Harrison left the library and crossed the street to the bookstore. When he opened the door, a pale young man with a light brown mustache looked up at him. Harrison smiled, and the man nodded. Harrison did not engage in his usual bookstore activity — searching the shelves for his own company's volumes, turning them jacket-side out when he found them — because none of the books in this American store would be his. It was a tiny shop, barely wide enough for two freestanding sets of shelves. Harrison found the poetry section easily (half a shelf) and purchased a copy of Laski's latest. On the way back to his car, he stopped to have a cup of coffee, and as he did, he read several more of the poems in the book. He gassed up the Taurus and headed back to the inn.
In the lobby, Harrison hovered, hoping for a glimpse of Nora, but there was no sign of her. As he climbed the stairs, he imagined she had retreated to her rooms. He pictured her having a long soak in that generous bath with its marble surround, the water tinted a faint chartreuse from the oils in the antique glass cruets.
* * *
Harrison woke with a start and, for a moment, felt disoriented. Where was he? What time was it? He glanced at the bedside clock and saw that he had overslept. He sat up quickly. He had a wedding to go to. He took a fast shower and dressed.
In his new suit, bought for the occasion, Harrison checked his tie in the mirror. How long had it been since he'd been to a wedding? His sister's second, he thought. Five, six years ago. Must have been. He couldn't remember anything more recent. He recalled the picture of Nora and Carl Laski on their wedding day, how young and vulnerable Nora had looked, how he'd wanted to put his hand between the bride and groom.
The narrow thigh; the asymmetrical smile.
With his fingers, Harrison brushed back his hair, wishing there was more of it. For Bill's sake, he hoped the ceremony would be meaningful, the celebration festive. Christ, they had a hard road ahead of them.
Harrison took his wallet and his room key from the pants he'd had on earlier and put them in the pocket of his trousers. When he looked down, he saw that his shoes needed a shine. He found the boxed shoe-shine kit in the bathroom, put each foot in turn on the rung of the desk chair, and gave the toes a polish. He washed his hands and dried them with the hand towel. Opening the door, Harrison took one last look around the room, shut off the lights, and headed out.
Before Harrison had reached the library, he could hear the music, an astonishingly lovely piano piece. Chopin? Mozart? Nora's sound system must be remarkable, he thought. But when he turned the corner and entered the room through the double doors, he saw Rob at a baby grand that had been rolled in for the occasion. Rob's fingers moved over the keys with unearthly precision and delicacy, and for a moment, Harrison stood transfixed. He thought about Rob's comment that he had once had a crush on Stephen.
Didn't we all?
In a kind of hypnotic trance, Harrison took a seat. That one of their own should have such immense talent caused in him a surge of pleasure and pride. Harrison had once known the man at the piano, however long ago, however briefly, however different the incarnation. And how sly of Nora and Rob to have kept this delicious secret from the others. Harrison felt like a guest summoned to an eighteenth-century manor house for a concert, a man invited to attend a performance for the privileged, the elect.
Paradoxically both calm and elated, Harrison gazed around the room. Discreet bouquets of white flowers had been placed at irregular intervals, the hand haphazard. Clearly Nora's doing. Despite the six pairs of folding bridge chairs — three pairs on either side of a narrow aisle — the library had retained its elegance. The overhead lamps had been dimmed, and candles near the windows cast flickering light on the faces. Harrison spotted Agnes in a blue dress, sitting next to Josh in suit and tie (new acquisitions from the outlets?) . Two women Harrison did not recognize — one younger and one more elderly — were ensconced in the front row across the aisle from Agnes. Bridget's mother and sister? Julie, her hair done up in a French twist and fastened with a pearl clip, had her eyes closed, as if at church. Jerry, his hair gelled and bristling, was seated just behind her.
