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"Heh," said Rose. "Rose," said Simon, "it's a wedding, not a mob hit. Calm down." Rose began rooting in her purse for a lipstick, thinking that it was easy for Simon to say. He wasn't the one who had to explain himself. She was starting to understand why Maggie had been so defensive. Moving through the world with a title—doctor, lawyer, college student—gave you armor. Having to continually try to find a way to tell people who you were—which really meant telling them what you did-—was difficult when you didn't fit into one of the world's neat little cubes. Well, I'm an aspiring actress, but I'm waitressing right now, or, 7 used to be a lawyer, but for the last ten months I've been walking dogs. "You'll be fine, Rose," said Simon. "You just have to be happy for my friends, and drink champagne, and dance with me . . ." "You didn't mention dancing," said Rose, and gazed dismally at her feet, currently cramped in the first pair of high-heeled shoes she'd worn since her defection from big firm life. Courage, she told herself. "I'm sure this is going to be great!" She swallowed hard. She was sure it was going to be awful. She didn't do well at large functions, which was one of the reasons she was semi-dreading her own nuptials. She had too many memories of bar and bat mitzvah parties, afternoons like these in synagogues and country-club ballrooms, where she'd always felt like the tallest, ugliest girl, and how she'd station herself in a corner close to the chopped liver and miniature hot dogs in puff pastry, reasoning that if nobody could see her, it wouldn't hurt when nobody asked her to dance, and she'd spend hours alone, eating, and watching Maggie win the limbo contest. Flash forward eighteen years, add one fiance, and here she was again, she thought, following Simon through church doors festooned with giant tufts of lilies and white satin ribbons. Except instead of chopped liver and teeny weenies, there'd be crudites and champagne, and there'd be no limbo-ing little sister to distract her. Rose picked up a program. "The bride's name is Penelope?"
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"We actually call her Lopey," said Simon. "Lopey. Right," said Rose. "I'll introduce you to some people," Simon said. And, in short order, Rose met James, and Aidan, and Leslie, and Heather. James and Aidan were also law-school classmates of Simon's. Leslie worked in publicity; Heather was a buyer at Macy's. Both of them were tiny little things wearing linen sheaths (Heather's was cream, Leslie's was yellow) and cashmere wraps slung loosely over their shoulders. Rose looked around the room, despair welling in her chest as she realized that every single other woman—every single one of them!—was wearing a simply cut dress and a wrap, and delicate little sandals, and here she was, in the wrong outfit, in the wrong color, with pumps, not sandals, and chunky beads, not pearls, and her hair was probably a frizzy mess staging a jailbreak from the tortoiseshell combs she'd carefully positioned an hour ago. Shit. Maggie would have known what she was supposed to wear, Rose thought dismally. Where was her sister when she needed her? "And what do you do?" asked Heather. Or maybe it was Leslie. They were both blondes; only, one of them had a pageboy and the other had her hair pinned into a graceful chignon; and they both had the kind of translucent skin that comes from excellent breeding and regular exposure to the air inside of Talbots' dressing rooms. Rose fiddled with her beads, wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped them into her purse during the service. "I'm an attorney." "Oh!" said Leslie. Or possibly Heather. "So do you work with Simon?" "I'm . . . I'm actually . . ." Rose shot Simon a desperate look, but he was deep in conversation with the guys. She wiped at her damp forehead, realizing that she'd probably just removed her foundation. "I used to work at Lewis, Dommel, and Fenick, but I'm sort of taking a break for the time being." "Oh," said Leslie. "That's nice," said Heather. "And you're getting married, right?"
