The Romantics (26 page)

But as he passed the tree, he was stilled by a strange rustling near the trunk. Then, a shocking silhouette appeared: two forms merging into one, as though the earth had opened up in a quake, swallowed
two human bodies and then spit them back out. His first instinct was to blame the pills, but somehow he knew to trust his perception. He had stumbled onto his suspicions, proof of his intuition. And, to his shock, he felt an absence of rage—on behalf of himself or his sister. He felt relief for Laura followed by pity. Today’s wedding was as inevitable as the weather.

D
aylight returned just before six with plucky determination, ending the pesky spell of night and renewing the promises of summer. The clouds of the previous afternoon had replaced themselves with a blue sky, as though to chide anyone who had doubted Augusta’s persuasive powers. Two months after the solstice, the sun had lost its reddish hue, but the light it offered was still warmer than the blue shades of winter, and succeeded in comforting the sleeping friends as they stirred from their huddle on the sofa.

The windswept lawn lay in stark contrast to Northern Gardens’ manicured sheen. The storm had deepened the color of the grass from mint to emerald green and littered the formerly immaculate lawn with a collage of strewn branches. A pole from the main wedding tent had come unearthed. Luckily, it had not pulled down the tent but had tilted slowly and hit the ground like a wounded soldier,

disengaging from the tent without ripping the canvas. Lacking the support of the pole, the tent had collapsed slightly.

For Tom and Laura, the night extended long beyond the darkness. As they slept, the world receded somewhat, as though the sky had discreetly turned its head to grant them a private moment. For four short hours, they remained oblivious to the sounds of the world. Even the rain registered as little more than ambient noise. They remained this way even after the first glints of sunlight. Laura was finally jolted from sleep by an alarmist bird and woke to find sun in her eyes and a matted patch of grass where Tom had been.

She grasped at her dress instinctively—it was horribly rumpled and damp—and attempted to tell the difference between what had occurred and what she had dreamed. But opening her eyes only made it harder to tell the difference, so she closed them and lay back down, willing her memory to grace her. Gradually, images from the night revealed themselves, but they were strangely remote for the recent past, like words written in the sand.

Suddenly, she felt exposed, desperate for cover. To be seen in the dress she had worn last night would be horribly incriminating. How would she explain her disarray? She would be less conspicuous running naked across the grass, wearing a scarlet letter. A chorus of birds joined the one that had sounded the alarm. The noise cemented her decision. She needed to get back to the Gettys’. Hopefully, the night’s heavy consumption would prevent her friends from waking up when she made her entrance.

As she walked, she rubbed her hands against her arms in a pitiful attempt to generate heat. A rabbit scampered behind a tree just ahead, a reminder of the countless creatures with whom she and Tom had shared the lawn. But any delight she might have derived from the sighting was quickly replaced by dread. Did Tom’s latest
evacuation mean he had decided to remain hidden, or had he simply gone back to his room, renewed in his resolve to get married? The confusion was maddening. And each alternative demanded a different response. Still, she felt certain of one thing: Tom was in love with her. And this knowledge was immeasurably comforting, perhaps even more so than his presence.

She picked up her pace and fixed her gaze on the distant house. But within a few steps, she stopped again, detecting an approaching figure. She stood still for a moment, debating a quick escape, but thought better of it. Turning around would betray her guilt; running away would only draw more attention. At first, it appeared as a single body, advancing across the lawn. But as she watched, it revealed discrete forms, six of them, marching on the grass, silhouetted by the water.

Thinking fast, she devised a credible alibi: She had slept on the chaise on the porch after arguing with Chip. He had finally pushed her to the breaking point, and she had gone looking for new company. Fearful of waking Lila, she had taken a seat on the porch and had remained there, waiting for someone to emerge for what felt like hours. She only just woke up minutes ago, freezing and bug-bitten.

But just as soon as she’d settled on a narrative, she considered an alternative approach. Other than Tom himself, she was the only one who definitively knew Tom had made it to shore. She could use this knowledge—and her friends’ ignorance—to her advantage. As the distance between them closed, she settled on a strategy: She would not deceive them outright, but she would not enlighten them either. It was not her responsibility to cure her friends of their delusions.

