The Romantics (13 page)

With the exception of Lila, the whole group was in attendance:
Tripler, Pete, Weesie, Jake, Annie, Oscar, Tom, and Laura. Chip, too, tagged along, at his own invitation. He had sobered up slightly since dinner and brought up the rear, singing a loud, out-of-key rendition of “It’s My Party.” It was now widely accepted among the group that the wedding would be cursed with rain. The air was fraught with the strange electrical current of an imminent storm.

In Lila’s absence, the group’s volume increased several notches. They relaxed just knowing she was not around. Now, as they hurried down the endless lawn of the Hayeses’ estate—some walking, some running—the wedding party was finally swept up in the careless joy of the occasion and the thrill of being together without any obligations. The freedom of this moment, however ephemeral, was intoxicating in itself.

“You still want to go skinny-dipping, Weez?” Tripler demanded. She ran ahead of the group, making wide zigzags on the lawn.

“Absolutely not,” said Weesie. “Unless it’s a group movement.”

Chip sprinted to catch up with the two girls and contribute his thoughts on the matter. “I’m game,” he shouted. “And so is Tom. I guarantee he wants one more glimpse of ass before his wedding day.”

“I think he got his fill at his bachelor party,” Pete said.

“Oh please,” shouted Tom. “The last time I saw you that night, you were surrounded by naked women.”

“Pete,” snapped Tripler. “You filthy pig.” She stopped running and turned to Tom. “Tell me right this second. Do I need to divorce my husband?”

“Sadly, no,” Tom replied. “The strippers wouldn’t have him.”

“You bastard,” Pete said. He interrupted himself to take a running start. But four years on the Yale lacrosse team meant very little after ten years.

Hearing the footsteps, Tom anticipated Pete’s approach and sprinted ahead, putting several feet between him and the group. Pete persevered, keeping his pace while Tom circled back toward the house. By the time they were halfway up the lawn again, both were out of breath and had forgotten the reason for the chase. Pete ran, squealing, into Tripler’s arms as Tom fell behind the group. It was only now, as Tom came to a stop, and stood gasping in the middle of the lawn, that he and Laura finally stood near enough that it seemed foolish not to speak. Not to speak would have infused the moment with more meaning than it deserved.

“I liked your speech,” Tom said. It had been over a year since they had spoken, but he addressed her with incongruous ease, as though continuing a conversation they had begun before the rehearsal dinner.

“Thanks,” said Laura. The sound of his voice was an overwhelming relief, like remembering the name of a beloved song or returning to a childhood haunt to find it totally unchanged. Did he not feel the same swell of relief? Or was he just better at hiding it?

“It was excellent and amazing,” he said.

Laura paused before realizing he was quoting the banal epithets from the speeches that night.

They walked in silence for a moment, Tom trying to catch his breath, Laura trying to remember the anger she had felt in his absence. Instead, she felt a palpable fluttering in her throat. Two things seemed equally plausible—that she would vomit on the grass or spontaneously take flight.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I understand.” And she did in that moment. But a moment passed, and with it, the sentiment of forgiveness. She rushed to say something that sounded more indifferent. “It was actually good,” she managed.

“It was necessary,” he agreed.

But the comment rang false, striking Laura as inappropriately formal, patronizing. She fought the urge, that specifically female one to declare the number of men that she had slept with since they’d last spoken.

“It was easier than I expected,” she tried.

“It was harder than I thought it would be,” he said.

Again, she paused, registering the subtle, embedded insult. Finally, she lashed out, inadvertently combining her reprimand and her confession. “I still don’t believe it,” she said.

But Tom refused the chance to console, to repent. “I don’t either,” he could have said. “It’s not over. I’m not hers until tomorrow.” But instead, he looked away guiltily, and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be,” she said. She had botched her chance—she was back on the defensive. But it was comforting, at least, to be honest, even if it was a concession. Both options were trite—understatement and indignation—but at least one was true.

They walked several paces in silence, listening to the grass crushing under their feet. As they did, Laura grew increasingly convinced this was the last time they would ever speak.

“Have you missed me?” he asked.

