The Romantics (10 page)

The toast was met with polite applause and followed by a clumsy huddle as Lila and Tom maneuvered through the narrow corridor between folding chairs and tables. It took at least a minute for them to hike across the grass to share a theatrical embrace with the stately matron.

Before they had returned to their seats, an already-drunk Timothy McDevon rose from his chair. Tom’s paternal grandfather batted at a tumbler of whiskey with short, violent swings, causing the guests nearest him to brace for broken glass.

“Hear, hear,” he said. He had apparently forgotten that this was an appropriate response to his speech as opposed to an opening.

The guests regarded him with some confusion, exchanging the forgiving and patronizing chuckle afforded to the elderly.

Timothy McDevon was already so drunk as to be dangerously off-balance. He stood, holding the chair in front of him, rocking slightly for several seconds before he started speaking.

“When Tommy told me he was marrying Leila.”

A sharp gasp arose from the Hayeses’ table, but Mr. McDevon was unfazed.

“I said to him—”

A consort of distant relatives raced to prevent further indiscretions. Someone yelled “Lila” with the volume and intensity of a catcall.

Augusta fought the urge to stand up and silence the drunken man. But she remained sitting, braced to leap from her chair if the situation demanded.

Timothy paused, confused by the commotion in the tent. He offered the crowd a scolding look, then went on enthusiastically. “I told him.” Here he paused again, this time for dramatic effect. “I said … ‘You lucky son of a bitch.’”

Hearty laughter exploded from every corner of the tent.

“I mean, ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘how on earth did you trap a woman like that!?’”

More laughter, but this time it subsided with a relieved exhalation.

Laura had seen so many toasts like this one it barely registered as worthy of satire. It was far more interesting to watch her friends; their jaded sneers betrayed dirtier secrets.

With the exception of Augusta, the Hayes family was enjoying the evening immensely. Mr. Hayes was particularly chipper, buoyed by a constant stream of alcohol in his bloodstream. Lila’s sister, Minnow, was happy to bask in the celebrity of her role as sister of the bride. She reveled in the special distinction of being the second prettiest girl in the room and, as of tomorrow, the most available. Her lavender dress was a perfect rendering of the color “sugarplum.” Chip also seemed to relish his supporting role in the cast. Congratulations for his sister, he felt, were congratulations for him. He took full responsibility for preventing her from being as boring and predictable as Augusta.

William rose to speak as soon as Mr. McDevon sat down, prompted by a nudge from Augusta.

“Well,” he said, “what a joyous occasion.” He scanned the room in a regal, fatherly way, endowing his banal declaration with more importance than it deserved.

“He’s tossed,” Tripler said.

“Completely,” said Weesie.

“This should be interesting,” said Pete.

In certain circles, William Hayes had become the stuff of legend. He had graduated from Yale, admitted easily enough like so many of his generation. He went on to accept a job at a prestigious bank that ensured the purchase of a Beacon Hill apartment and a summerhouse on Nantucket. He proceeded for a few years on the path of least resistance. Then, without warning or explanation, at the age of twenty-five, he gave his notice at Merrill and summarily quit his job. His plan: to pursue a lifelong aspiration of writing a musical. He spent the next several years developing the libretto. But to this day, he had never shared a tune with any friend or family member. Over time, his commitment to the project dwindled, though he never returned to work. Throughout, he was consistent in his threat: One day, he would put up the show on Broadway, or, at least, at the yacht club’s summer talent show.

One would think that a man who had devoted thirty-odd years to the composition of musical theater would have a more gleeful disposition. But his eyes betrayed a deep sadness. They were glassy and wet at all times of day and oozed at the corners like a shucked oyster. His mood could be gauged by their fluctuation and viscosity. Even when he was totally sober—which was rare—they appeared to be waterlogged. Laura had always noted his eyes but
resisted the urge to blame alcohol. It almost made more sense, given his marital situation, to assume that the poor man had been weeping.

“Let me begin by thanking the McDevons for a magnificent party,” he said. “Kathy, Ted, you’ve outdone yourselves. What a perfect night.”

