Queen of Broken Hearts (52 page)

Dory has never given up easily, so I should've been suspicious when she conceded so graciously. At our next meeting, the White Rings and Etta took up the cause, asking me to reconsider. They had worked out the logistical problems, so there was no need for me to worry. It wouldn't be that difficult to pull off, they said. I agreed, and when Dory, Etta, and the White Rings high-fived one another in triumph, I couldn't help but smile with them.

It wasn't just the logistics that made me so hesitant, as Dory and the others knew. The truth is, the Asunder Ceremony is the aspect of the retreats I've been determined to downplay. The ceremony has been a significant part from the beginning, but I never intended for it to be the main focus. When the articles came out about the retreats, and I was on talk shows and gave interviews, it was the ceremony that got them tagged as both innovative and controversial. I was appalled when a Birmingham newspaper began their coverage with the headline
DIVORCE THERAPIST CASTS MARRIAGE ASUNDER WITH REVERSE WEDDING CEREMONY
. I knew what would happen. Following the article, Etta was swamped with phone calls, and we had as many cancellations as inquiries from those intrigued by the idea. The editorial pages of the Birmingham paper quoted religious fanatics, predecessors of the letter that would make its appearance in
The Fairhoper
several months later. Even less-fanatical religious groups expressed distaste at the idea, because in most denominations, marriage and baptism were the only two sacred sacraments. Who did I think I was, outraged clergy demanded, to perform such a thing, mocking a holy ritual of the church? After the flurry died down, I determined to put the ceremony back into proper perspective.

I came up with the idea for the Asunder Ceremony while doing research on wedding customs for the first retreat. I found countless ceremonies having to do with getting married, from jumping the broom to stomping a glass, but none for getting
un
married. Rituals are a crucial part of all aspects of our lives, from momentous occasions such as religious observations, graduations, and holidays, to more everyday affairs such as birthdays and sporting events. One of the most ritualized parts of our lives is in the way a death is observed, with funerals or wakes or memorial services being so necessary for closure. Ritual is not merely important, I concluded, it's essential. No wonder we have so much trouble when a marriage ends. Marriage is one of the most important steps in everyone's lives, a celebration unlike any other. Kingdoms have been built; countries split; wars started; heads rolled; religions formed; dynasties established, all as a result of the rite of marriage. But where are the rituals that mark the end of a marriage? Signing papers in a lawyer's office hardly qualifies; neither does the whack of a judge's gavel. Many of my clients told me they made up their own ceremonies—usually unsavory things such as getting drunk, stoned, or laid. In response to what I saw as a real need in the process of recovery, I created a brief ritual for acknowledging the end of a marriage, called it the Asunder Ceremony, and added it to the first retreat.

Although the retreat participants are strongly urged to participate, the Asunder Ceremony isn't a requirement, despite the insinuations of the newspaper articles. Instead, it's the grand finale of the Saturday talks, workshops, and presentations. The ceremony is on the schedule right before folk dancing, which is the way we end Saturday evenings. At first I was surprised to see the participants who wept so profusely at the ceremony go on to dance with such great abandonment afterward. Then it hit me—but of course! How many weddings have I attended where everyone was dragged onto the dance floor, from toddlers to the very elderly? Nowadays a wedding is one of the few occasions where dancing is encouraged as a means of emotional release. Over time, the dancing after the ceremony became as much a part of it as the ritual itself.

Two days before the retreat finds me and Dory in my office at Wayfarer's Landing, finishing up some of the details before Friday afternoon, when the first participants arrive. The tension has caught up with me. “Shit, shit, shit!” I cry as I slam the receiver down after yet another kitchen worker quits. “Why did I
ever
think having my own retreat site was a good idea?”

Dory gives her throaty laugh. “Here's why it was a good idea,” she says, straightening up a stack of handouts. “I'm no longer in danger of going bankrupt from sponsoring so many of the participants. Out here, the retreats will be more affordable.”