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"Right!" Rose agreed, too loudly, and wrapped her fingers around Simon's forearm, taking care to make sure that her engagement ring was front and center, in case they'd think that she was lying. "I took three months' leave from work to plan my wedding," said Heather. "Oh, I remember that time. All those meetings . . . the menus, the flowers ..." "I just worked part time," chimed in Leslie. "I'd keep busy, of course, with the Junior League, but mostly it was all wedding, all the time." "Would you excuse me?" Rose murmured, knowing that any minute they were going to start talking dresses, and she'd be forced to reveal the truth, which was that she hadn't been looking since her one disastrous afternoon with Amy. No dress, no job, their eyes would say, and no membership to the Junior League. What kind of a bride are you? Rose hurried out into the aisle, back through the foyer, and out onto the brick path, where a tall man in a suit was standing as if he were waiting for her. Rose stopped, and stared up at his crisp white shirt, red-and-gold patterned tie, square jaw, tanned skin, sparkling blue eyes. Jim Danvers. "Hello, Rose," he said. He looked exactly the same. But what had she expected? That he'd wither up and die without her? That he'd go bald, that he'd develop adult acne, that hair would sprout out of his ears? Rose nodded at him, hoping he couldn't tell that her knees were shaking, her hands were trembling, that even her neck was wobbling, too. Come to think of it, she saw, he did have hair coming out of his ears. Not much, really, not the kind of disgusting bristly growth she'd noticed coming out of other men's ears, but still . . . there it was. Ear hair. The incontrovertible evidence that he wasn't perfect. Then again, sleeping with her sister could also be interpreted as evidence of his lack of perfection, but still, she found the ear hair comforting.
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"What brings you here?" he asked. His voice sounded higher than she remembered it. Could it be that Jim Danvers was nervous? Rose tossed her hair. "Oh, Lopey and I go way back. We rode horses together, and then we were in that a capella singing group together in college. We were sorority sisters, we went on double dates ..." Jim shook his head. "Lopey's a vegetarian, and I think she believes that riding horses would be exploitative. Also, she was a pretty hard-core lesbian in college, so any double-dating you did would have to be of the all-female variety." "Ah," said Rose, "I must have been thinking of the groom, then." Jim gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "Rose," he began. "I've been meaning to talk to you." "Lucky me," said Rose. "I've missed you," he said. "What's not to miss?" she said. "Come meet my fiance." His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Take a walk with me first," he said. "I don't think so." "Come on. It's a beautiful day." She shook her head. "You look so beautiful," he murmured. She whirled, glaring at him. "Look, Jim. You've had your fun with me, so why don't you give it a rest? I'm sure there's plenty of women here who'd be impressed with your talents." Now Jim looked distressed. "Rose, I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I offended you." "You slept with my sister," she said. "I'm a little past offended." He took her arm and tugged her toward a wooden bench, sat down beside her, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while. The way it ended . . . What I did ..." He clutched her hands. "I wanted to be good for you," he said in a choked voice. "I was weak. I was an idiot. I threw away everything we could have had, and I've felt horrible about myself for months . . ."
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"Please," she said. "I've felt horrible about myself for practically my entire life. You think I'm going to feel sorry for you?" "I want to make it up to you," he said. "I want to make it right." "Forget it," she said. "It's over. I've moved on. I'm engaged now. ..." "Congratulations," he said sadly. "Oh, come on," she said. "Don't tell me you even thought for a minute that you and I were . . . that we would ..." He blinked. And were those tears in his eyes? Amazing, thought Rose, who felt as if she were observing a specimen on a slide through a microscope. I wonder if he can make himself cry whenever he wants to? Now he was taking her hands, and she could predict every single one of his moves, every word that he'd say. "Rose, I'm sorry," he began, and she nodded, because she'd figured that would be his lead-in. "What I did was unforgivable," he said, "and if there was any way to make it up to you ..." She shook her head and got to her feet. "There's not," she said. "You're sorry for what happened. I'm sorry, too. Not only because you're the kind of guy you turned out to be, but ..." And suddenly her throat felt thick, as if she were trying to swallow a sweat sock. "Because you ruined ..." My life? she thought. No, that wasn't true. Her life was fine, or it would probably be fine, once she got the whole career thing back on track, and she was with Simon now, Simon who was so kind, who called forth all of the goodness in her own heart, who made her laugh. The short, spectacularly failed romance she'd had with Jim felt like nothing more than a far-off bad dream. He hadn't ruined her, but he'd damaged something else, hurt it possibly beyond repair. "Because of Maggie," she finally said. And now he was pulling her back to the bench, and he was talking about her future, how terrible he'd felt when she'd left Lewis, Dommel, and Fenick, and how that had been unnecessary— he was a cad, yes, he'd admit to that, but at least he was discreet, and nothing would have happened to her at work—and where had
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she landed? Did she need help? Because he could help her, it was the least he could do in light of what had happened, and . . . "Stop! Please!" said Rose. She could hear the strains of a string quartet filtering through the garden, and the church doors creaking shut. "We need to get back." "I'm sorry," he said. "I accept your apology," Rose said formally. And then, because he looked so sad—and because, in spite of her absent sister, wicked stepmother, and lack of a legal career, she was so happy—she leaned close to him and kissed his cheek lightly. "It's okay," she said. "I hope you'll be happy." "Oh, Rose," he groaned, and wrapped his arms around her. And suddenly, there was Simon, his eyes wide and shocked. "They're starting," he said quietly. "We should go." Rose looked at him. His pale face was even paler than it usually was. "Simon," she said. Oh, God. "Come on," he said, in a soft, toneless voice, and he walked her up toward the wedding, where the flower girls had already started their trip down the aisle, strewing pale-peach rose petals as they went.
