Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (31 page)

Then it was Angelica’s turn, and she too began reciting
in Hebrew. How had she found the time to learn those words and to practice them until they sounded so familiar, so effortless? Angelica was and would always be amazing. She spoke again, this time in English.
I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys
. There was a little more talk from the rabbi and then the actual vows, do
you
take, do you
take
, hands extended, gold bands offered, exchanged and slipped on.

Then the rabbi raised his arm to show everyone the wineglass covered by a white napkin. Except that Portia had told her it was really a lightbulb, because it made a more satisfying sound. When he seemed satisfied that everyone had seen it, he placed it down on the grass and together, as if synchronized, Angelica and Ohad each lifted up a foot—his in black leather, hers in ivory silk—and crunched down on it hard. There was a muffled shatter and then a long kiss.

Justine was mesmerized as the bride and groom clung to each other, faces and bodies pressed in a seamless embrace. How perfectly they seemed to fit together; yet Justine had the sense that they could just as easily have let go—their being together was a choice, not an obligation or a need. When the kiss finally ended, the guests erupted into cheers.

Around her, people were crying: Ohad’s mother, Grandma Betsy, Don, and Justine’s grandpa. Grandma Lenore was mopping her face with a handkerchief; she blew her nose loudly, and everyone started to laugh. Justine did not cry but experienced a sort of tremulous relief that Grandma L. had talked her into coming. Oh, Justine saw through her: pretending not to care was a much craftier—and effective—ploy than outright pressure. And it had
worked; she was here, just where her great-grandmother had wanted her to be all along.

But Justine forgave the manipulation, because everything she had imagined about this day had been revised and rewritten as she had lived it. The wedding wasn’t tasteless, vulgar, or corny. It was gorgeous, it was sacred, and she felt grateful to have been a part of it. But even more than that, she was overcome with remorse—those horrible black wings again, beating furiously—to think that she had almost ruined the day and prevented the wedding from happening. This was the feeling she often had when she had stolen something, only this was worse, much worse. She pressed her face into her hands, and it was then that the tears—galling and hot—came. Portia turned to look at her. “Are you all right, Teeny?” she whispered.

“No,” Justine said, unable to lift her face from the protection of her own palms, “I’m not.”

Lenore, still standing near the
chuppah
, beamed as the bride and groom, smiling, laughing, and reaching out to touch the hands of their guests, walked back up the aisle. They came slowly as Angelica paused to look around at all the people who had assembled. Lenore saw her nod and smile, smile and nod. Every now and then she blew a small kiss to someone as she sailed serenely by.

A small sniff from somewhere nearby diverted Lenore’s attention. She turned. Justine crying—again? Upstairs in Lenore’s room, the girl had seemed all right, agreeing to attend
the wedding without any real pressure; the hysterics and drama had mercifully passed. And she’d seemed fine in the rose garden too; Lenore had been watching. What could have set her off again?

But as Lenore continued to observe, Justine rallied, drying her eyes with her fingers—at least it wasn’t the hem of her dress!—and scurrying around the back of the
chuppah
, along the outside of the tent, and up to the head of the aisle. She met Angelica midway down. Many people had already gotten up and, chattering and happy, were milling around near their seats. People were talking, smiling, laughing. No one except Lenore paid attention when Justine reached inside her dress and then pressed something into Angelica’s palm. The ring. Although Lenore could not actually see it changing hands, she felt a palpable sense of relief that it had now been restored to its rightful owner. And because Angelica’s back was to her, she could only imagine the fleeting trajectory of emotions crossing her lovely face: surprise, confusion, joy, all giving way to something sterner, something that seemed to expect—no, demand—an explanation. For several seconds Justine simply stared at her aunt before she stepped aside and let her resume her progress.

Lenore now saw that the little flower girl—Zoe was her name, and Lenore was delighted she had recalled it—was walking alongside the bridal couple. She skipped and pranced as she went, waving her empty basket gaily with one hand. With the other she held tightly to Ohad’s broad palm.

O
n her way to the outlandish, fairy-tale tent where dinner was to be served, Gretchen ran smack into Ennis and Portia. Portia, who had been holding her father’s arm, disengaged herself to lean her cropped head on Gretchen’s shoulder; for a few blessed seconds Gretchen savored the weight and feel of her until Portia righted herself and trotted off. Gretchen was then left standing with Ennis on the wide swath of carpet that had been laid between the two tents to keep the guests’ heels from sinking into the wet grass.

“That was a lovely ceremony,” she said, just to say something that did not have anything to do with them, their present impasse, or just what they planned to do about it.

“Lovely, hey,” Ennis agreed. He began pulling on his tie, a gesture at once so obvious and revealing that Gretchen wanted to laugh. She actually felt pretty good—no, make that
very
good. Better than she had felt since before she’d arrived here. Throughout the ceremony, she had sat, surrounded by her family, listening to that gorgeous poetry—it
had been quite something to hear it in Hebrew, even if she couldn’t understand it—while inside she was poised for takeoff.

Flashing a quick, impersonal smile at Ennis, Gretchen continued walking until she reached the tent where the tables with their white cloths and large centerpieces of white flowers had been set up. The sky had darkened and was now a deep, lapis-like blue.

But all the clouds were gone, and Gretchen could see the first stars begin to shine, weakly at first, in the lovely early June evening.

“What’s your rush?” Ennis said as he hurried to catch up and fall into step beside her.

“No rush,” she said. “I just wanted to get a drink.”

“Can I join you?”

“Suit yourself.” She edged closer to the bar and was aware that Ennis remained where he stood. So she had been a bit harsh. But, really, what did he expect, foisting himself on her? Gretchen turned her back on him.