Predictably, Tripler spoke first. “Have you seen him?” she demanded.

Laura looked down. Despite her planned tactic, it was still difficult to lie to her face.

“Us either,” said Weesie.

“We’re fucked,” Pete declared. It was an attempt, albeit ineloquent, to acknowledge their mutual blame, to indict every member of the group for the crimes they’d committed over the course of the night, over the course of their friendship: complacence, apathy, duplicity, mistrust, and disloyalty, just as a start.

“We’re telling Lila now,” Tripler said, reasserting her leadership.

“But wait,” Laura said, forgetting herself, her alibi, her tactic. “Wait for what?” Tripler snapped. “Until we know he’s dead?”

“God, Tripler,” Laura said. “What,” Tripler snapped.

Weesie interrupted, resuming her role as mediator. “Better sooner than later. While there’s still time to do something.”

The others nodded, acknowledging the new shorthand. These abbreviations—the vague pronouns and sweeping generalizations—were somehow more digestible than saying what everyone was thinking.

“Where were you anyway?” Tripler demanded.

Laura struggled to meet her gaze. The decision she faced, to lie or tell the truth, was a choice between strength and weakness. But she was suddenly confused again. Which choice amounted to strength: sharing the truth or hoarding it?

“I was alone,” she said finally.

Tripler’s eyes rounded with indignation. “Oh my God. You know where he is.”

Laura stared back without flinching. “Go fuck yourself, Tripler.”

“Come on, guys,” said Weesie.

“What?” Tripler said. “Everyone knows she’d rather see him dead than watch him marry Lila.”

This was a test, Laura knew, and there was only one way to pass it.

“Where did you sleep?” asked Tripler. “Where did
you
sleep?” Laura replied.

They stared at each other for several moments, stalemated in mutual hatred.

Finally, Weesie broke the silence, taking Tripler’s place at the front of the line. “We’re going. Are you coming or not?”

Tripler stared at Laura for another moment, then she turned and complied, as though she’d finally tired of waiting for an answer.

Laura watched as her friends set off toward the house. Their togetherness was eerie, militaristic, and she cringed as she thought of how many times she had followed behind, in step. But this time, her conscience compelled her to join them: If Tom had indeed gone back to Lila, it would be better to know sooner than later. If he hadn’t—and intended to miss the wedding—it was important to call off the search before authorities were alerted. To stay behind was cowardly, she decided, a crime of omission, so she sprinted to catch up with her friends, weaving in and out of the sunlight as though she were dodging bullets.

L
ila awoke in a confusion of emotions—elation, terror, relief. It felt something like waking on Christmas morning as a child and wondering, for a split second, if yet another day had been added to the month of December. But now, confusion was followed by a sinking sensation, a feeling of toxic familiarity. Even your fifteenth
Christmas yielded unexpected delights; a wedding, for Lila, lacked this element of surprise.

She did her best to focus on the most promising parts of the day. It would be amusing, at least, to live out the conventions. The promenade down the aisle, the cutting of the cake, the first dance with Tom—each moment would be a satisfying culmination of a childhood fantasy. But a mortifying emergency compounded the problems of the day: After one short night away from Tom, she could not picture his face. She knew his features by heart, of course—brown hair, green eyes, pink lips. But when she strained to conjure him, her mind went suddenly blank. And she feared this was a chilling—and telling—reflection of her feelings.

One thing succeeded in soothing her where everything else failed. A feeling of calm returned as she pictured herself in her dress. Perhaps it was vain to imagine herself in the eyes of her guests, but she forgave herself the indulgence. A modern wedding would always lack a certain sexual charge. In the absence of virginity, the wedding dress offered a vestigial mystique, presenting the ultimate challenge to the bride: to look at once as pure as a girl and as sensual as a woman. The paradox was itself the source of the dress’s power. Renewed, Lila lifted herself from her bed and headed for the attic.

