“I guess I won’t mind having you for a sister-in-law,” he said.
Sydney wrapped her scarf around her neck and stood to leave. Ben leaned in quickly and trapped her hand.
“He’ll never love you as much as you love him,” Ben pronounced.
Sydney snatched her hand away from the malediction. She remembered the night they had gone surfing, that slithering touch.
“Your mom’s here,” Jeff says, laying the towel on the sand in response to Sydney’s request that they sit a minute before going inside. “My mother has her well in hand, writing out place cards.”
“She always did have beautiful handwriting. Has my dad arrived yet?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve been walking.”
“Thinking it all over?” she asks with a gentle elbow.
“Went with Tullus,” he says, which is no answer at all. He digs at the sand with a small stick, much like a boy would do. “Ivers is never going to let me forget this,” Jeff says. “He’s missing two Yankees games—tonight and tomorrow.”
“And you don’t even have a TV.”
“He’ll go crazy.”
“We’ll get him drunk,” Sydney says.
“Good idea,” he says, glancing up at her. His eyes linger a moment longer than they might.
“Jeff?”
“And Sahir,” he says, looking away. “Sahir hates the beach.” He chuckles and shakes his head.
“What is it?” Sydney asks.
“What is what?”
“You’re thinking something.”
“Tomorrow I’ll be a husband.”
Sydney lies back on her elbows. From somewhere inside the house, she can hear light feminine laughter.
Notably, there will be no best man at the wedding, though Julie, radiant, will stand up for both of them. Even Julie wears a wet suit now, astonishing Sydney the first time she saw her in it. Sydney, who, one night over cocktails, mistook simple rapture for artistic rapture.
“After the dinner, I thought we’d come out here and make a bonfire,” Jeff says. “Do some serious drinking. Well, we won’t drink too much. We’ll bury Sahir’s shoes.”
Even without the sun, there is an unpleasant glare off the water. Sydney squints. “I couldn’t have imagined this a year ago,” she says. “I was tutoring Julie in math and English. I hadn’t even met you and Ben yet.”
Sometimes the name slips out when she least intends it. She would not have mentioned Ben today.
Jeff, as always, is silent at the name. They will not say any more about Jeff’s brother.
“Lousy weather,” Sydney says.
“There’s a chance it might clear.”
“Jeff, what is it? You seem. . .I don’t know. . .”
He turns and kisses her bare shoulder. He trails his fingers along her inner thigh. “I’ll be happy once we’re on that plane.”
Jeff had suggested East Africa for the honeymoon, but Sydney pointed out that Africa would be too much like work. He’d be interviewing the whole time even if he didn’t know it. No, they would go to Paris, to which she had never been, even with Andrew. Jeff could interview her to his heart’s content at the small hotel in the Marais she had picked out.
“I love you,” he says with some emphasis. He says the words often, sometimes for her, sometimes for himself—in astonished recognition or as a call to arms. Sydney can tell by the tone in his voice that today it is more of a call to arms.
She trails her fingers along the sandy hairs of his calf, as if in conversation with his fingers on her thigh. She has been amazed to realize, over the past year, how iconic the initial images are, talismans one returns to over and over again, even as new images are being created. For her it has always been the tanned legs, the faded bathing trunks, his eyes.
Jeff has cut his hair for the wedding. Sydney would have preferred it long. But he did not ask her.
“What time do we have to be at the airport tomorrow?”
“Eight,” Sydney says. “It’s a ten-o’clock flight.”
In the year they have been together, a division of labor has been established. Sydney arranges the trips.
“So we’ll leave here around when? Six-thirty?”
They will depart the reception in the early evening.
“A quick getaway,” she says.
“Can’t wait,” he says.
“Sydney!” her mother cries, opening her arms to her daughter, still wet with seawater.
