Resurgence (45 page)

Despite their exposure to the world of superstardom in Paris, Laurel’s brothers and sister are clearly staggered by the presence of so many headliners in one place. Emily resembles Amanda in her novice days, gone wide-eyed and round-mouthed when faced with the basic lineup from the Concert for Rayce, and then some. The new brothers-in-law, Benjie and Mike, recall his behavior the first time he confronted a lineup of guitar gods backstage at an award show—desperate to appear cool; desperate not to appear unapproachably cool.

A good hour goes by before the main flow of guests shifts to the open-sided marquee, where refreshments are in abundant supply. Their migration from the terrace provides the first opportunity to compare notes with the bride as though they’d independently witnessed the event.

“You holding up, then?” He eyes Laurel, who looks a bit pensive after the marathon meet-and-greet-session.

“I’m fine. Are you? I was a little worried about you at the church.”

“Your fault, it was. If you hadn’t kissed my ring I wouldn’t have—”

She bursts out laughing.

“I fail to see what’s funny about—”

“You make it sound like I knelt down and kissed your ring in veneration . . . like you’re the Pope or something.”

“I don’t know why you’d think that. I’ve never once asked you to refer to me as ‘Your Holiness.’”

That gets him a smart punch in the shoulder and another burst of laughter—one of the best sounds heard all day.

They slowly make their way to the refreshment tent, stopping to exchange perfunctory chat with stragglers who missed out on the receiving line.

“What a grand twist you’ve put on it,” a friend of his mum’s shrills, dribbling champagne down her featureless front. “This is so much better than being invited to the church and left out of the wedding breakfast the way the skinflints go about it.”

Another favorable comment comes from a similar source, this one gone dithery about the unconventional timing of the affair. “How brave you are to fly in the face of convention,” she says with an extravagant gesture that lets cigarette ash fall where it may.

“That’s in my job description, actually—flying in the face of convention. Expected of me, it is,” Colin says with a straight face.

“I think she means choosing Friday instead of the traditional Saturday, and scheduling the wedding breakfast for late afternoon,” Laurel says.

“Oh. I thought she meant getting married when so few do anymore.”

Before the lighthearted exchange can continue, word comes from the house that Simon is awake and ready to join the party.

“I’ll get him,” Colin says and encourages Laurel to chat up the New York contingent she hasn’t yet spent time with.

Laurel is more than ready to withdraw from the coterie of her countrymen when he returns with Simon, who’s clamoring to join his brother and the two dozen or so other sprogs contained in the supervised play yard. Then it’s the photographer clamoring for the bridal couple to retire to the wisteria arbor for the official portrait. That done, they overhear all manner of comment on the promenade back to the refreshment area.

“No, you’re wrong,” says one voice, “the honeymoon’s set for Maui, not Bali. Saul Kingsolver’s leant his Hawaiian villa. All part of the plan to return Elliot to the Pinnacle label, it is.”

“Never happen,” says another voice. “Colin’s about to sign with Virgin. If he’s borrowing anyone’s tropical hideaway, it’ll be Branson’s.”

A bit farther along the way they tune in another topic.

“I’m told she’s retaining interest in the New York firm against the day she practices again,” a female voice states
.

“I’m told she’s relinquishing all ties in the States, selling the family home, even bringing her invalid father over here to live out his years,” a second voice replies
.

They edge around a small group expounding near the fountain in the sculpture garden.

“I heard they called in Hunter Hawthorne to do the prenup. Strong indicator there he’ll replace Sebastian as counsel of record. Who knows, he could even be shortlisted for manager.”

“That assumes Isaacs won’t pick up the reins again.”

“He’s out. Definite, that is. They’re saying now it was Isaacs’s decision to walk away.”

“What of that little dynamo who put together the Concert for Rayce and got Verge back together . . . Andrea what’s-her-name?”

“Amanda, Amanda Hobbs, it is and she’s no longer a candidate. Took herself out of competition when she hooked up with Isaacs. Fatal error and ultimately Elliot’s loss, the way I see it.”