Simon sat quietly through the service. He was silent during dinner. When the band started to play, he made a beeline for the bar, and stood there, drinking beer, until Rose finally convinced him that they should talk, and they should do it in private. He held the car door open for her—a gesture that had always seemed kind, but now seemed ironic, even cruel. "Well," he began. "Interesting afternoon." His eyes were straight ahead, and there were splotches of hectic red high on his pale cheeks. "Simon, I'm sorry you saw that," Rose said. "Sorry that it happened, or sorry that I saw?" Simon asked. "Let me explain," she said. "I've been meaning to tell you about this. . . ." "You kissed him," Simon said.
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"It was a kiss good-bye," said Rose. "Good-bye for what?" Simon asked. "What was going on with you two?" Rose sighed. "We dated." "A partner dating an associate? How daring," Simon said. Rose squeezed her eyes shut. "I know. It was really stupid. A big mistake for both of us." "When did your association begin?" "Our association?" Rose repeated. "Simon, it wasn't a corporate merger!" "Not a corporate one, evidently," he said. "Why didn't it work out?" "Infidelity," Rose said quietly. "Yours or his?" Simon shot back. "His! Of course his! Come on, Simon, you know me better than that." Rose took a look at him. He ignored her. "Don't you?" Simon said nothing. Rose stared out the window, at the blur of trees and buildings, at other cars. How many couples in how many cars were fighting? she wondered. And how many of the women were doing a better job of explaining themselves than she was? "Look, the important thing is that it's over," she said, as he parked the car in front of their apartment. "It's really, truly, genuinely, absolutely over, and I'm sorry that you saw what you saw, but it doesn't mean anything. Believe me, Jim Danvers is the last thing I want in my life. Which is what I was telling him when you showed up." Simon exhaled. "I believe you," he said, "but I want to know what happened. I want to understand it." "Why? I don't want to know about your old girlfriends." "This is different." "Why?" Rose followed him into the bedroom, finally pulling her beads over her head. "Because whatever happened between you two, it was bad
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enough to make you never want to see the inside of a law office again." "Not every law office," Rose said. "It's really that particular one that presented a problem." "Don't change the subject. You have this . . . this history. And I don't know anything about it." "Everyone's got a history! You're friends with people named Lopey, which could have been pointed out to me earlier ..." "But I don't know any of your history!" "What do you want to know?" she asked him. "Why is it so important?" "Because I want to know who you are!" Rose shook her head. "Simon, it's not like I'm some huge mystery. I had a . . ." she searched for the least offensive word. "A relationship with this guy. It didn't end well. And it's over. And that's all!" "How did it end?" Simon asked again. "He did something," Rose began. "Something with someone . . ." She swallowed hard. "When you're ready to tell me," Simon said coolly, "I'll be happy to listen." He walked into the bathroom. Rose listened to him slamming the door and starting the shower. She walked back to the living room, bending to scoop up the pile of mail they'd both stepped over when they'd come home. Bill, bill, credit-card offer, actual card with her name on it, her name written in very familiar, large, looping handwriting. Rose sank onto the couch. Her hands were shaking as she opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of notebook paper inside. Dear Rose, she read. Words jumped out at her. Grandmother. Sorry. Florida. Ella. Reconciliation. "Oh, my God," Rose breathed. She forced herself to read the whole thing twice, then hurried into the bedroom. Simon was