This threw her off guard. It was, of course, a trick question. When a man says something like this to woman, there is only one correct answer.

“Of course,” she answered. And only then, it occurred to her that he hadn’t said “I missed you.”

Then he switched subjects inexplicably. “I don’t think I can do it.”

The implication of the switch was not lost on Laura. “It” could mean “marrying
Lila,” in which case he had used the verb tense correctly. Or “it” could mean “being away from her when he married Lila,” in which case it stood to reason that he was considering the consequences of not going through with his wedding tomorrow.

But rather than question what he had meant, or worse, get the wrong answer, Laura nodded and kept up her pace, reaching her friends just as they approached the dock. She attached herself to Tripler, resolving not to be found alone again. It was just too dangerous.

The Hayeses’ private beach extended the full length of their property. But the coast of Maine and its surrounding islands nearly canceled out the luxury of this fact. With the exception of a few sandy anomalies, the Maine shoreline was rocky and harsh, country designed for those who appreciated the beauty of the ocean, as opposed to those who actually wanted to swim in it. In practice, the water was at its most swimmable during this last week in August. But the chill in the air at the moment made swimming seem like a masochistic act.

Still, the friends proceeded toward the water with cheerful obliviousness, tripping down the lawn and racing to be the first to reach the water. A small gangplank extended into the cove from the rocks that lined the Hayeses’ lawn. The gangplank led to a wooden dock and a floating wooden raft that was moored to the dock with rope.

“Let’s all get on and unmoor it,” Tripler said.

“Don’t be an idiot, Trip,” said Pete. “That thing was built in 1954. We’ll sink it in ten seconds.”

“Ooh, that would be scary,” Tripler said, assuming a mock-terrified voice. “How would we ever survive drowning in a bay that’s four feet deep?”

“Let me settle the debate,” Chip interrupted. “That thing is moored to the dock. And it has been since I was three. But for real excitement, why not consider Weesie’s plan? Let’s get naked and go crabbing!”

Chip’s joke was met with a chorus of disappointed revulsion.

“Hey, Chip,” said Jake. “Who invited you?”

“Jake,” snapped Weesie. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Listen to your wife,” Chip agreed, “or I might have to enlist the famous Hayes ghost against you.”

The group reprised their moan of exasperation, but after years as the group’s favorite punching bag, Chip had come to interpret this sentiment as grudging acceptance.

Moments later, the fledgling plan turned into a motion. Before the subject could be discussed any further, the entire group lined up on the rocks and filed down the corroding gangplank, laughing and shrieking. They clutched one another to keep their balance as they teetered down the rickety pier. At the bottom they removed dress shoes and heels and left them in a messy clump. One by one, they leapt over the foot of water that separated them from the raft and arranged themselves at equal intervals around the perimeter. Once situated, they looked like a band of stowaways, waiting for a rescue mission.

“Let’s play a drinking game,” someone called out.

“Drinking games are for people who are trying to get drunk. We’re already shit-faced,” said Pete.

“Let’s play ‘two truths and a lie,’” said Jake. “That always yields some interesting confessions.”

“What could anyone possibly confess,” said Oscar, “that we don’t know about each other already?”

“I never understood that game,” said Weesie.

“Of course you do,” said Jake. “The idea is to bury an embarrassing confession in a series of implausible statements. The more implausible the lie, the more invisible the confession.”

“Here,” said Chip. “I’ll go first.”

A chorus of no’s emerged from the group.

“No, thank you,” said Tripler. “We love you, Chip, but we don’t want to hear about the time you date-raped Sarah Bennett.”

Laughter and jeers sufficed to censor Chip for a moment.

“I’ve got one,” said Tom.

The group cheered, then quieted to focus. A confession from Tom was perhaps the only thing that could capture their attention. “This should be interesting,” said Jake. “I want to hear this,” said Pete.

Tom smiled and paused, relishing his control over the group. Laura couldn’t be sure, but she thought he glanced at her as though to gain her approval.

“I hated the food at the rehearsal dinner tonight,” he declared.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jake.

