The Romantics (3 page)

“So …” said Lila, matching Laura’s tone but infusing it with a more personal demand.

Laura paused, suddenly aware she had absolutely nothing to say. She made a sweeping gesture at the activity on the lawn. “So how’s it all going up here?”

“What? The wedding?” Her tone was defiant, her volume loud enough to seem angry. “I really don’t get why people make such a big deal. I mean, it’s just one day of your life.” She shrugged as though baffled by a complex scientific fact, at once asserting her wonder and disdain.

It was this type of comment that made Laura seethe. Did Lila actually think she was comforted by her trivial generalizations, her denouncement of the wedding institution? On the contrary, it made Laura feel terrible that Lila thought she needed to be comforted. And it irritated her that Lila considered such a condescending statement comforting. It would have been less patronizing for Lila to pat her on the head and commend her for coming to the wedding on her own.

“Did you pick up your dress?” Lila demanded. “The store called me Tuesday and said it was still there.”

“Yes, I got it,” Laura said.

“Thank God.” Lila sighed. “I’ve been totally panicked that the bridesmaids are going to look bad.”

“How could we look bad,” said Laura, “in such a flattering color?”

Lila paused, mistrusting Laura’s tone. But thankfully, when it
came to detecting sarcasm, Lila’s “hearing” was slightly impaired. “Thank God Weesie’s lost the weight,” she whispered. “You were worried?” Laura asked.

“Well, yeah. She insisted on ordering her dress a size too small to motivate herself. I’m just glad she came through. It’s not her problem if she looks bad in my wedding pictures.”

Laura sighed, conveying sympathy where, in fact, she felt disgust.

“But Annie, I’m a little worried about. Have you heard anything,” Lila hissed.

“About what?”

“Oh forget it,” said Lila. “Just last time I saw her she looked a little pudgy.”

Laura nodded, conveying understanding when, in fact, she felt rage.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Lila whispered. “It didn’t feel real without you.”

Laura paused for a moment, touched by the childlike sweetness of the sentiment. She tightened her grasp around Lila’s shoulders. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

There was always this moment between the two friends when they reunited, this process of resistance and submission. First, Laura acknowledged the bile and bitterness she had harbored toward Lila since she’d seen her last. Then, Lila welcomed Laura back into her thrall with seeming obliviousness to Laura’s treachery. Finally, Laura cursed herself for harboring such hateful feelings and, embarrassed by her quickness to yield, converted hatred into resentment.

It was not Lila’s fault, Laura always decided, that she was so lucky. Her greatest crime was entitlement, her greatest curse, good luck. How was she to know the wisdom earned by yearning? And
why should she be faulted for the circumstances that had precluded her having to yearn?

“I’m so sorry Ben couldn’t be here,” Lila whispered.

Comments like this threatened Laura’s precarious composure. For every ten blundering, callous things Lila said, she said something eerily telepathic.

“I’m completely enraged with Gussie for holding me to it. I should have told her to fuck off at the time, but it was just easier to appease her. And now, you’re stranded up here all alone with all your friends and their husbands. I would understand if you never spoke to me again.” She gripped Laura’s forearm.

Laura flinched on reflex.

“But I’ve done my best to make it up to you with the seating arrangement.” She smiled devilishly.

“Oh God.” Laura sighed. “I thought I would be at the wedding party table with you.”

“You are,” Lila said, batting her eyes.

“Next to who?” Laura asked.

“You’ll see,” Lila cooed.

“Who?” Laura demanded.

“Someone smart, gorgeous, and brilliant.”

Laura stopped walking, forfeiting her only remaining leverage. “Tell me right now,” she tried.

Lila kept walking but turned her head while she kept her pace. “Someone you haven’t seen in a very long time,” she said. “Someone you absolutely adore.”

“Please tell me who it is,” Laura begged. As she stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the lawn, she felt completely degraded, not unlike a defiant pet, refusing to enter the house.

Finally, Lila stopped and turned to face Laura. The setting sun struck her eyes and doubled their intensity. “Why, the groom. Who else?”