Harrison closed his own eyes and wished Rob would play for hours. He vowed to take Evelyn and the boys to the Toronto Symphony as soon as he got home. He couldn't remember the last time he and Evelyn had gone to a concert. He would seek out Rob's CDs as well; there was a good music store a block from his office. He couldn't think how he had let such beauty slip from his life. It was his own fault: too much work, too much getting and spending. He should have introduced his boys to classical music long before this, he thought, and he wondered if it was too late. He would tell the boys about his friend, a baseball player, who had become a famous concert pianist. The CDs, magical totems for the boys, would do the trick.
From a door to one side of the library, Harrison heard murmurs and rustling. He opened his eyes to see Bill and Bridget make their way across the front of the room, followed by the boys, Matt and Brian. Apparently there would be no procession down the makeshift aisle. This was a second marriage for both, and the bridal party was tiny. More to the point, Harrison guessed, neither Bill nor Bridget wanted any fuss.
Bridget, in a pink suit, had her lips pressed tightly together. A deep flush had suffused her skin, giving her a glow of robust health. Bill and the boys were in tuxes, a nice touch, Harrison thought. A woman Harrison did not recognize followed the four to the front of the room. She must be the justice of the peace, he decided. From the piano, the music quietly subsided. Rob sat back on the bench, his hands folded in his lap — the organist at church.
Bill and Bridget turned their backs to the guests and faced the justice of the peace.
We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life's greatest moments . . .Nora slipped into the empty seat beside Harrison. She gave him a quick smile, a greeting as well as a confession of some excitement. All Nora's work — her choreography, her planning, her secret surprises — was about to be revealed.
"What was Rob playing?" Harrison whispered.
"Handel," Nora whispered back.
Bill reached over and clasped Bridget's hand. Standing beside the couple, Matt and his friend seemed slightly baffled but impressively solemn for the occasion. Bridget's sister got up from her chair and put a hand on Bridget's back. And Agnes — Agnes! — was sobbing. Noisy sobbing, with gulps and small head shudders. Josh offered her his handkerchief, and Agnes blew her nose. Harrison wondered at the source of Agnes's dissolution. Joy for Bridget and Bill? Anguish for Bridget? A wedding was an act of faith, Harrison reflected, perhaps never more so than today.
. . . recognition of the worth and beauty of love . . .
The swish and whisper of a door slowly opening caused Harrison to turn his head toward the back of the room. A young woman in a white sweater and a short black skirt, a black leather purse slung over her arm, stood at the double doors. She seemed embarrassed, a concertgoer who had entered the hall during a particularly quiet moment in the symphony. As she scanned the room for an empty seat, Harrison recognized her. Melissa. Bill's daughter.
Bill, turning (perhaps he had secretly been hoping?), spotted the young woman, and on his face Harrison saw a moving picture of emotions. Disbelief. Joy. Pride. Bill signaled to Bridget, who glanced at the small audience. She saw the young woman. On Bridget's face, a look of pure relief.
. . . unite Bridget Kennedy Rodgers and William foseph Ricci in marriage. . .
During the short ceremony, the groom cried. The bride did not. From time to time, Agnes emitted noisy gulps. Josh kept his arm around the distraught woman and spoke to her in a low voice. Who'd have thought Agnes, who had always seemed to be so very much in control of herself, could so easily be undone by a wedding?
After a few minutes, Josh removed his arm from Agnes's shoulders and stood just to the right of the wedding party. Harrison winced inwardly, thinking that the man was about to recite a poem or give a homily. Josh couldn't possibly know Bill and Bridg
et well enough to do that. Whose idea had this been? But then Harrison heard the first notes of a baritone voice so arresting it caused chills along the back of his neck. Harrison didn't know the music. The words were in Italian. It must, he thought, be a love song. Harrison saw suddenly that there might have been, before any physical love, an attraction between Rob and Josh that transcended gender or sexuality.
Josh's voice had power and range. It was a voice almost too large for the room, and yet there was a subtlety to the song that was all quiet yearning. Bill seemed more composed now, and even Agnes had taken a deep breath. Harrison gazed at Nora, who had pulled off a choreographic triumph. A service as beautiful and as meaningful as any Harrison had ever been to, shorter by half, and with the music of angels.
"Well done," he whispered in her ear.