Like Augusta, Mr. Hayes spoke in a dated, overly formal manner, with the heightened diction of an Englishman and the sentimental jolliness of a fifties television dad.

“Now, I promise to keep this quick, because I know how many fans these two have. But if I may, I’d like to say a few words about the bride and groom. Lila …” He gazed into the crowd at his daughter, as though beholding her lovely face for the first time. “Lila and I have always been tight. Even when she was a little girl, we were thick as thieves. We were living in Brookline at the time, and our house had a wonderful driveway, the kind of driveway that seemed to have been designed for learning how to ride a bike. You should have seen her riding that bike of hers—it was pink with tassels on the handlebars, a great big wicker basket, and a bell. Lila was fearless. Unstoppable. She would ride up and down the driveway for hours, with me trailing on foot. Once in a while, she would get going a little too fast and veer dangerously to one side. And I would be there.” He trailed off, swallowed, blinked several times. “I would be there just in case,” he went on, his voice cracking, “she needed someone to break her fall.”

This statement was met with a collective sigh from the assembled guests. The members of the wedding party exchanged dismissive looks. The only thing that bothered them more than sentimentality was cliché.

“We had some fun,” he concluded. He deepened his gaze at Lila, his eyes wet as melted ice. “But you’re not here to watch me get all choked up. You’re here to celebrate an auspicious union. My daughter is marrying a man whom I have come to admire and respect.”

This drew a second round of scathing looks from the wedding party.

“Come
to?” Weesie whispered. Tripler confirmed with pursed lips.

“In fact, I cannot imagine a better man for my daughter than Tom McDevon. And Augusta and I cannot imagine joining hands with a more wonderful family than the McDevons.”

The wedding party raised a collective brow.

“So let’s raise a glass to Lila and Tom. Here’s to the many bike rides in your glorious future. And Tom, don’t forget, I’m counting on you. You have the most important job. Now, it’s your turn to catch Lila when she falls.”

His conclusion was met with a swoon that was even louder and more saccharine than the first. The delight of the sentiment was paired with relief as the guests looked down to find that the salad course had arrived.

Volume swelled to a festive hum as the guests tore into their food. Once again, Augusta fought a surge of rage. Kathy McDevon had skimped on the menu. Flimsy iceberg lettuce drizzled with blue cheese chunks and thawing cherry tomatoes was well-known among club members as the yacht club’s budget option. She shuddered as she imagined the corners that had been cut on the main course. With any luck, she could look forward to a brittle roast hidden by a dollop of stiff mashed potatoes and a dropping of wilted spinach.

Toasts continued at intervals of five minutes throughout the next course, distracting the guests from the dismal selection and the paltry servings. Throughout, the speakers followed an unwritten law that guided order of appearance. All obeyed the tacit understanding that speakers should proceed from most important to least, a convention that ensured that toasts grew more interesting as the night progressed. But before the guests could enjoy the benefit of this trend, an assortment of random family members took the stump, compiling a heartfelt, if repetitive collection of tearful odes. Each one extolled Lila’s beauty and brilliance; each one lauded Tom’s brilliance and beauty. Each one congratulated the couple on their unbearable good luck and the certainty of their eternal bliss. The phrases “perfect pair” and “meant for each other” were used so many times that even the most intoxicated speaker apologized for the redundancy. The adjectives “excellent” and “amazing” were used so frequently—sometimes twice within the same sentence—that even the least discerning listener began to yearn for variety.

A handful of female McDevons joined forces for a three-part tribute to Tom. Minnow delivered an earnest and moving paean to her sister, ending with a plea to her parents to convert Lila’s bedroom into the clubhouse she’d been promised. Jake spoke eloquently about Tom’s prowess on the soccer field; Pete spoke eloquently about Tom’s prowess on the swim team; both extolled Tom’s legendary status among Yale freshman girls. Tripler delivered a poem in the Homeric tradition, a narrative tale, in rhyming couplets, of Tom and Lila’s epic courtship. Weesie began with a characteristically earnest anecdote and ended with an uncharacteristically bawdy vignette, mumbling something about a banana, Martha’s Vineyard, and a boy who shall forever remain nameless before hastily sitting back down.