They move beyond range of these experts and into the orbit of others who are no less confident of their assertions and no better informed. Laughable, most of it, and mostly harmless unless too many of these partial truths find their way into print.

At a stopping place, one of the long stone benches bordering the terrace, they’re immediately brought champagne and a tray of finger foods. More photographs are taken, more guests congregate, pay their respects and retreat.

“Were you bothered by any of that? By the gossip shit we overheard?” Colin asks when the crowd’s thinned a bit and he’s drained his glass.

“No, I have my mantra to sustain me.” Laurel rather smirks and sets her glass aside to concentrate on the selection of over-engineered tidbits. Around a mouthful of some great delicacy, she reminds him that people believe what they want to believe, what’s convenient and entertaining to believe. In a sing-songy voice she recites the essence of the oration delivered in a New Jersey car park the first time she saw herself misrepresented in the popular press. “Hasn’t it been shown over and over again that the best and only defense against speculation is to be true to oneself?”

“Yeh, I know, I know . . . guard that truth within and without oneself, persist in demonstrating that truth regardless how it’s—”

“Good lord, you remember
verbatim?”

“I do, actually. I hung on to your every word back in those days.”

“You needn’t have hung on to that claptrap. And in case you didn’t notice, I was making fun of myself just now. I was
such
a hidebound, platitude-spouting, hardass in those days.”

“You’ll get no argument there, but I look back on it as you being true to yourself.”

“Now
you’re
making fun of me, right?”

“Not really. Reflecting a bit, like we did on the plane from New York when we couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop reinterpreting each other’s actions in light of new developments.”

“Is there anything left to reexamine in light of
this
new development?” Laurel makes a big thing of snugging her wedding band against her engagement ring, and that’s enough to trigger a nostalgic review worthy of a couple married donkey’s years rather than just a few hours.

They become so engrossed in recounting all that’s happened since they took up life together, they’re only marginally aware of the activity around them. Against a hum of nearby conversation punctuated by laughter, shrieks from the play yard, thwacks from the croquet lawn, sporadic chuffs from the burners regulating balloon height, and distant racketing of thwarted helicopters, they recollect events trivial and significant, happy and sad.

Laurel emphasizes breakthroughs with the lads, unceasing delight in her surroundings, contentment she’s never found anywhere else. He stresses his daily amazement at the commitment she was willing to make, and the sheer wonderment of her ongoing presence; he gets a bit soppy about it, unabashedly so. Neither realizes how much time has passed till the wedding coordinator and catering manager marshal their respective forces to herd guests into the main marquee for the five o’clock sit-down meal. Simon and Anthony lead the pack of children released from the play yard, trailing strands of Silly String and indications some sort of water fight occurred.

As they emerged from the church—as a family—the four of them enter the marquee and take their places on the dais set up for the wedding party.

“There’ll be speeches?” Anthony pulls a face when he spots the microphone at center table.

“Yes darling, but not until after we eat,” Laurel says whilst securing Simon in his booster chair.

“Do I
hafta
stay for the speeches?” Anthony groans and rehearses fidgeting.

“Yeh, you do,” Colin says, “so settle down.”

“Da-aad
.”

“That will do, Anthony,” Laurel says with her sister and her new motherin-law for backup.

Under their combined glares, the lad subdues into a sulk that fades when food arrives. Then there are a million questions about what this stuff is that he’s expected to eat. One of his new uncles alerts him to the menus they’ve all been provided, and that shuts him up for awhile.

Accompanied by the civilizing harmonies of a string quartet, the eating goes on for the better part of two hours. Now it’s Simon who’s proving difficult, who’s bleating that he wants to ride in the balloon again. This suggests potential to the other sprogs within earshot and pandemonium threatens till the catering manager thinks to distract by moving up the cake-cutting ceremony that was scheduled to take place after the speeches.

The actual cutting of the cake is a disappointment for those expecting the bride and groom to smear each other’s faces with the confection. After the top tier is removed for preservation and the ritual first stab made into the towering remains, the catering staff takes over, serves everyone—including the bridal couple—neat slices on plates to be consumed in mannerly fashion.