I stare at her, guilt-stricken. “Oh, honey, I'm sorry. What a thoughtless remark! I never want to appear ungrateful for your generosity. Any time it gets to be too much, don't hesitate to say so.”

She shakes her head. “Hell, it's mostly Son's money, since my business isn't breaking even yet. With more affordable retreats, though, I can help more folks. Oh! I have the perfect person to replace your financial planner.”

“Who? I've called everyone I know, but at this late date—”

“Rye Ballenger,” she replies, opening up another box of handouts.

“
Rye?
You're kidding.”

“Not at all. It's what he used to do, remember? Before he went to law school. His undergraduate degree from Tulane was in finance. He'll be perfect.”

“Oh, yeah, like he'd do it.”

Dory looks at me slyly. “He'd do it for you, even though you broke his poor old heart.”

“Christ, don't start that again. I most certainly didn't break his heart. Since you demanded all the juicy details about the night I told Rye that we should remain friends, then you know he was very gracious about it.”

“Of course he was, because that's the way Rye is,” Dory says, and her eyes go soft. “He was still being gracious when he came over to cry on my shoulder, too, but I could tell how hurt he was.”

“That's not true!” I insist. “I explained to Rye how I loved him too much to make him a substitute for Mack, which was what I'd been doing. I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't secretly relieved that we've decided to stay friends instead of becoming lovers. Rye's been single for so long, he didn't really want things to change, is what I think.”

“Yeah, right,” Dory says with a hoot. “You may be a hotshot therapist, honey, but you're as bad as the rest of us about believing what you want to.”

I'm not about to go there. “A session on financial planning is such an essential part of the retreats that I'm desperate. If you think Rye will do it, I'll ask him.”

She shrugs lightly. “You don't have to. I already have.”

“Dory!” Putting my forehead on the table, I sigh. “God, I'm so exhausted. But what would I do without you? In a matter of seconds, you took care of one of my main concerns. I never would've come up with Rye, not in a million years.”

Her look is unbearably smug. “What would you do without me? I'll tell you: You'd have the most serious and down-in-the-mouth retreats imaginable, that's what. Oh, sure, the poor participants would come away with tons of new information—the ones who stayed awake long enough to get it, that is. Without my magic touch, the retreats would be duller than dishwater.”

“You know, one thing I've never worried about was your lack of self-esteem.”

She asks, “Who talked you into adding the folk dancing, pray tell? The first time Rye took you dancing after Mack died, you came home raving about how it made you forget your grief and all that stuff. Then why don't you add dancing to the retreats, says I? How did Clare respond? She said it couldn't be done. Now, I ask you—what's the favorite part of the retreats for everyone?”

“Folk dancing,” I mutter reluctantly. “I know where you're going with this, by the way.”

“Of course you do,” she cries gleefully. “I thought talking you into having the first retreat on the weekend of the spring equinox was difficult. Ha! I had to
force
you to agree to holding the ceremony at the labyrinth, and you're still worried about it, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not. It just seems like more trouble than it's worth.”

“When it turns out to be the most memorable part of the whole weekend, I'm going to gloat and rub it in.”

“So unlike the Dory I know and love,” I say dryly.

“You're being your usual uptight, obsessive self, but I'm thrilled. The women lucky enough to attend this retreat will have a unique way of acknowledging the end of an old life and the rebirth of a new one.” Her face lights up as she prattles on and on about the symbolism of the spring equinox as a traditional time of passage from darkness and cold to warmth and light. When she says she cannot wait to share the legend with the women before the ceremony, I stop what I'm doing.

“That story is limited to your orientation talk on Friday afternoon, Dory,” I say sternly. “The ceremony's intended as a serious ritual, and I don't want to hear all that crap about the goddess and frozen birds and stuff, you hear me?”