The next few months, she knew, were not going to be easy. Justine was going to need professional help. But having it all out in the open—well, that alone was a monumental relief. Gretchen deeply believed in her own ability to get Justine what she needed; she would not fail her. And simply having said those words earlier—to her sister, her family—made everything seem to shift and realign in Gretchen’s vision. How had she not seen it before? All that time, years and years really, of thinking of herself as the freighted, judgmental
less than
instead of the neutral, embracing
different from.

But no more. Things were going to change. In fact, in her mind they already had. She had decided that next week she was going to quit her job. That book with Ginny would never, ever be written, at least not by her. She had some money saved, and, yes, she could ask her mother for help. Her next job was going to be something that engaged all of her. Next she planned to call her old college friend Wendy Jones, who was pretty high up in the psych unit at Columbia-Presbyterian; Wendy would be able to provide her with some names of therapists for Justine. And Gretchen was going to stop obsessing about her weight. It was such a bore to think about it all the time; she had better things to do.

There were dozens of people milling around the bar; Gretchen was relieved that her father was not one of them. And she could see the receiving line snaking around the rose hedge. She did want to congratulate her sister, but she decided to wait and do it in a more private way. A waiter materialized carrying several glasses of champagne clustered congenially on silver trays. No need to stand at the bar waiting after all.

“Thank you,” said Gretchen, helping herself to a glass. Lifting it to her lips, she took a big sip. And smiled. God, but that was good. And she felt the first stirring of a buzz already. By the time she had finished the champagne, the buzz had settled pleasantly around her, emitting tiny pops and fizzes of sensation.

Weaving only the slightest bit, Gretchen found her way to her table, where glass water pitchers and crystal goblets sparkled against all that white; each white bone china place
setting was adorned with a place card of heavy white vellum surrounded by a few smooth, white oval stones. The flowers—white roses, freesia, lilies, and a few gardenias—spilled up and over the clear glass vase.

She saw no sign of Ennis (good) or her girls (not so good). There was, she knew, a teen table; a couple of Ohad’s relatives would be sitting at it along with Justine and Portia. Maybe Ennis was with them. Gretchen downed the rest of her champagne and was inspecting the inside of the empty glass when another waiter appeared to take it away and replace it with a fresh one. She took a big sip from glass number two and sat down with a little thud. She’d nearly missed the chair.

“Need some help?”

Gretchen looked up to see a man hovering above her. He had nice blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. His graying brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail.

“I’m okay,” she said.

“You looked a little wobbly for a minute there. I thought you were going to topple.”

“I really can’t hold my liquor,” she said, gesturing to the champagne.

“Well, I’ll be here if you need me,” said the man, sitting down. “I’m Mitch; this is my table.” He extended his hand.

“Hello, Mitch-this-is-my-table. I’m Gretchen-pleased-to-meet-you.”

“The bride’s sister?” he asked.

“How did you know? Striking family resemblance?” Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass.

He considered her for a moment. “Uh-huh. Definitely
some. But my mother, Celia, is a good friend of Lenore’s. She’s been a widow for decades, so I’m her escort. And she gave me the lowdown on the guests before I arrived. Many times, in fact.”

“That explains it. My grandmother probably drew up a detailed family tree and circulated it among the guests. She thinks weddings are the perfect places to make matches.”

“My mother too,” said Mitch. He reached for an olive that sat in a small crystal bowl on the table.

“What is it about that generation?” Gretchen asked, helping herself to an olive too. The saltiness cried out for another sip of champagne. “They can’t help themselves. But I hope I’ll be more circumspect when it comes to my own daughters. Stay out of their love lives, you know?”

“How many and how old?” When Gretchen looked puzzled, he added, “Your daughters.”

“Right!” she said. That champagne really was making her a bit fuzzy. “Two, and fifteen. They’re twins.”

“Nice,” he said. “I’ve got one. Daughter, that is.”

“How old?” She tried not to guzzle the champagne.

“Fourteen. I don’t get to see her much though. She’s in Chicago.”

“Chicago,” Gretchen said reflectively. A fourteen-year-old daughter living in another state probably meant he was divorced. She sat up straighter and brushed her hair off of her face. “I’ve never been there,” she added.

“Me neither,” Mitch said.

“Not even to see your daughter?”

“She comes to New York to see me. She says she prefers it that way.”

Gretchen busied herself with another olive.

“What about your daughters?

“They live with me,” she said. “But their father lives somewhere else.”

“Divorced?” asked Mitch.

“Separated,” she corrected.

“Ah,” was all he said. But it was a knowing, even comforting
ah
. Gretchen decided she liked him.

The table began filling up. Teddy sat across from her, with Martine at his left; Caleb was seated on the other side of Mitch. Some cousins Gretchen had not seen in ages took the remaining chairs. She made the necessary introductions and then the waiter came by to ask whether they wanted filet mignon, poached monkfish, or pasta; orders were taken, and soon the food began to appear.

Gretchen ate hungrily and with pleasure; she’d ordered the fish, which came with roasted beets and quinoa. But she didn’t hate herself for her appetite; she just surrendered to it, and as a result, she ate less than when she was constantly battling it. She had bread, but only one piece, and when the dessert came—lime mousse, butter cookies in the shape of wedding bells, petit fours iced in silver and white—she had just a taste of mousse before putting the spoon down. She did allow herself another glass of champagne, though she decided that would be her last drink of the evening.

Mitch was asking her about living in Brooklyn—he
lived in Chelsea—when she felt bold enough to inquire, “So what went wrong in your marriage?”

“There was another man,” he said, not appearing to be offended by her question.