Summertime Guests Page 9

  “But that is a theme,” she protested. “Peace, love, harmony. All those things.”

  “I suppose.” He appeared unconvinced. “How about something nautical? Maybe a sailboat, considering we’re planning to marry near the water.”

  “You don’t think that’s, I don’t know, cliché?”

  “How should I know?” He laughed. “Listen, this is crazy. We don’t even have a date yet—or a place. Why don’t we just agree on the color and typeface for now?”

  “Deal,” Riley had said, relieved to have that much decided.

  “No peace sign,” Hannah says now when Riley fills her in. “Definitely not.” She helps Riley step into a dress with reams of tulle, like an inverted flowerpot. For the moment, they’ve eluded the saleswoman and have hidden themselves away in the last fitting room at the back. “Trust me. You don’t want to make a statement on your wedding invitation. Keep it simple.” Three years ago, Hannah and her boyfriend had married in a small Unitarian church, followed by a reception at the Sheraton Hotel in Norwood.

  This is another reason Hannah is Riley’s best friend: she always tells her the truth. “Now, spin,” Hannah instructs.

  When Riley turns around to gaze at herself in the mirror, she groans. “Ugh. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I look like a mushroom.”

  “You were afraid of looking like a mushroom?” Hannah asks, her head tilted while she considers the dress. But then she nods. “You’re right. It’s not for you. There’s something a Little Miss Muffet about it.” Riley laughs.

  The next gown, an A-line with a satin bodice, a sweetheart neck and a lace train, is an improvement. “Not bad,” Hannah says while Riley does a twirl.

  “It’s better than the last one, that’s for sure. A little snug. Might have to go up a size. How much?”

  Hannah fishes out the price tag, which is wedged between Riley’s skin and the back zipper. “Seven hundred and fifty.”

  “Also not terrible.”

  “So a possibility?” When Riley nods yes, Hannah fishes out the notepad from her backpack and writes down the dressmaker’s name and the style. “See, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Ladies, how’s it going?” Riley shoots Hannah a panicked look. Despite their best efforts to lose her, it appears the salesclerk has found them in their fitting room.

  “Oh, fine,” Hannah calls out. “We’re good.”

  “Need any different sizes that I can get for you?”

  “Nope, all set,” Hannah says spritely. “Thanks again.” But Riley is bent over, gripping her sides and trying to suppress the laughter that’s bubbling up inside her. The poor salesclerk is only trying to be helpful—she understands this—and even Riley can’t say exactly why she finds this whole exchange so funny. But there’s something about the day, the fact that her dress-shopping has turned into a cat-and-mouse game with the salesclerk that makes her laugh.

  “What is so funny?” Hannah loud-whispers after she peeks around the curtain to check that the clerk has gone.

  Riley can’t begin to explain it to her, though, and she slides down the wall, still wrapped in the satin dress. “I don’t know,” she says and giggles. “Leave it to us to turn wedding-dress shopping into a hide-and-seek game with the salesclerk. It just seems wrong somehow, doesn’t it? I mean, clearly I’m not invested in this process as much as I should be. I should want her help.”

  “Why? So she can dress you in a fancy gown that’s totally not you? Nonsense. I’m your best friend. I have your best interests at heart.” Hannah flops down beside her.

  Riley sighs. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’d be a disaster,” Hannah says simply and pats Riley’s head. Then she says, “Hey, Riles, I’m sorry it’s me dress-shopping with you and not your mom. She would have loved to be here, you know.”

  Riley picks at her cuticles, which are in worse shape than her eyebrows. “I know she would.” She’s been careful not to let her mind wander to that dark, difficult place. “But she also would have made me try on at least a dozen dresses. So there’s that.”

  “Good point,” says Hannah. “You’ll have a much more efficient shopping experience with me.”

  “Yup. That’s why I chose you.” Riley leans over to hug her friend, but when she does so, the sound of the zipper popping open at the back makes her instantly straighten. “Oh, no!” she gasps, her fingers fumbling for the broken clasp.