While reading up on the equinox, Dory found a legend about Eostre and the equinox, and asked me if she could share it with the retreat participants in her welcoming remarks as head of the White Rings. Of course, I told her; I wasn't about to dictate what she could or couldn't say in her remarks. Eostre was an ancient Saxon goddess whose life was saved by a bird, of all things. The bird's wings had been frozen in winter only to thaw on the vernal equinox, one of the two days of the year when the length of night and day are equal. The wings thawed just in the nick of time for the bird to swoop down and rescue the goddess, naturally. The problem was, Dory was fuzzy about details, and I wasn't sure what Eostre was rescued
from.
I wouldn't put it past her to embellish the story so it would end up being an evil tyrant of a husband. Now Dory has gotten Zoe Catherine fascinated with the legend, and Zoe's been going through her books trying to find out what kind of bird it was. I'd harbored a hope that Zoe might help out with the retreats, thinking it'd be good for her, but she pooh-poohed the idea, insisting she'll be hiding in her cabin until the last participant leaves. Hand it to Dory; her equinox story has been the first time Zoe has shown much interest in what will be going on right across from her.

The way Dory keeps watching me, I can tell something's up, so I put down my pen to eye her warily. “Okay, Isadora. You can't fool your oldest and dearest. Whatever it is you're trying to get up the nerve to ask me, the answer is no.”

“I
knew
that was what you'd say, so I've waited until two days before the retreat to ask. I've had dozens of e-mails from former participants who weren't ready for the Asunder Ceremony last time we had a retreat. Now they're begging to come to the ceremony. They
need
to. On behalf of the White Rings, I'd like to respectfully ask that you allow them to attend.”

I argue; Dory pleads; then we compromise. It's unmanageable, I tell her: We aren't prepared for a large turnout should we have one. At last I agree to include a select few from previous retreats. Spurred on, Dory keeps at it until I hear myself agreeing to an even bolder proposal. A couple of times a year, we'll have an expanded ceremony at the labyrinth and allow the return of former participants who hadn't been ready before. But not necessarily, I warn her, on a day of the equinox or solstice.

Breathless with victory, Dory jumps to her feet, leans over my desk, and throws both arms around my neck, kissing my cheek. “See how much more agreeable you are now that you're getting some?”

My face flames as I sputter, “
Dory!
Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?”

“Oh, bull. I can tell by looking at you. Abstinence made you tense and uptight and grumpy. For the past couple of days, you've been loose and congenial and agreeable. Not to mention how great you look, with your face all aglow.”

“If getting laid was all it took to make your face glow, you'd put Alabama Power out of business,” I retort.

Oblivious, Dory tilts her head to the side, her cat eyes dreamy. “I wasn't sure who'd get into your bed first, Lex or Rye. But I was putting my money on Lex, he's so take-charge and masterful. I figured if Rye was such a wimp that he'd let you put him off all these years, then he didn't deserve any. For a while it looked like Lex was going to lose out, though, letting that ex of his jerk him around. About a week ago, I thought for sure Rye would make it to the finish line first. I was buying some garden supplies, and I happened to see Rye coming out of the Ralph Lauren store with a big package. I pulled over to ask him what he'd bought, and he had a two-hundred-dollar set of sheets! On the way home, I stopped by the marina to warn Lex that he'd better get off his ass before Rye got home with those sheets.”

“Dory, you didn't!” Horrified, I raise my hands to my burning cheeks.

“Did, too. I've known all along how Lex felt about you. At my anniversary party last fall? I watched his face while you and Rye were dancing, looking like you were about to do it right there on the dance floor.”

“Oh, pooh. Rye and I have always danced like that.”

“No doubt the passion of the dance could've carried over elsewhere, if you'd let it,” she continues with the same dreamy look. “Rye's loss is Lex's gain, though I do feel really bad for Rye. That night I felt worse for Lex, who was claiming to be mad at you yet unable to stop looking at you. Elinor saw it, too. Got so pissed that she grabbed him and left, remember?”