Sydney falters a step, not used to an exuberant welcome. Either her mother wants to annoy Sydney’s father, who must have arrived early as well, or she intends to ingratiate herself with Anna Edwards, as WASP as they come. Sydney allows the embrace, folding herself into the white pantsuit and Talbots scarf, an outfit designed for the rehearsal dinner but not the three hours they all have to endure until then. Sydney notes the Coach pocketbook. The silk purses with women in purple convertibles expressing freedom have long since been abandoned. Her mother’s hair is coming loose with the humidity, and the pantsuit feels damp in Sydney’s embrace—sweat-damp all along its back. Her mother holds her at arm’s length.
“To think. . .,” her mother says.
To think what? Sydney wonders. That her daughter is marrying yet again? That she will not die a childless spinster? That she is, in her mother’s eyes, marrying up? Perhaps the beach house has spoken to her mother in a way the Feldmans’ house in Newton did not.
“When did you get here?” Sydney asks as she draws away.
“About half an hour ago. Anna told me to come early. I’ve offered to help. . .,” she says, looking about helplessly.
“You look nice,” Sydney says.
“Well, I thought it would be okay to wear white to the rehearsal dinner. You’re not wearing white tonight, are you?”
“Nor tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s good, then,” her mother says, smoothing the front of the jacket. “I didn’t think it would be so hot, though.”
“It’ll cool off tonight,” Sydney offers. “We’ll have the dinner on the porch.”
“Really?” her mother says, slightly taken aback. “I’ve heard the weather will be iffy.”
Over her mother’s shoulder, Sydney sees her father. He does not have a room in the house, but will be staying in a B&B further along the coast. He is sitting at the kitchen table (the very same kitchen table Jeff intended as a weapon against Ben; Sydney’s sweater sometimes catches on the crack in the lip) with Mr. Edwards, each fingering a cup of coffee.
Her father has not had a good haircut in years. Irregular tufts of gray stick out from a bald tonsure, a contraband yarmulke after all. He is wearing an old seersucker suit, the white gone a faint yellow with the years. Any minute now, he will pull out his silver cigarette case, a gift from his wife on his wedding day, and light up an unfiltered Marlboro, bringing Mrs. Edwards screaming from the living room.
For a moment, Sydney lingers in the passageway. She will not interrupt her father’s conversation, not until she is dressed. But something in the easy posture of the two men—seemingly a matter-of-fact discussion with much nodding of heads—fills Sydney with an unhoped-for sense of good fortune.
Chapter 9
Sydney, for the wedding, has her old room, a comfort. On the second twin bed is the black suitcase she will take to Europe. She has always prided herself on traveling light. Besides, she has modest plans to shop; she and Jeff are, after all, going to Paris. From the closet door hangs her wedding dress, a slip of salmon-pink. Hélène, who has demonstrated a remarkable talent for hair, has promised to arrange Sydney’s in a loose bun Sydney once admired on Julie.
Across the hall, Jeff will dress in the boys’ dorm, which he will share with Sahir and Ivers. (Peter and Frank will share one of the many guest rooms.) Sydney pictures the three grown men sleeping under the green plaid blankets, the childhood baseball caps slung over the bedposts. A year ago, Ben would have joined them on a cot rolled in for the occasion.
Ben, about whom no
one ever speaks. His absence felt more keenly than anyone’s presence.
A faint knock on the door causes Sydney to pull the sash of her terry cloth robe more tightly around herself. “Come in,” she says.
Julie, with wrapped package in hand, sticks her head into the room.
“How are you?” Sydney asks.
“I’m good,” Julie says.
Sydney particularly likes the way Julie’s thin red scarf is knotted at the back of her neck. From her earlobes hang silver chains with large studded globes at the ends. All Hélène’s doing. Sydney, once admiring the way Julie had arrived at a family gathering, said, in an aside to Hélène, that she’d be happy to have the woman teach her how to dress with as much panache. Hélène responded by removing Sydney’s silver necklace and sliding it into Sydney’s pocket. She then unbuttoned the top two buttons of Sydney’s jacket and rolled the sleeves. Sydney, examining the results in a hallway mirror, was pleased to discover how well the editing had worked. The silver studs in her ears and the three inches of bare skin at the neckline were immensely more elegant than the two pieces of jewelry had been.