“I can’t stand you phony motherfuckers,” Tom went on. “Truth number two,” Pete shouted.

Tom bowed chivalrously. “And I’m still fifty-fifty on this whole wedding thing. I may or may not show up tomorrow. I haven’t decided.”

Silence again as the group struggled to decode Tom’s tone.

Laura fixed her eyes on him. This was a ploy for attention, nothing more. But she sensed, in this performance, something else: a cry for help?

“Obviously, the lie is the second one,” Tripler said. “Since we’re his only friends in the world.”

Tom arched his eyebrow and smiled mysteriously.

Laura fixed her gaze on Tom as the group veered off on a new tangent.

“That would be funny,” Jake said. “Can you imagine Augusta’s reaction? If you didn’t like the roast, how would you like your head on a platter?”

Volume reached a new level as the group traded theories on Augusta’s response to such a glitch.

“You think she’d be pissed about rain,” Tripler quipped.

“I wonder how she would do it,” said Jake. “Smother him in his sleep or just a simple knife to the neck.”

“Neither,” Tripler decided. “She’d run him down with the Volvo.”

“Nah,” said Chip, joining in. “She wouldn’t want to hurt the fender.”

The debate over Augusta’s preferred method of execution raged for several minutes until someone tired of the subject and started singing very loud and off-key.

The next several minutes were devoted to recalling every word of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” They were stalwart in their effort to piece together the lyrics but failed miserably. They settled for a deafening repetition of the chorus, as though they were trying to summon its doomed singer from the grave.

“Here we are now. Entertain us. I feel stupid and contagious.”

After they’d exhausted their vocal cords and drained several bottles, they reverted to a spirited postmortem of the evening’s toasts. It was unanimously agreed that Chip’s was both the best and worst of the night, that Laura’s was subpar for her but still better than Tripler’s, and that every member of the McDevon family, even the twelve-year-old cousin, had been embarrassingly drunk. The subject of skinny-dipping was introduced several more times. Each time there were more takers, but never quite enough to overrule the opposition.

For hours or minutes—it was too hard to tell as alcohol loosened
her grasp on time—Laura did her best to ignore Tom’s presence. But every part of her conscious mind was focused on the incredible nearness of him—the shape of his legs pressed against the wooden planks, the grip of his hands on the wood, a sliver of neck that widened or lessened depending on the tilt of the raft.

For hours or minutes—no one knew at this point—the group caroused, laughed, and sang, oblivious to the worsening weather. The occasional shocks of cold, and the brown clouds gathering overhead only added to the night’s excitement, lending everything an aura of menace.

Abundant alcohol consumption dulled their typically acute awareness. As a result, there was only a pang of terror when they realized they had come unmoored.

“Wait a second,” said Weesie. “Weren’t those lights closer a minute ago?”

The group followed her gaze to the house and found that she was right—its scatter of lights had drifted significantly since they’d boarded the raft. Group consensus was followed by the unmistakable silence of dread.

“Chip, you little fuck,” said Tom.

“Dude. It wasn’t me,” said Chip.

But whether or not Chip had untied the rope was forgotten in the moments that followed.

They had more pressing things to consider: the strength of the tide, the temperature of the water, the roughness of the waves, the possibility of whales, sharks, jellyfish, the presence of a coast guard or a lighthouse, the ending of a movie they had watched together, and of course, the deadening weight of water as it smothers your lungs. But soon enough, all these thoughts rushed out and everyone was laughing again, cheerfully following the directions of
the more sober people in the group. Within thirty seconds, they had devised a plan, counted heads, assigned partners, and started swimming toward shore. It was not until they surfaced, two by two, on the windy lawn, that anyone dared to make a joke.

“It’s the curse of the Ghost of Northern Gardens,” Pete said in a poltergeist voice.

And everyone laughed until a final headcount revealed they were short by one.

T
he first phase of the search for Tom proceeded with incongruously good cheer as though it were a whimsical party game the hosts had dreamed up for the guests’ entertainment. The group tackled the problem with the same chipper aplomb that they had the temperature of the water or the equitable distribution of liquor.