Counterpointe (17 page)

“Indeed.” Clare would have to ask Rob’s father sometime how he’d managed the overstuffed chair.

“When are you going home?”

“I just said that because I don’t want to go shopping with your mother. I can’t afford to go home.”

“Sure you can. My treat. Consider it a wedding present.”

She was already uncomfortable with what Rob was doing for her, but without him, in addition to filing for unemployment, she’d likely be checking out homeless shelters and collecting food stamps.

“About the ceremony. Your mom isn’t going to be satisfied with just the reception, is she.”

“Probably not. But you want it to be private, so that’s what we’re doing.”

“What do you want, Rob?”

“To be married to you. And I don’t give a tinker’s damn how we manage it. We can elope if you want.”

It was tempting. But marriages were, after all, about more than one man and one woman. They were about the joining together of families, and what Mrs. Chapin was asking wasn’t completely unreasonable, although it was the last thing Clare wanted.

“I’m getting married, Jolley.” Rob’s lips stretched into a wide, no doubt, silly grin as he said the words. Norman Jolliffe had been his first boss at Northeastern, and although Jolley had since moved to Stanford, they were still friends and collaborators.

“That’s great, Rob. I was beginning to think you had something against it.”

“Just hadn’t met the right woman.”

“And now you have?”

“I never realized I could be this happy. I’m hoping you and Jane will come for the wedding.”

After he told Jolley the date, the sound of papers being shuffled came through the phone. “Let’s see. We’re going to be in France around that time, but we can arrange to stop in Boston on our way home.”

Rob was pleased they were coming since Jane gave several dinner parties when she and Jolley were still living in Boston in order to introduce Rob to eligible women. She’d told him she considered him unfinished business when Jolley dragged her off to California.

“By the way,” Jolley added. “I’m starting to put together another expedition. This time to Peru.” Jolley’s field was ethnobotany, the study of plants as potential sources of medicinals, and he’d made several trips to the Amazon region. “Two years from now.”

“I’ll bet Jane is thrilled.”

“Resigned. I’ll save you a spot.”

An old line. Jolley always invited Rob, who always declined. After all, he was a chemist. He was interested in a drug only after it had been extracted from the plant. He had no interest in seeing, touching, tasting, or smelling the actual source. That was Jolley’s department.

Besides, no way would he ever be parted from Clare.

The last weeks before the wedding spun by so fast they left Clare feeling dizzy. Mrs. Chapin eventually got them to agree to a larger ceremony by arguing family and close friends wouldn’t understand why, with all the room in the church, they couldn’t attend the wedding. Mrs. Chapin then consolidated her position by hiring a wedding planner, a young woman with the brisk manners of a matron, who arrived at every meeting with thick binders and endless lists.

“This is a terribly tight schedule,” the planner fussed. “Usually I’m given nine months to a year to plan a wedding of this size and complexity.”

“I’ll be happy to scale back,” Clare said.

“Oh, no. I’ll manage, somehow. Let’s see. You need to register soon, so we can include information about your gift preferences with the save-the-date notes.”

“Sorry. Not doing that.”

“But guests expect it.”

“It’s tacky.”

The wedding planner huffed out a breath. “Well, you still need to register so when guests ask, and they will, you can provide the information.”

“Fine.”

Clare took Denise with her to Jordan Marsh where the wedding registration person, a lady of middle years and impeccable grooming, peppered her orientation talk with constant comments about “our brides.”

“Most of
our brides
prefer to begin in our china and glassware department.”

“That may be problematic.” With the brace and walker, Clare pictured herself wreaking havoc among the closely spaced displays.

“Oh, of course, dear. You sit, and your friend and I can bring selections to you.”

After looking at one too many white china plates with silver edges—the ones “our brides” preferred—along with glassware of every type and size, and flatware in a myriad of patterns that varied even less than the china patterns, Clare was tempted to close her eyes and point.

Except why bother when she’d already made up her mind? “These are all much too expensive.”

“But this is your opportunity, dear. To choose something you might not be able to afford otherwise.”

“What if we receive only one or two place settings?”

“I’m quite certain that won’t be a problem with 150 guests. In fact, my recommendation is to put twelve place settings on your list.”