Throughout, Laura remained in her seat, waiting for the right moment. But as the crowd grew drunker and relatives grew more distant, the toasts grew increasingly candid. Finally, Laura acknowledged that she had lost her opportunity to follow a terrible toast and improve her own by comparison. She accepted the dire reality that it was permissible, maybe even imperative, for her to speak right away. Eyeing her friends for a boost of encouragement, she took a last gulp of wine and stood.

“Lila,” said Laura. She surveyed the crowd in search of a comforting smile, but found instead only open mouths, wide, expectant eyes. Typically, this was the moment when words rushed in. Now, her mind was cruelly blank.

“Lila and I were assigned to each other the fall of freshman year,” Laura managed. “We hated each other at first. But by the end of the year, we decided to room together again.”

Surprised laughter resounded through the tent followed by awkward silence.

Laura blushed as she realized her unintentional joke, that these two statements would have been served by a transition explaining the phase in between hatred and adoration.

“By sophomore year, we were inseparable,” she went on, “so much so that our friends came up with one name for us both: La-la. I was so proud of the association. I’m not sure Lila was as happy about it.”

Laura paused. She had hoped and expected to be graced with her natural eloquence in the pinch, to convey confidence, detached admiration, and, inadvertently, her own intelligence. Instead, she had already succeeded at betraying her deep ambivalence for the bride and a more pathetic than endearing amount of self-doubt. She cast
a desperate glance toward her table, seeking a friendly face. Weesie smiled and nodded encouragingly, like a parent at a stage-struck toddler. Laura smiled back and inhaled, bolstering herself to continue. But something in the periphery distracted her. Tom sat in his place next to Lila, staring at Laura with the strangest combination of sorrow, pity, and regret.

“We spent most of our time finding ways to avoid doing work. Somehow, Lila still managed to graduate summa. But this said more about her influence over her thesis advisor than the thesis itself. Like most boys at Yale, Lila’s thesis advisor was under Lila’s spell. We did, however, learn an awful lot about the Connecticut shoreline, which we studied intensively from the front seat of Lila’s brand-new convertible.”

A quick scan of the crowd confirmed Laura’s deepest fear: The audience had turned the corner from boredom to concern. A swift conclusion was her only hope of retaining her dignity.

“Today, I watched Lila begin a new chapter in her life. She was walking alone in the field behind her house, swinging her arms like a little girl. She looked so happy.” Laura paused, surveyed the room. Had she just betrayed all the bitterness she felt? “It was the most joyful thing I have ever seen. And I wish her all the joy in the world.”

When she finally took her seat, she was overwhelmed by the surge of adrenaline that follows any public address. Fumbling for something to do with her hands, she removed a dirty napkin from the table and unfolded it on her lap. When she looked up, Lila stood above her, tears streaking her face.

“Sweetie,” Lila gushed, “you’re the first person who’s made me cry all night.” She beamed at Laura, an offer of sincere congratulations.

“Oh good,” said Laura, standing awkwardly. Her napkin dropped to the grass.

“But I was waving at my dad,” Lila said. “That’s our secret wave.” She paused. “When we’re far away. On the grounds.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “Well, don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” whispered Lila. “I won’t.”

The girls embraced and parted just in time for Lila to rustle back through the huddle of chairs and take her seat for the next speech.

Laura turned to Tripler for moral support once her pulse had resumed its normal rate. “Did it seem like I was overcome with emotion or on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Tripler whispered.

Laura was mercifully saved from further discussion by a clinking glass.

Chip stood next to his younger sister in the center of the tent. His eyes were wild, his intoxication clearly due to something more potent than alcohol.

“Let’s face it, my sister is perfect,” he began. “Everyone here knows this.”

His statement was met with a small chorus of gasps and followed by the hush of attention.

“If you’re a chick, you’ve spent your life fighting the urge to kill her in her sleep. If you’re a guy, you’ve spent your life trying to sleep with her.”

Gasps were replaced with guilty laughter and a sprinkle of hoots and cheers. The guests were now drunk enough to value humor over sentimentality.

“Admit it, Jake,” Chip said, directing a defiant gaze toward the wedding party’s table.