The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

  They exchange glances, and Hillary laughs. “Who’s the lucky bloke?”

  “Nobody,” Hadley says again. “Really.”

  “I don’t believe you for one second,” Violet says, then leans down so that her face is even with Hadley’s in the mirror. “But I will say this: Once we’re through here, if that boy comes within ten feet of you tonight, he won’t stand a chance.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hadley says with a sigh. “He won’t.”

  It takes only twenty minutes for them to perform their second miracle of the day, and when they’re finished Hadley feels like a different person entirely from the one who limped back from the funeral an hour ago. The rest of the bridesmaids stay behind in the bathroom, turning their attention back to their own ensembles, and when Hadley emerges on her own she’s surprised to find only Dad and Charlotte in the suite. The others have all returned to their own rooms to get ready.

  “Wow,” Charlotte says, giving her a finger a little twirl. Hadley spins around obligingly, and Dad claps a few times.

  “You look great,” he says, and Hadley smiles at Charlotte, standing there in her wedding dress, the ring on her finger throwing off bits of light.

  “You look great,” she tells her, because it’s true.

  “Yes, but I haven’t been traveling since yesterday,” she says. “You must be completely knackered.”

  Hadley feels a twang in her chest at the word, which reminds her so sharply of Oliver. For months now, the sound of Charlotte’s accent has been enough to kick-start a massive headache. But suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad at all. In fact, she thinks she could get used to it.

  “I am knackered,” she says with a weary smile. “But it’s been worth the trip.”

  Charlotte’s eyes are bright. “I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully it will be the first of many. Andrew was just telling me you might come for a visit soon?”

  “Oh,” Hadley says, “I don’t know—”

  “You must,” Charlotte says, crossing back into the sitting room, where she grabs the computer again, carrying it out like a tray of appetizers and then sweeping aside a few napkins and coasters to make room for it on the bar. “We’d so love to see you. And we’ve just renovated. I was showing everyone the photos earlier.”

  “Honey, is now really the—” Dad starts to say, but Charlotte cuts him off.

  “Oh, it’ll only take a minute,” she says, smiling at Hadley. They stand side by side at the bar, waiting for the images to load. “Here’s the kitchen,” Charlotte says as the first picture appears. “It looks out over the garden.”

  Hadley leans in to look closer, trying to spot any remnants of Dad’s previous life, his coffee mug or his rain coat or the old pair of slippers he refused to throw out. Charlotte flips from one photo to the next and Hadley’s mind races to catch up as she tries to picture Dad and Charlotte in these rooms, eating bacon and eggs at the wooden table or leaning an umbrella up against the wall in the entryway.

  “And here’s the spare bedroom,” Charlotte says, glancing at Dad, who’s leaning against the wall a few feet behind them, his arms crossed and his face unreadable. “Your room, for whenever you come see us.”

  The next photo is Dad’s office, and Hadley squints to get a closer look. Though he left all his old furniture behind in Connecticut, this new version looks nearly the same: similar desk, similar bookshelves, even a familiar-looking pencil holder. The layout is identical, though this room looks slightly smaller, and the windows are staggered in different intervals along the two walls.

  Charlotte is saying something about the way Dad is so particular about his office, but Hadley isn’t listening. She’s too busy peering at the framed photos on the walls within the picture.

  “Wait,” she says, just as Charlotte is about to click through to the next one.

  “Recognize them?” Dad says from the other side of the room, but Hadley doesn’t turn around. Because she does recognize them. Right there, in the photos within a photo, she can see their backyard in Connecticut. In one of the pictures she spots a portion of the old swingset they’ve never taken down, the birdfeeder that still hangs just outside his office, the hedges that he always watered so obsessively during the driest of summers. In the other she sees the lavender bushes and the old apple tree with its twisted branches. When he sits in the leather chair at his new desk and looks at the photos, it must seem like he’s home again, gazing out a different set of windows entirely.

  All of a sudden, Dad is beside her.

  “When did you take these?”

  “The summer I left for Oxford.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he says quietly. “Because I always loved watching you play out the windows. And I couldn’t imagine getting any work done in an office without them.”

  “They’re not windows, though.”

  Dad smiles. “You’re not the only one who copes by imagining things,” he says, and Hadley laughs. “Sometimes I like to pretend I’m back home again.”

  Charlotte, who has been watching them with a look of great delight, turns her attention back to the computer, where she zooms in on the photo so that they can see a close-up of the frames. “You have a beautiful garden,” she says, pointing at the tiny pixelated lavender bushes on the screen.