“I’m marrying a university professor. His apartment can’t hold twelve people at once.”

Denise, standing behind the woman, struck a nose-in-the-air pose and Clare struggled not to laugh.

“That may be true now, dear. But you need to think about the future. The china you pick today will be what you’ll eat Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners on for years to come.”

Denise mimed fastidiously cutting food and lifting a bite to her mouth.

“If I receive twelve place settings, where am I supposed to store them in the meantime?”

“Some couples with large weddings rent storage units.”

Clare glanced at Denise who was now giving her the shocked look of an Alice in Wonderland.

“I’m going to pass on the fine china.”

The woman’s lips tightened.

Clare looked around. One display held brightly colored plates that were in a variety of shapes. She pointed. “Can I please see those?”

Once again the registration lady’s lips tightened, then she forced a smile. “That’s part of our everyday collection. Most of our brides would never consider it for entertaining, unless possibly you went with a single shape and color.”

“I think mixing colors and shapes works best for me.” It had become a game, going for that lip tightening. If she worked at it, maybe she could force the woman into a full frown.

“How many settings are you thinking?”

“Eight.” Clare raised her eyebrows at Denise who muffled a snicker as the woman retrieved several plates from the display and set them in front of Clare.

“Perhaps the groom should take a look before you make a final decision? Our brides usually find that’s a good idea. Especially with such a distinctive choice.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.” Rob liked bright colors, and besides, when she asked him to go with her to register, he’d given her a please-let-this-cup-pass look before suggesting she might have more fun with Denise. So, he’d just have to suck it up and live with whatever she picked.

After the plates, on a roll, she chose wineglasses and stainless steel flatware, both in simple patterns.

“Now for linens, towels, that sort of thing. What colors will coordinate with your decor?”

Clare almost did laugh at that—the thought that Rob’s furnishings could be referred to as decor. Fixing up his apartment was something else she needed to think about, but it would have to wait its turn. She scanned the towel-lined wall and selected towels of rose, teal, and buttercup yellow. That, at least, appeared to be acceptable. The registration lady noted the choices on her form then directed Clare to consider sheets and quilts.

But Clare’s attention was beginning to flag. The brace made walking tiring and being forced to make so many decisions in a short time added to her exhaustion.

“I’d prefer to finish another time.”

The woman looked at her list and finally, finally, frowned. Clare suppressed a smile.

“But you don’t have nearly enough selections for your number of guests.”

“I promise to work on my avarice so we can remedy that next time.”

The woman looked nonplussed. “Well, of course, dear. It’s entirely up to you. It is your wedding.”

“Good. Another time, then.”

Denise started giggling as soon as they were out of earshot. “You are so evil, Clare. That poor woman had no idea what you were saying. She was just doing her best to steer you down the right road.”

“Ah yes, the ‘our brides’ road.”

“She wasn’t completely wrong, you know. It is a terrific opportunity to get things you might not be able to afford otherwise.”

“True. If it’s stuff you want. But Rob has a small apartment. It would be a pain to try to find a place for twelve place settings we may use at best twice a year.”

“Well, you could sign up for four place settings.”

“But I didn’t like any of them, and at those prices, I ought to adore it. Besides it’s exhausting deciding what I want to sleep on, drink from, and eat off of for the rest of my life.”

“Let’s face it,” Denise said. “You don’t fit into the ‘our brides’ category.”

“Do you?”

“More than you do, I suspect.”

“Oh, Denise, honey, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy for you, and one day I’ll meet the right guy, too.”

Whoever was running the universe seemed to love to throw those kinds of curves—Clare wanting more than anything to dance
Swan Lake
, and Denise wanting more than anything to be married. And neither of them being granted their heart’s desire.

Clare waited out the last moments before the wedding with Denise in a small room furnished as a parlor with a fake fireplace and an old-fashioned oval mirror in a stand.

Denise reached out a hand. “Touch time, Clare.”

The familiar gesture made it seem, briefly, as if she were about to step onstage. But this was real.

Denise threw her arms around Clare. “You are so lucky. Rob’s a wonderful man. You’re going to be happy. I know you are.” She stepped back, swiping at her eyes. “Oh, damn. I’ve mussed your veil. Here, let me fix it.” She pulled at the veil, frowning in concentration.