With that ceremony out of the way, the more disruptive of the children are executing knee-slides on the dance floor that are worthy of stage veterans. Assorted parents put a stop to it straightaway, but it’s clear something’s got to give or the remaining events will be a shambles.

Exasperating as this is, it could be worse. A lot worse. If this celebration were taking place a decade ago—even a half-decade ago—the adults would have commandeered the hot-air balloons by now, run a gymkhana with golf carts, drenched one another with vintage champagne, laid waste to the string quartet, and clouded the atmosphere with a wide assortment of illegal pollutants. Before this lot—including himself—survived rock stardom long enough to outgrow the need to rebel for rebellion’s sake, anyone found on his knees on a dance floor would have fallen there, been left there. And better there than in the pool.

The break comes with announcement that the hot-air balloons are about to be released. In the general exodus from the tent, most of the spectators streak for the great lawn. Over Simon’s loud protest, their little group goes in the opposite direction, to the terrace, where the view is second only to rooftop.

Amanda, David, and Emily cluster with them to gape at the eye-popping spectacle of twenty-seven brightly-colored spheres going aloft at moderate intervals. When the last one fades into the beginnings of an especially colorful sunset, it takes with it any tranquilizing effect that may have been felt, because now the grownups are getting antsy, reluctant to return to the confines of the marquee just yet.

The WC, as they’ve taken to calling the wedding coordinator, is quick to pick up on this and circulate word that the full bar service that was suspended during the meal will resume once everyone returns to their seats. That does the trick; they’re at their places in no time at all, with the Americans banging on glassware, demanding the bride and groom kiss every time the clangor is made, and the natives quite content to quaff their drinks without so much bother.

Chris takes center stage to deliver the first toast. He handles the mike as if he’d never seen one before, adjusting and readjusting it, tapping it, blowing into it before he’s ready to proceed. The tribute starts, as most do, with reference to the principals and their respective family members. Then should come the revealing anecdotes cloaked in mock solemnity, the borderline embarrassing incidents told over in affectionate tones, wedding night innuendo made with a wink and a knowing leer. But Chris plays it straight. None of his trademark drollery comes through; nothing said is faintly laughable.

Is he carrying on this way to avoid possible comparison with Rayce, who would by now have had the audience holding their sides, if not their ears? Does he actually feel the need to tiptoe like this because the bride’s not a slag and the revelers are only high on bubbly and spirits? And he’s made no reference to the Michigan calamity and aftermath. None whatsoever. The reason for that is unclear till he winds down with the request to charge glasses and drink to the happy couple, and it’s realized how brilliantly—and how wisely—Chris sidestepped certain elements of the past.

Emily goes next. To no one’s surprise, Laurel is praised as the savior of a family that otherwise would have foundered in any number of ways. The girl speaks of Laurel’s unqualified love, selfless devotion, flawless character, without going mawkish or tearing up. She cites examples, with her brothers nodding enthusiastic agreement, and Laurel fairly oozing pride in the three of them.

“I know of no one more deserving of lasting happiness in an atmosphere of choice . . . unless it’s
you.”
Emily redirects from Laurel to him, extols his supposed virtues like a publicist making a hard sell. “And he’s a really awesome kisser,” she adds, igniting laughter and speculation about how she happens to know. “And I shouldn’t forget to mention that he’s smart enough to know a good thing when he sees it and go after it without delay,” Emily concludes, sparking another ripple of laughter as glasses are again lifted.

Now it’s his turn and there’s hardly a thing left that hasn’t been said, one way or another. He moves to the microphone, fiddles with it no less than Chris did, and begins, “Laurel Grace Chandler—”

“Colin, bloody fool! Her name’s Elliot now!” These phrases and cruder variations erupt from a number of critics and from the subject herself, who fortunately laughs at the gaffe.

He retreats from the mike, assists Laurel to her feet, crushes her to him and says for her ears only, “I love you to bits, Mrs. Elliot.”