  Hannah’s eyes go wide after she peeks at the damage. “Well,” she says, stifling a laugh. “I guess it’s decided, then. You’re buying this one!” And the laughter Riley has been trying to swallow bursts out, a wonderful, crazy river gushing forth. Because she realizes that whatever happens, whatever dress, ceremony, invitation or cake she ends up with, it will all be fine. Better than fine. Because she has Tom, not to mention the best friend in the world a girl could ask for.

  ELEVEN

  Claire sits on the Seafarer’s wraparound porch while enjoying a Madras cocktail and people-watching. It’s been a pretty taxing Wednesday, she thinks with amusement, having moved from napping by the pool to now drinking on the porch. After the young girl finally jumped into the shallow end (and Claire had applauded her courage), Claire had dozed off for a good hour or two. Now behind her wide-rimmed Jackie O sunglasses, her eyes are peeled for anyone famous.

  Last night after dinner she’d paused to study the photos lining the hallway leading into the hotel restaurant. Almost all of them autographed. There was Winston Churchill and Calvin Coolidge, Robert Redford and Judy Garland. Gabriel García Márquez and Ernest Hemingway. Audrey Hepburn and Shirley Chisholm and Lorraine Hansberry. Remarkable, really. Claire wouldn’t mind spotting Mia Farrow or maybe Dustin Hoffman at the famed Seafarer cocktail hour today. She’d like to ask Dustin what it was like working with Meryl Streep in Kramer vs. Kramer, one of her all-time favorite films. Or how difficult it was to transform himself into a matronly woman every day on the set of Tootsie, another favorite. She bets they’d have a fascinating conversation. And rumor has it that later in the week, the daughter of a Boston Brahmin will be hosting her wedding reception here.

  The fact that she’s seen no one famous, though, won’t detract from Claire’s pleasure. She sighs contentedly and gazes out on the side lawn where various croquet matches are taking place. There’s the cute couple she met this morning on the elevator. The fellow has his arms wrapped around his girlfriend while he tries to show her how to shoot her red ball through the wicket. The young woman, her long blond hair hanging down past her shoulders, is even prettier than Claire remembers. She throws her head back and laughs when the red ball goes sailing right past the wicket. “Let’s go back to playing tennis!” she shouts playfully. The whole exchange makes Claire think fondly of those first years with Walt, when they’d been in so in love, every outing an opportunity to flirt, to have fun. When it seemed that the whole world was ripe with possibility. Yes, she’s quite sure that once, a long time ago, she and Walt were a lot like this couple.

  She doesn’t want to spoil it for them, but she does have half a mind to march over and warn them. That things won’t always be this easy. That life is difficult, and even if you think you’ve done everything right—lived by your moral compass, loved deeply—the world doesn’t owe you a thing. So beware.

  But what is she? A total killjoy?

  She scolds herself for being petty. If she’s not careful, she’ll turn into one of those old biddies who give out unsolicited advice, that woman whom people try to avoid at the grocery store. All she needs is a pair of sensible sneakers and a sun hat with a wide brim to complete the stereotype. But no, tonight she’s dressed in a very pleasant-looking blue linen skirt and a white blouse that she hopes will signal to strangers that she’s sophisticated enough for engaging conversation. After the pool, she’d headed up to her room to shower and change, in the event that she did happen to bump int
o someone famous at the cocktail hour, say, Michelle Obama. Because if they ever got around to talking, Claire is confident that she and Michelle would become instant best friends.

  So far, though, she’s only seen couples—everyone annoyingly paired off, who shoot her kind looks and say hello but quickly move on to the next chair, never mind that there are two empty seats right beside her. When a waiter stops to offer her tomato and mozzarella on a skewer, she helps herself to two and places them on the elegant white plate handed to her. There are worse things in life, she reasons, than enjoying a cocktail and hors d’oeuvres on the porch, even if it’s by herself.

  For a moment, she considers calling Marty—she has his number now, clocked on her cell—just to see if he might want to hop over to the Seafarer, join her for a quick drink. But then she thinks better of it. There’s a reason he suggested tomorrow for dinner, not tonight. He’s probably busy.