Just like that, Laura kicked herself for her self-recrimination. Lila deserved every bit of ill will she bore her. Breathing deeply, Laura picked up her pace and hurried to catch up with her friends, praying Lila’s lucky streak would end with a rainy wedding day.

A
ugusta Hayes had spared nothing in her efforts to ensure beautiful weather on her daughter’s wedding day. She had spent the last two weeks paying homage to that most pagan of Protestant deities: superstition. A bottle of Chivas Regal, her own drink of choice, rested in the crook of a majestic beech tree at the end of the property, hovering, like Augusta, in that delicate space between paganism and propriety.

Her expertise with the venue afforded her a certain amount of confidence. She had hosted innumerable picnics and parties at Northern Gardens over the years and had herself been married on the lawn far too many years ago. Seniority seemed as likely to help the cause as prayer. She hoped her efforts would not be looked upon as hubristic, but rather as a logical extension of her faith. Whether that faith was in God or the house was hard to know.

Historically, the strict observation of etiquette had served her well. Writing thank-you letters within three days of receiving a
gift, thanking the hostess before leaving a party, stripping the bed after an overnight stay—all of these rules, when observed to the letter, had wrought not only order but loveliness. It seemed wholly plausible that for one day, one as important as her eldest child’s wedding, strict observation of etiquette might suffice to impose order on the gods themselves.

Like many women of her generation, Augusta viewed matrimony as an achievement. The simple veil that Lila would wear might as well have been a crown of laurel leaves. For Augusta, the day was both a celebration and display of social triumph. The extent of that triumph was measured according to the same stringent criteria that applied to an engagement ring. Size, lineage, sheen, and pedigree were intrinsic to the assessment; extra marks could be earned for the relative quotient between price and pocket depth. Tom, in turn, was not unlike the emerald he placed on Lila’s finger: impressive, but not flawless; robust, if unrefined. Augusta often wondered if something had been lost in the trade between size and quality. But his higher marks compensated for his lower ones, giving him an impressive dazzle despite his lackluster facets.

The wedding required that Augusta pull off a jeweler’s greatest challenge: downplaying the defects of a jewel while flaunting its beauty. Luckily, she had spent a lifetime honing this skill. The fine art of bragging while trivializing was as natural to her as drinking iced tea on the porch, as automatic as playing doubles tennis on Sundays at the club. It was, in short, the modus operandi of her culture. Furthermore, Tom himself did much to help the cause, aspiring to membership in her club with the same intensity with which Augusta wished for his eligibility. Tom’s critics would argue that he compromised himself in this effort. His enemies would argue that Lila herself was the compromise.

Even Tom’s best friends would point out the ways he changed when he was around Mrs. Hayes. When he introduced himself, he lowered his voice and all but dropped the first two letters of his last name. His
a’s
lengthened in the Anglican way and his mouth tightened into an affected smile. The whole thing seemed like a bad impression of affability.

Regardless, Augusta would prevail over all such imperfections. She had orchestrated a wedding more lavish and lovely than any she had attended to date, and she relished the chance to watch her plans unfold. In the weeks leading up to the day, she had felt disproportionately anxious, like a sergeant planning for battle. She had quickly and quietly co-opted the occasion, imposing her taste, her guest list, and her rules, an imposition Lila allowed because of her aversion to details; she was far more interested in the fact of her wedding than the minutiae of the party itself.

Gleefully, Augusta took the reins, consulting Lila on aesthetic decisions as a mere formality. She selected the menu, lifting many of the dishes from her most successful dinner parties. She involved a caterer not as a chef, but in the capacity of a cook. She supervised the guest list, culling the one hundred fifty most deserving friends and family members from her network. One hundred additional spots were filled by the enormous McDevon family and the fifty-odd peers Tom and Lila insisted upon.

Augusta auditioned and hired the band—they had been a big hit at an engagement party she threw for her niece in the spring. She commissioned the flowers, integrating local blooms with the ubiquitous Maine spruce. She designed the palette, drawing on the dominant colors of Northern Gardens: the shimmering blue of the ocean, the welcoming white of the house and, as an accent, the lush green of the grass that separated the two.