The house was blessedly quiet when she emerged from her room. Padding up the stairs, she entertained another guilty thought: She was more excited for Tom to see her in her dress than she was to see Tom. Few people were honest with themselves, she decided, about the difference between these two things, willfully confusing the glee of reunion with the vanity of exhibition. Of course, she yearned to see Tom. Spending the night apart had only strengthened the urge. But when she pictured the day ahead, she imagined it from someone else’s perspective. She saw herself in the eyes of
Tom and her guests, her body displayed at its best, every feature on her face reflecting the warmth of her audience.

Her first glimpse of the dress did not fail her memory. It hung neatly where she had left it in the cedar closet. Starched and stuffed for its shipment to Maine, the dress looked strangely alive. The bodice, stuffed with a mass of tissue paper, looked as though it had just taken a hearty deep breath. Each of the buttons remained tightly secured. The skirt flowed effortlessly from the bodice, skimming the floor like a dollop of cream. The train fell to the hemline before swooping up to the hanger. The veil hung on a separate hanger, a shadow in white tulle.

Even as she caressed the dress, Lila failed to notice the damage. Minnow had gone a ways toward replicating its pre-torn state. Lila stood, running her hands over the bodice for several moments before she noticed. Just like this, she was able to picture Tom or, rather, to picture herself with Tom: They would look so beautiful today; they would have such a beautiful life. This realization was so comforting it nearly obscured the horror of her next one: The dress was ripped at the seam between the bodice and the skirt, so that half of the skirt billowed out from the corset, forming a gaping hole. In an instant, Lila’s peaceful musings were replaced by homicidal thoughts. She immediately deduced the perpetrator and started down the stairs at a run.

“Margaret!” she shrieked.

Augusta was the first to react. She lunged from her bed as though braced for a clock’s alarm.

Minnow, too, responded quickly. She had slept very little throughout the night. At the sound of Lila’s voice, she darted out of bed and sprinted up the stairs, propelled by remorse and curiosity.

Luckily, Augusta arrived first, sparing Minnow the vicious attack she would have suffered had she found Lila alone.

“I hate her,” Lila was screaming, as Minnow rushed up the stairs.

Overhearing, Minnow froze in her place. Lila heard the footsteps and turned toward the noise, then charged the door, screaming threats, arms flailing.

Augusta reacted, restraining Lila before she reached the door. She managed to detain her just long enough to give Minnow a healthy lead.

“I hate you, too,” Minnow cried as she sprinted down the stairs. “I’m glad it’s ruined.”

The new provocation renewed Lila’s wrath and, in turn, her ferocity. With a frantic grunt, she got free of her mother’s grasp and bolted down the stairs, catching the tail of her sister’s nightgown as she rounded the third-floor landing. But gravity conspired with Minnow’s cause, propelling her down the next two flights with a small advantage. After a clumsy tour of the kitchen and living room, the chase culminated on the porch, with Minnow disappearing into the protective throng of the wedding party.

Lila collapsed operatically onto an empty chaise. She threw herself facedown on the chair and wept like a lovesick teenager. Her friends stood on the porch, assembled awkwardly, watching her cry, saying nothing. Fearing the worst, they checked each other’s eyes. Had she already learned of Tom’s disappearance? But the patter of bare feet on wood soon relieved them of this concern. Minnow sped across the grass, hooting and gloating. It seemed the cause of tears had been a family dispute.

Instinctively, Tripler stepped toward her friend. Lila’s hysteria was, in some way, serendipitous, an opportune moment to share
more bad news. “Li,” she said. “There’s something we have to tell you.”

The others exchanged a series of glances, a critique of Tripler’s timing.

“What,” Lila sniffled. “What else can go wrong? Don’t tell me it’s going to rain.”

“No,” Tripler said. She nodded cheerfully at the sky, as if to imply that she alone had arranged for the weather.

“What is it?” asked Lila.

Tripler looked to Weesie helplessly as it dawned on her that she had appointed herself the messenger.

Lila scanned her friends with new concern. Why did they look so guilty? Perhaps they had broken some valuable heirloom at the Gettys’ or harbored the knowledge that a certain guest had cancelled at the last minute.

As they stood in silence, each member of the group considered his guilt in Tom’s disappearance. Whatever his crimes—negligence, disloyalty, betrayal—each one fought the urge to confess the sins he’d committed over the last twelve hours.