  She watches while a Mercedes, a Porsche and then a bright yellow Lamborghini pull up to the hotel. She’s no car expert, but she recognizes money when she sees it. This is clearly the place where the well-to-do come to summer. Other guests wander about in their Vineyard Vines polo shirts and shorts, their sockless loafers. The women—tanned, Botoxed and predominantly blonde—all look twenty years younger than the men. They also all appear to be carrying either an Hermès or a Louis Vuitton handbag. Claire gives her wicker summer purse a swift kick under her chair, out of sight. No need to highlight the fact that she’s alone—and middle-class.

  She’s never understood some people’s need to be show-offy about money. She and Walt always had enough to live the lives they wanted, and frankly, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would need more. It seemed people were always divorcing over money or getting into even worse trouble. That the two of them had been able to buy a house, put the kids through college and take the odd vacation had always seemed plenty. Plus, there was something unseemly about being a rich journalist, as if your sources couldn’t be trusted. Claire had always taken a certain pride in the fact that her family was solidly middle-class.

  But this young couple in front of her, whacking croquet balls, doesn’t want to hear her theories about how they’d be better off if they didn’t spend their lives chasing money. Or her theories on relationships, or marriage, for that matter. They don’t want to hear about how quickly marriages can take a turn for the worse. Besides, she barely knows them! No, she’d best keep her opinions to herself.

  She drains the rest of her drink, retrieves her purse and asks the concierge to call her a cab. Because Claire has plans for this evening, including a trip to the Museum of Fine Arts. She’s looking forward to wandering among the Monets and the Renoirs, getting lost in the winding halls of all that artistic grandeur. And so, when she slides into the cab and her driver asks if she’s waiting on someone else, she refuses to let his question discourage her. Instead, she tells him sharply, “No, just traveling for one this evening. Thank you very much.”

  TWELVE

  On the evening of the 9th, Jean-Paul returns home to discover Marie pacing the floor with a crying, inconsolable Isabella. He sets his briefcase down by the door and goes to take the baby from her. “Do you think she might be coming down with something?” His palm rests on Isabella’s crinkled forehead. It’s cool to the touch.

  Marie glowers at him, deliberating over each word when she says, “No. This is how she gets every day from five to seven.” It’s five fifteen (he has raced home), which means he has arrived for the baby’s witching hour. And perhaps, it occurs to him, his wife’s, as well.

  “When did she last eat?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. What? You think I’m not feeding her? I’m telling you, she’s a colicky, petulant baby. Wait until she’s a teenager. We’re doomed.” Jean-Paul takes a moment to study his wife. Bags hang like tender bruises beneath her eyes, and her dark hair is pulled up in an angry, messy ponytail.

  He sighs and strides around the living room, bouncing the baby in his arms, while Marie flops down on the brown leather couch. Already one of the armrests bears the imprint of the Baby Boppy, where Marie feeds Isabella every night. Beyond the brownstone’s casement windows, he can glimpse the edge of the water, the harbor shimmering in the distance. Their street is one of a handful in the neighborhood recently landscaped with young saplings, and the new swath of green reminds him of a giant caterpillar inching down the block. That Boston is a melting pot of city and nature, parks and harbors, bustle and serenity conjures up his beloved Paris. But as much as he misses the view of the Seine from their old apartment, the view out their new window easily rivals it.

  In his arms, the baby has quieted, her eyes, edged with thick dark lashes, mercifully closed. Soft breaths escape from her delicate lips, and Jean-Paul pads over to his wife to give her a glimpse of a serene, sleeping Isabella.

  “Peace,” Marie says. “Finally.” And then, “She really is a sweet baby when she’s asleep.”

  And Jean-Paul smiles because it’s a glimpse of the Marie he remembers from the hospital—a mother besotted by her child—and an idea seizes him. “Let’s go out,” he announces.

  Her eyes narrow. “Now? Are you crazy? We should put her down in her crib. And where would we go, anyway?”