“I’ve brought you a present,” Julie says, holding a small box aloft. The package has been wrapped in an artful manner—the bow arranged deliberately off-center, the ends of the moss-colored tulle ribbon uneven.
“Sit with me,” Sydney says, gesturing to the bed. She hesitates before opening the box. “Is this going to make me cry?” she asks.
Julie shrugs and smiles.
Beneath the tissue paper lies a blue handkerchief, a patchwork of different materials. Sydney identifies a square of something that feels like oxford cloth, another of pale blue silk, a third of what appears to be a tie. Sydney touches a fourth patch and laughs. “Is this what I think it is?” she asks as she fingers a bit from Jeff’s old, faded bathing trunks.
Julie nods. “I stole them. He’s been looking for them for weeks.”
“I know he has.” Sydney smooths the handkerchief flat over the lap of her robe. There are nine squares, three over three. Each square is approximately two inches on a side. “You made it,” Sydney says with wonder.
“I did,” Julie admits. “The blue lace here is from the sash of your grandmother’s wedding gown. The oxford cloth is from my dad’s shirt. The tie is from your dad.”
“They all knew about this?”
“Everybody gave something.” Julie pauses. “Well, almost everybody. This one,” she says, pointing to the bit of pale blue silk, “is from me, from the tank top I wore all last summer. This flannel piece is from your mother’s old nightgown.”
Sydney brings the handkerchief to her face and inhales the flannel square, imagining herself transported back to the nights when she would lay her head on her mother’s lap while her mother read to her, a scenario that, in fact, may never have happened.
“And this one, with the tie-dye, is from your friend Emily. . .”
“I remember that shirt,” Sydney says.
“This piece here is from my grandmother, who you never met, but I know she would want you to have it. It’s from a Belgian tablecloth she always used when we had Sunday dinners at her house.”
“Your mother’s mother?”
“My father’s.
“And this one,” Julie says, pointing to the ninth and final square, “is from a baby blanket your mother said you had when you were born.”
Sydney fingers the scrap of waffle weave. Each square is a different shade of blue—cornflower and lavender and indigo—all carefully stitched together with a wisteria-colored border, just as a patchwork quilt might be.
“Julie, thank you!” Sydney says, embracing the girl. “I will always treasure this.” For a minute, Sydney is unable to speak. “I didn’t know you could sew,” she says finally, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose.
Julie shrugs again, as if sewing were a skill anyone might pick up.
“Where did you get the idea?”
“I just did,” Julie answers, unable, as always, to explain the source of her creativity.
Sydney again studies the squares. She notes that there is no contribution from Mrs. Edwards or Ben.
Julie sits back against the headboard and surveys the room. “Is that your dress?”
“For tomorrow, yes.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s the right color for your skin. Is that why you picked it?”
“I just liked the color.”
“I wish Hélène and I could get married,” the girl says wistfully, drawing up her knees.
Sydney turns, surprised. “You’re too young.”
“I don’t know if it’s legal in Canada,” Julie muses.
Julie is nineteen—old enough to marry in any country, Sydney guesses. But Julie doesn’t mean that. “Have you discussed this with Hélène?” she asks.
“We could have a ceremony,” Julie says brightly, “and invite our friends.”
Sydney touches the handkerchief.
“Would you come?” Julie asks.
“Of course I would come.” Sydney turns her body so that she is facing Julie. She lays the handkerchief between them. “Julie, you have a lot of years ahead of you.”
“I’m happy nearly all the time,” Julie says in expert defense. “I’m only a little sad now because of Ben.”
Sydney nods. “I tried to get him to come.”
“Did you? And what did he say?”
“Not much. I think the invitation has to come from Jeff.”