Nora, in a moment of pride or affection, took Harrison's hand in both of her own and set it on her lap. And Harrison knew then that Evelyn, years ago, during that long-forgotten and inconsequential fight, had been entirely wrong: Harrison was not in the slightest — not even in the tiniest part — an insulated man.
The trembling started just outside the library when the justice of the peace, a woman Bridget had never met before, began to explain the service. In the background, Bridget could hear Rob's quiet prelude. Josh, whom Bridget had met only briefly last night, would sing toward the end of the ceremony. Rob had said the man's voice was beautiful, but then again, Rob might be expected to be biased. Bridget had been to weddings ruined by wobbly sopranos who couldn't reach the upper registers.
Matt, standing off to one side, looked stricken.
"Matt?" Bridget asked, leaving Bill to absorb the instructions.
"You cool with this, Mom?" Matt gave his hair a quick, nervous swipe.
"The ceremony, you mean?"
"The whole thing," he said, meeting her eyes, one of Matt's finer qualities. Matt had friends whose eyes Bridget had never seen.
"This will be easy," Bridget said. "It's kind of a cross between a church service and a little play. Someone will cry. I'll be nervous. You'll be fine. You don't have any lines. All you and Brian have to do is stand up straight looking very handsome. Like one of the guards in Macbeth. Remember Macbeth?"
"Mom."
"You'll be fine."
"But I have the rings."
"Yes, we hope you do," Bridget said.
"So when do I give them?"
"The justice of the peace will tell you. If you miss that cue, I'll give you a poke and point to my finger."
Matt sighed heavily.
"You'll love it," Bridget said, patting him on the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket, though she was not at all sure that Matt would be charmed by the ceremony about to take place. She, for example, would not love the service. It wasn't that she didn't want to marry Bill. She did. It was that she wished they could get it over with here and now in the hallway. If the justice of the peace could say the words in anticipation of the ceremony, why not just do it here? Why must an audience be involved? But then Bridget thought of all of Nora's planning, of Rob's lovely music, of the way the library had been transformed into a space in which a wedding should take place — so, of course, they would have this ceremony. At least it was not the Catholic service Bridget had had the first time she'd been married, an athletic test of endurance if ever there had been one. Ninety minutes of standing, sitting, kneeling for the prayers, up again for the hymns, down for the homily.
There would be no upping and downing at her short service. A quick ten minutes, then out the door for champagne. And, yes, Bridget would have a glass of champagne tonight. She wished she had a glass right now.
Bridget glanced over at Matt's friend Brian and smiled. The boy whose face looked better today — it appeared as though he had sanded his skin — smiled back. She wondered if Brian had ever been in a wedding before, if hed even been to one. She would keep an eye on him, make sure he was included in all the festivities.
"Matt," she said, remembering that she needed to speak to her son. She put a hand on his arm. "There's something I have to tell you.
Matt went white-faced.
"No, no," Bridget said quickly. "It's not about me. Well, it is. A small fact. When Bill and I met each other again, he was still married."
Matt's relief was immense. "I knew that, Mom."
"What I mean to say is, Bill and I . . ."
Matt put a hand up. "It's okay," Matt said. "Really."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
Bridget wasn't sure Matt knew precisely what Bridget had been about to confess, but it was clear Matt didn't want to hear any more. That was fine with Bridget. She'd made her attempt. She was in the clear.
The justice of the peace put her hand on Bridget's elbow, a signal to leave the hallway and enter the library. Bridget would be first in, followed by Bill, then Matt and Brian, and then the justice herself. Bridget's heart did a little tick, and her hands began to shake.
She had to press her lips together to stop the trembling, and — wouldn't you know it — a hot flash was starting. It hit her face first, and then her shoulders and neck. She could feel it in her armpits. She would ruin her suit, but that was all right. She hated her suit, she just hated it. She worried that the panty line 6f her one-piece would show through the skirt girdle. And why did she and Bill have to stand facing forward? The guests might be distracted by the back of her wig, its least convincing part.