  He thinks for a second. “The Museum. The MFA. You’re always talking about it, and I haven’t been yet. I overheard Oliver telling a guest that it’s open late tonight, till seven or eight, I think. We still have plenty of time. We can plop Isabella in a stroller, and she can sleep while you show me your favorite paintings.”

  His wife regards him for a moment as if he’s lost his mind, and then slowly her face begins to brighten. “Give me five minutes to put on some makeup and comb my hair.”

  * * *

  Before long, they’re stepping into the Art of the Americas wing at the MFA. The museum is surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday night, but Marie steers them expertly through the lines until they come to a painting entitled The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, by John Singer Sargent.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. “I spent half an hour looking at it when I was here last time.” Four young girls, dressed in their white pinafores, stare back at them from the dark foyer of the painting. On either side, two unusually large white-and-blue ceramic vases tower over the girls.

  Jean-Paul studies the painting for a moment. “It has an Alice in Wonderland feel to it, doesn’t it, where the two older girls are hiding behind the enormous vase? As if everything is out of proportion.”

  Marie tilts her head, considering. “I’d never thought of it that way, but you’re right. I spent most of my time trying to figure out if the girls were happy. Their expressions are so cryptic, don’t you think? I think they look almost sad.”

  Below the painting is a plaque, which explains that the Boits were friends of Sargent’s and that Edward Boit, a former lawyer turned painter, hailed from Boston before moving his family to Paris. “Apparently the Boits were quite well-off,” says Jean-Paul.

  “Well, I should think so. Look at the size of those vases!” Isabella fusses in her stroller for a brief moment, and Marie bends down to tuck a yellow blanket more firmly around her bare feet. “Do you suppose our daughter will sit for a portrait like this one day?” she asks when she straightens.

  “Maybe,” Jean-Paul says. “But it will have to be while she’s sleeping,” he says, which elicits a wonderful laugh from his wife.

  It feels like forever since they’ve done something like this, the two of them wandering the halls of a museum and discussing art, talking about something other than Isabella’s feeding schedule or bowel movements. In Paris, they’d go to the theater midweek (!), and on Saturdays they’d spend leisurely afternoons strolling through the Louvre followed by a romantic dinner along the Seine. Perhaps these are the things, he reasons, that weigh on Marie most heavily. Not Isabella’s crying fits, but the fact that their old way of life ha
s fallen away so suddenly, so completely. And although his work at the Seafarer keeps him tethered to the real world, Marie has only the baby and the narrow four walls of their brownstone. The claustrophobia of what her days must feel like hits him in a way it hasn’t before.

  He remembers one Friday back in Paris when he’d taken the afternoon off from work and they’d gone to Shakespeare and Company, the bookstore made famous by American expatriates like Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein. As soon as they stepped inside the iconic shop, the intoxicating scent of pastry intermingling with that of dusty, antiquated books greeted them. (As a result, this is how Jean-Paul expects all bookstores to smell now and is disappointed when they don’t.) He and Marie had spent a few idle hours there, combing through the bookshelves, comparing various editions, enjoying a cappuccino. At one point, she’d rested her head against his shoulder while she read from Madame Bovary. The memory of this tender moment surprises him. He can’t recall the last time his wife has laid her head on his shoulder to read.

  Afterwards, they’d stumbled out into the rose-lit evening, the whole night ahead of them. Marie twisted his arm to go into a chocolate shop, where they’d bought up an entire row of dark-chocolate turtles, the cashews protruding like miniature feet at the bottoms. And then she’d dragged him into a lingerie shop, the thought of which, even now, sends bright color racing to his cheeks. There had been other men lolling about the store—so it wasn’t as if Jean-Paul stood out completely—but he kept casting sideways glances at the coquettish salesclerks who, he was quite certain, looked on with amusement while Marie held up various scanty panties, a pair of garters, a bra that appeared to be made only of silver chains. She’d purchased several undergarments, none of which, Jean-Paul thinks, he can recall seeing recently.

  “This is nice,” he says now. “Spending time with you outside of the house.”