It was divine inspiration, she felt, to weave these colors into the wedding tableau—grass green for the tablecloths and napkins, Maine coast blue for the ribbons and bunting, and the two colors joined together for the table centerpieces. Each centerpiece would be fashioned from a branch harvested on the property and adorned with sea glass collected from their beach. The large floral arrangements would draw upon the same color scheme while the wedding party’s bouquets would consist exclusively of white: peonies and lilies of the valley. The menu was classic coastal with touches of urban sophistication. A raw bar would feed the guests during cocktails. Hors d’oeuvres would include a cornucopia of cheeses and savories. Dinner itself would be served in time with the setting sun. Guests would choose between broiled lobster and carved lamb, enjoying a decadent truffled pasta and cascades of colorful grilled vegetables. Drinks would flow throughout.

The weekend’s schedule was as meticulously planned as the menu and decor. Festivities would begin on Friday afternoon as the wedding party and family arrived. The wedding rehearsal would begin at four, followed immediately by cocktails and dinner at the yacht club. The rehearsal dinner was called for six—early to allow for a long evening of toasts. In keeping with custom, the rehearsal dinner would involve copious drinking and gratuitous toasts, transforming the bride and groom into idols and guests into wild heathens. After dinner, the bride and groom would separate for the night, forbidden from exchanging a glance until they arrived at the altar. For the next eighteen hours, they would be sequestered with greater care and security than dangerous spies, a traditionally farcical attempt to replicate the feeling of virginity.

Saturday morning would be a time for precious parting words. It would begin with a gathering on the porch for family, during which
gifts would be exchanged, croissants and strawberries nibbled. The groomsmen would simultaneously congregate on the back lawn, taking any measure—aspirin, orange juice, or more alcohol—to lessen their hangovers. Chatting and bear hugs would end just in time for a casual lunch buffet. The rest of the afternoon would be spent greeting arriving guests, reuniting with old acquaintances, playing tennis at the club, or simply working on an early buzz for the evening.

At this point, the real work began. Members of the wedding party were expected to report, ceremony-ready, to the main house at three. The groomsmen would uphold the difficult promise of distracting the groom while the bridesmaids devoted the remaining time before the ceremony to assisting the bride. A squadron of five was expected to complete the following tasks: the transportation of the wedding dress from closet to sitting room, the installation of Lila into the dress, the closure of the dress—a task that required securing eighty roped buttons—the achievement and maintenance of perfect hair and makeup, the pinning of the veil, and the fastening of the garter. Successful completion of these drills culminated in a ritual pose, with the bride fixed to the floor at one end of the room, the train of her dress extended and draped over an upholstered chair. It was unclear whether this was indeed a trick to ensure a long and billowing train or simply another chance for the bride to pose and preen.

The elaborate preparations would be rewarded in the hours to come when months of planning melted into one magical day. The wedding was scheduled for half past four so as to coincide with the most opulent afternoon light. Champagne would be uncorked and hors d’oeuvres passed immediately after, busying guests while the wedding party posed for photographs. Dinner would be served at
seven just as sunset gave way to the lavender shades of evening. Two toasts would serve as a call to arms, bugles heralding the celebration, one from the best man and one from the bride’s father. Drinking and dancing would proceed until the stroke of midnight, at which point the bride and groom would depart in a flurry of white rose petals and sparklers. Revelry would continue as the guests relocated for the after-party.

Augusta had planned and predicted every one of these pending moments. Prediction, she felt, was a necessary means of ensuring perfection and, of course, it was widely accepted in the family that she was something of a psychic. But now, as she peered out the back door at her daughter and her guests, she was pricked by a sense of foreboding. Was that a rain cloud overhead? As she stood, her expression matched and mimicked Lila’s like an audience member watching a riveting play. She remained like this for a moment, allowing Lila’s guests to catch up on recent parties and promotions, then, tapping the screen door officiously, she marched out the back door onto the porch, greeting the crowd with a perfect combination of charm and rigor.

“Greetings!” she said, scanning the crowd.