When she entered the room, Bridget saw her mother and sister seated in the front row. Both smiled, and her sister gave her a little wave. They had arrived in time for lunch, which they'd eaten in the dining room, both of them exclaiming over the treacherous drive out from Boston and the hideous condition of the roads, the exaggerated claims an effort to avoid having to mention, on Bridget's wedding day, the word "cancer." It was, Bridget had reflected then, a word almost medieval in its power to evoke fear. She could think of few others that could compete. Terrorist? No, too impersonal. Nuclear war? No, that was two wotds. Death? Too commonplace, too abstract. It didn't carry with it the sense of a slow and torturous decline. Terminal? Yes, possibly. A definite possibility.
At lunch, her sister had admitted that she was impatient to visit the outlets before she had to return to the inn to do her hair. Bridget's mother, suffering from arthritis, went to her room to lie down. Bridget, never one for winter sports, sought the solitude of the bridal suite. Wasn't it natural to want to be alone on one's wedding day? Bridget would have been happy with a single room. She didn't want to see Bill or have to talk to him before the ceremony. But how could she reasonably have requested two rooms? Only young women, virgins, did that these days. Well, these days, no one was a virgin.
Bill stood beside her and took hold of her hand. Behind her someone was sobbing. Her mother? No, wrong side. Agnes? It couldn't possibly be Agnes, Bridget thought. Who else was sitting there? Bill's hand on her own — he was squeezing her — had the desired effect of slowing her breath. She thought the hot flash was subsiding as well. Rob caught her eye and mouthed something Bridget couldn't quite catch. Love you?
Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect. . .
Bridget took a quick peek to her side. Yes, it was Agnes who was sobbing. But why? Agnes hardly knew Bridget. They hadn't been exceptionally close at Kidd, and they hadn't seen each other in twenty-seven years. Bill gave her hand an extra squeeze, and Bridget glanced up at him. He signaled with his head to look to the audience. Bridget turned and surveyed the small group. Harrison and Nora seated near the back. Agnes and Josh. Her mother and . . . oh my.
Bridget saw the long dark hair, the white sweater and skirt. Melissa had driven herself across the state to attend her father's wedding.
Bridget glanced up at Bill's face, his eyes wide with the wonder of his daughters presence, the barely suppressed grin. She could think of no better gift to Bill than this: a sense of all the pieces of the puzzle in place; an absolution greater than any she or a p
riest could have granted. Melissa would cling to Bill at the reception and might even ignore Bridget altogether, but none of that would matter. The simple fact of Melissa's arrival would be everything to this man who would, in about a minute and a half, be Bridget's husband.
. . . life given to each of us as individuals . . .
When she had been a young woman, Bridget had imagined herself becoming Mrs. Ricci even before she had formally met the boy at Kidd. He'd been a senior and she a junior, and Bridget remembered watching him from afar, admiring the way he'd walk across the campus with his sports bag slung over his shoulder, back straight, face forward, a ready grin for everyone who crossed his path. Bridget had maneuvered her way into his life, often placing herself in his vicinity, and when that hadn't worked, she'd cajoled a friend into making sure he would attend a school dance on a Friday night in late October of her junior year. Bridget didn't exactly stalk Bill, but she knew that he was shy with girls and that the first move would have to be hers. She remembered clenching her fists, walking up to him, and asking him to dance to a song from the Jackson Five during which they wouldn't have to talk. Indeed, they didn't say much that night, the music and student chatter being so loud one had to shout to be heard.
After the dance was over, they left the student center and headed out into the raw coastal night. Both were sweating, and Bridget felt a chill immediately. Because she had worn only a sweater to the dance, Bill gave her his jacket. She remembered that they did not head directly back to her dorm, as would have been expected, but rather walked down the narrow path to the beach, using only moonlight to guide them. There they sat in the damp sand, Bridget ruining her new jeans, watching the tide advance slowly toward them. They'd talked then, but of what? Bridget couldn't remember now. Mostly what she remembered was how it felt to sit beside this boy she had been dreaming about for weeks.