27
So much for leaving on Wednesday. Jack’s parents are arriving at noon, and I think I hear Jack tell my dad that we’re staying through the weekend. This can’t be right. Jack leaves for a morning at the gym, and Gracie challenges me to swim all the way down to the cove. We walk down to the water, and worries chase each other around in my head—the state of my job, what Jack’s parents are going to think of Mom’s driftwood collection, the possibility of running into Wyatt again when I’m half-dressed. The cold water tickles my feet and soon I am swimming alongside Gracie. The knots start to untangle. As I get into a rhythm and my stroke clicks in, I see things from a different perspective. I recognize it as the braver, lighter perspective of a younger me. I think about my job and how much I’ve learned there. If I’m fired, I have the skills to find another one. Maybe even one where there’s room for new ideas. I picture my mother making paper and think how impressed Donna might be by that. How many people know how to make paper? My what-ifs have lost their heaviness.
When we get to the cove, I am shocked by the beauty of the linden tree. I haven’t been down here in years, and it’s the same, if bent slightly more by the wind.
“I can’t believe you swam that far,” says Gracie.
“I know. I wasn’t thinking about it, I just kept going.” I’m out of breath, but I like the way my body feels. We sit down at the base of the tree, side by side, with all the shells scattered in front of us.
“You seem happier,” says Gracie. She’s making a circle in the sand with her index finger.
“Happier than what?”
“Than in the city. Happier than when you’re dressed in stiff clothes. I don’t know why you’re so weird about coming to the beach.”
I put my arm around her. I do know why, but she doesn’t need to hear it. “It sounds like Jack wants to stay the rest of the week,” I say. “Can we do this again tomorrow morning?”
Gracie smiles at me like she hasn’t seen me for a long time.
Jack and I meet Donna and Glen at the Old Sloop Inn for lunch. I was relieved when my parents decided to stay home and get things organized for dinner on the back porch. I almost asked my mom to put her papermaking operation away and move the seaweed into Dad’s studio, but the sight of her puttering around her chaotic kitchen and humming softly to herself gave me pause. My mother is so happy and complete in the world she’s created. I am sometimes so uncomfortable in mine. I envy her this and decided not to say anything. How many people know how to make paper?
“This is so exciting!” Donna says, giving me a tight hug. “Skip Warren. I had no idea.” This confuses me a bit, because I was sure she was about to say our wedding was the exciting thing.
“I can’t believe it either,” says Jack. “And don’t you love this place?”
We walk through the small lobby into the main dining room, where the wedding would be. It really is charming, with whitewashed wood and lighting fixtures secured by nautical rope. It has a beachy elegance to it that I like, I guess the next best thing to having the whole thing outside.
“It’s great,” says Glen. “Let’s see about the food.” Then to me, “Your parents are all for this place, right?”
This Old Sloop Inn thing seems to be getting away from me. If I throw my parents in as a yes, this will feel like a done deal. “They just want whatever we want.” We sit at our table, and Donna and Jack carefully unfold their napkins and spread them on their laps.
“Donna and I drove by Warren Woods on our way into town,” Glen says. “Gorgeous park. Perfect place for a rehearsal dinner.”
“That’s a great idea. The whole wedding weekend will have kind of a low-key theme,” Jack says. I’m sure I’ve misheard him because there’s no way I’m having a Washed-Up Tennis Player–themed wedding.
“It’s a great park,” I say. “Travis used to play baseball there in the summertime. But Jack doesn’t want to plan anything outdoors in October.”
“Well, no, there I would. It probably won’t rain.”
“And we’d have a plan B for sure,” says Donna. “I have the perfect caterer, and they work with a rental company who will bring in everything we need.”
The three of them are nodding and smiling like we’ve just discovered a new clean energy source. I can’t think of any reason to disagree with them. My parents are going to be ecstatic.
“The washed-up tennis player?” my dad asks over dinner. He’s barbecued chicken and my mom has made orzo and a chopped salad. The table looks beautiful, and I am ashamed of myself for dreading this moment. My parents are gracious and happy, and this shared enthusiasm for my wedding gives everyone tons to talk about.
“He was a cad,” Gramps says. “Slept with every girl on Long Island before he knocked one up and had to marry her.”
“Dad,” my mom laughs. “That’s not true.”
“As true as I’m sitting here.”
“Well, this isn’t to do with them,” Donna says. “It’s a beautiful historic park, and the inn is just perfect.”
“I say we book it,” says my dad.
Jack looks at me, and I shrug. I’m not shrugging I don’t know, I think I’m shrugging What difference does it make? I can’t quite picture what this wedding is going to feel like, and at this point, Long Island and Connecticut seem interchangeable.
Donna gives me a smile. “Let’s leave it to the bride. You let us know what you decide.” She raises her glass and says, “To the bride!”
I am waiting to feel one way or another. I check my stomach for a hooray or an absolutely not. There’s nothing there but acceptance and a bit of relief that this decision is close to being made. I have let go, and this wedding is probably going to be the one thing I insisted it not be: on Long Island. I don’t really mind.
After blueberry pie, we walk Donna and Glen around the porch to their car. It’s a black Mercedes sports car of some sort, making me suspect Glen had a midlife crisis in the past few years.
“Oh hey.” Wyatt waves from his driveway. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, holding his guitar case. If he weren’t about to get into his mother’s station wagon, he’d look like he stepped off an album cover.
“That’s Wyatt,” I say, like it’s a confession.
“Hello,” Glen and Donna say.
Wyatt walks over and shakes their hands. “That’s a beautiful car,” he says.
“Thank you. Gets me from point A to point B,” Glen says with a laugh.
“Nice way to travel,” Wyatt says.
“He’s a mechanic,” says Jack. “At a Shell station. In Los Angeles.” And it’s not nice. I don’t know why, but there’s a tone to it.
“Not exactly, but I’m off duty tonight,” says Wyatt, like the punch didn’t even land. “I’m headed over to the Owl Barn to help some of the bands warm up.” He raises his guitar case.
“Oh, are you a performer?” asks Donna, with her hand over her heart like it just fluttered. I swear if I didn’t know her, I’d think she was flirting.
“I mostly just write songs.” He gives her a genuinely kind smile, like he’s glad she asked. Like he’s completely at peace. I like knowing this about his life in LA, that he’s still working at it even if he’s not going to perform. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Your son’s made a great choice.”
“We know. We couldn’t be happier. And it looks like they might decide to get married out here,” Donna says.
Wyatt looks at me in surprise.
“It was the draw of Skip Warren,” I tell him.
He laughs, “Of course. Your favorite.”