle of pills still in her hand. Lincoln. She hurried out. He was there where she had left him; he had not budged.

“Take these right now,” she said, shaking two of the capsules into his hand.

“You think this is okay?” he asked, staring at them.

“Why not? Your tooth has been killing you all day, hasn’t it?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Oh—you mean because of AA?”

He nodded. “Maybe I shouldn’t take anything that strong.”

“Even if you’re in excruciating pain? Lincoln, I of all people know how much you struggled to give up drinking. And I admire you for your scrupulousness. But, honey—” She stepped close, reached up, and laid a hand on his face. “Honey, suffering is suffering. And it’s okay to make it stop.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

Honey
. Without thinking she had called him
honey
. And she meant it too. Despite everything, she still had some feeling for him. Not that she intended—or even wanted—to do anything about it. But it was comforting—to her and she imagined to him too—to know that it was there. Betsy watched as Lincoln downed the pills with a swig of Coke and looked for a place to set down the now-empty glass. A waiter glided by with a gracious, “I’ll take that, sir,” and then there was Don, touching Betsy lightly on the elbow.

“Shall we?” he said with a glance that included Lincoln too. “They’re just about ready to start.”