“I don’t understand what happened,” Julie says.
“I don’t either.”
“But you were there. Dad says there was a fight.”
“Not a physical fight exactly. But, yes, it felt like a fight.”
“They used to fight a lot when they were little. Dad talked to me about it.”
When Julie was born, Sydney calculates, the brothers would have been seventeen and thirteen.
“And then Ben went away to college and it just stopped. But Dad thinks they didn’t really, you know, work it out.”
Sydney imagines Mr. Edwards trying to explain Ben’s baffling absences at family gatherings to Julie. He would have hated the rift for her sake as much as for his.
“What are you wearing tonight?” Julie asks.
“A blue sundress. With a sweater if it’s cold on the porch. How about you?”
“I have a dress Hélène picked out. It’s black. Black’s okay, right?”
“Of course.”
“It’s kind of, I don’t know. It has a low back.”
Sydney smooths the hair on Julie’s forehead. “This is the best present I ever got,” she says.
Sydney showers in the bathroom she shares with the minister, trying to avoid a water-stained copy of Hemmings Motor News on the floor. Hanging from a hook is a much-worn toiletries kit with items inside that Sydney does not want to have to think about. Without even trying, she can see a small glass bottle of golden corn remover.
For a time, in her room, Sydney attempts a wave over her forehead to which she can then affix an onyx-and-rhinestone barrette she bought for the occasion. She is aiming for a 1940s look to go with the vintage sundress she bought in a thrift store in Cambridge. But after several attempts, she abandons the effort and draws her hair straight back into a knot made from a ponytail.
Guessing what Hélène would do, Sydney tries on but then discards several pairs of earrings, finally opting for small buds of cut glass with screw backs, another find from the thrift shop. She examines herself in the small mirror at the back of the closet door. Her face has color from the rare bits of sun they’ve had over the last several days, but her hair, still wet, looks too severe. She unpins it, letting it fall and not touching it. The fake jewels at her ears are a perfect choice.
The dress fits well through the waist and hips. Below that, Sydney cannot see in the mirror and has to guess at where the hem lies.
In the space of a year, she has gone
from someone who might or might not have been introduced to visitors to being the center of attention. She senses there is something inherently unstable in such a rapid rise, a governess elevated to the status of wife. A suspect promotion.
It occurs to Sydney that she hasn’t seen or heard Jeff come up from the beach. She walks to the window and spots him sitting on a kayak, watching two boys skim-board in a small lagoon made by the receding tide. He looks as though he wishes he could join them.
Sydney carefully folds her new handkerchief and tucks it into the pocket of the blue sundress. She will show it to Jeff and to her mother, but not to Mrs. Edwards, who may or may not have been asked for a piece of cloth. Who may have refused to give one. She takes a long breath. Apart from worrying about her mother and father and a possible killing frost that may occur if the two are inadvertently paired for any length of time, as well as not wishing to upset the delicate truce she has managed with Mrs. Edwards, not to mention trying to ignore the clanging gong of Ben’s absence, she thinks the evening should be fun.
When she steps into the upstairs hallway, she can hear a man singing in the shower—doubtless the happy minister with vehicular interests. From below, there is chatter, a female voice with which she is not familiar. The caterer perhaps. She hears then a distinct exclamation of surprise and joy from Mrs. Edwards, though the latter sound has become so rare of late, Sydney isn’t at all certain she is correct. If Jeff is still on the beach, Sydney will go out to him and tell him to hurry and dress. Ivers will arrive soon, doubtless cranky about his missed Yankees games. Sydney rounds the newel post and descends the stairs.
She sees him in the mirror, a round mirror with gold braid that sits over the telephone table. He has on a dress shirt; he has come from work. Over his shoulder is a garment bag, and in his hand a small duffel.
She stops on the stairs. In the mirror, he spots her, but there is no change in his expression. Sydney now understands Anna Edwards’s exclamation of joy. In seconds, there will be other cries of surprise.