  Hadley moves her finger a few centimeters over, to the actual window, which looks out over a small yard with a few rows of flowering plants. “You do, too,” she says, and Charlotte smiles.

  “I hope you’ll get to see it for yourself one day soon.”

  Hadley glances back at Dad, who gives her shoulder a squeeze.

  “Me, too,” she says.

  16

  1:48 PM Eastern Standard Time

  6:48 PM Greenwich Mean Time

  Later, toward the end of the cocktail hour, the doors to the ballroom are thrown open, and Hadley pauses just inside, her eyes wide. Everything is silver and white, with lavender flowers arranged in oversized glass vases on the tables. There are ribbons on the backs of the chairs, and a four-tiered cake topped with a tiny bride and groom. The crystals on the chandeliers seem to catch the light from the silverware, from the gleaming plates and the tiny glowing candles and the brassy instruments of the band, which will sit propped in their stands until later, when it’s time for the dancing to begin. Even the photographer, who has walked in just ahead of Hadley, lowers her camera to look around with an air of approval.

  There’s a string quartet playing softly off to one side, and the waiters in bow ties and tails seem almost to glide through the room with their trays of champagne. Monty winks at Hadley when he catches her taking a glass.

  “Not too many,” he says, and she laughs.

  “Don’t worry, my dad will be down to tell me the same thing soon enough.”

  Dad and Charlotte are still upstairs, waiting to make their grand entrance, and Hadley has spent the entire cocktail hour answering questions and making small talk. Everyone seems to have a story about America, how they’re dying to see the Empire State Building (does she go there often?), or planning a big trip to the Grand Canyon (can she recommend things to do there?), or have a cousin who just moved to Portland (does she maybe know him?).

  When they ask about her trip to London, they seem disappointed that she hasn’t seen Buckingham Palace or visited the Tate Modern or even shopped along Oxford Street. Now that she’s here, it’s hard to explain why she chose to come for just the weekend, though only yesterday—only this morning, really—it had seemed important that she get in and out as fast as possible, like she was robbing a bank, like she was fleeing for her life.

  An older man who turns out to be the head of her dad’s department at Oxford asks about her flight over.

  “I missed it, actually,” she tells him. “By four minutes. But I caught the next one.”

  “What bad luck,” he says, running a hand over his whitened beard. “Must have been quite an ordeal.”

  Hadley smiles. “It wasn’t so bad.”

&n
bsp; When it’s almost time to sit down for dinner, she searches the name cards to find out where she’s been placed.

  “Don’t worry,” Violet says, stepping up beside her. “You’re not at the children’s table or anything.”

  “What a relief,” says Hadley. “So where am I?”

  Violet gives the table a scan, then hands over her card. “At the cool kids’ table,” she says, grinning. “With me. And the bride and groom, of course.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “So, are you feeling better about everything?”

  Hadley raises her eyebrows.

  “Andrew and Charlotte, the wedding…”

  “Ah,” she says. “I am, actually.”

  “Good,” Violet says. “Because I’ll expect you to come back over when Monty and I get married.”

  “Monty?” Hadley asks, staring at her. She tries unsuccessfully to recall if she’s even seen them speak to each other. “You guys are engaged?”

  “Not yet,” Violet says as she starts walking toward the dining room. “But don’t look so gobsmacked. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

  Hadley falls into step beside her. “That’s it? A good feeling?”

  “That’s it,” she says. “I think it’s meant to be.”

  “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way,” Hadley says with a frown, but Violet only smiles.

  “What if it does?”

  Inside the ballroom, the guests have started to take their seats, tucking purses under chairs and admiring the floral arrangements. As they slip into their places, Hadley notices Violet smiling at Monty across the table, and he gazes back at her for a beat too long before ducking his head again. The band is keying up, the occasional stray note escaping from the trumpet, and the waiters are circulating with bottles of wine. When the motion of the room has slowed, the band leader adjusts the mike and clears his throat.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” he says, and already the rest of the people at her table—Charlotte’s parents and her aunt Marilyn, plus Monty and Violet—are turning toward the entrance to the room. “I’m pleased to be the first to present Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Sullivan!”

  A great cheer goes up and there are a series of bright flashes as everyone attempts to capture the moment on camera. Hadley swivels in her seat and rests her chin on the back of the chair as Dad and Charlotte appear in the doorway, their hands clasped together, both of them smiling like movie stars, like royalty, like the little couple on top of the cake.

  Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Sullivan, Hadley thinks, her eyes bright as she watches Dad raise his arm so that Charlotte can do a little twirl, her dress fluttering at the bottom. The song is unfamiliar, something just lively enough for them to attempt a little footwork once they’ve made it to the wooden dance floor in the center of the room, but nothing too fancy. Hadley wonders what significance it might have for them. Was it playing the day they met? The first time they kissed? The day Dad told Charlotte he’d decided to stay in England for good?

  The whole place is transfixed by the couple on the floor—the way they lean into each other, laughing each time they pull apart again—yet they might as well be dancing in an empty room. It’s as if nobody is watching at all; there’s something utterly unselfconscious about the way they’re looking at each other. Charlotte smiles into Dad’s shoulder, pressing her face close, and he readjusts his hand on hers, twining their fingers together. Everything about them simply seems to fit, and they’re practically incandescent beneath the gold-tinged lighting, whirling and gliding beneath the gaze of an entire room.

  When the song comes to an end, everyone claps and the bandleader calls for the rest of the wedding party to join them on the dance floor. Charlotte’s parents rise from their seats, her aunt is joined by a man from the next table, and Hadley’s surprised to see Monty offer a hand to Violet, who grins back at her as they walk off together.

  One by one they make their way to the center of the room, until the dance floor is dotted by lavender dresses and the bride and groom are lost in the middle of it. Hadley sits alone at the table, mostly relieved not to be out there but unable to ignore the small stab of loneliness that comes over her. She twists her napkin in her hands as the waiter drops a roll on her bread plate. When she looks up again, Dad is standing beside her, a hand outstretched.

  “Where’s your wife?” she asks.

  “I pawned her off.”

  “Already?”

  He grins and grabs Hadley’s hand. “Ready to cut a rug?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says as he half drags her toward the middle of the room, where Charlotte—who is now dancing with her father—flashes them a smile. Nearby, Monty is doing some sort of jig with Violet, whose head is thrown back in laughter.

  “My dear,” Dad says, offering a hand, which Hadley takes.

  He spins them in a few jokey circles before slowing down again, and they move in awkward rotations, their steps boxy and ill-timed.

  “Sorry,” he says when he steps on Hadley’s toe for the second time. “Dancing has never really been my forte.”

  “You looked pretty good with Charlotte.”

  “It’s all her,” he says with a smile. “She makes me look better than I am.”

  They’re both quiet for a few beats, and Hadley’s eyes rove around the room. “This is nice,” she says. “Everything looks beautiful.”

  “ ‘Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers.’ ”

  “Dickens?”

  He nods.

  “You know, I finally started Our Mutual Friend.”

  His face brightens. “And?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Good enough to finish?” he asks, and Hadley pictures the book where she left it, on the hood of the black car in front of Oliver’s church.

  “Maybe,” she tells him.

  “You know, Charlotte was thrilled when you said you might come visit,” Dad says quietly, his head bent low. “I hope you’ll actually consider it. I was thinking maybe at the end of the summer, before school starts up again. We’ve got this spare bedroom that we could make yours. Maybe you could even bring some of your things and leave them here, so that it would seem more like a real room, and—”

  “What about the baby?”

  Dad drops his arms to his sides and takes a step backward, staring at her with a look of such surprise that all of a sudden Hadley isn’t nearly as certain about what she heard earlier. The song ends, but even before the last notes have trailed out over the ballroom, the band rolls straight into the next one, something loud and full of tempo. The tables begin to empty as everyone crowds onto the floor, leaving the waiters to serve plates of salad to vacant chairs. All around them the guests begin to dance, twisting and laughing and hopping around with no particular regard for rhythm. And in the midst of it all, Hadley and her dad stand absolutely still.

  “What baby?” he asks, his words measured and deliberate, as if he is speaking to a very small child.

  Hadley glances around wildly. A few yards away, Charlotte is peering around Monty, clearly wondering why they’re just standing there.

  “I heard something back at the church,” Hadley starts to explain. “Charlotte said something, and I thought—”

  “To you?”

  “What?”

  “She said something to you?”

  “No, to the hairdresser. Or makeup artist. Somebody. I just overheard.”

  His face loosens visibly, the lines around his mouth going slack.

  “Look, Dad,” she says. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  “Hadley—”

  “No, it’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to call and tell me or anything. I know it’s not like we talk a lot. But I just wanted to say that I’d like to be there.”

  He’d been about to say something, but now he stops and stares at her.

  “I don’t want to miss out anymore,” Hadley says in a rush. “I don’t want the new baby to grow up thinking of me like some long-lost second cousi
n or something. Someone you never see, and then instead of going shopping together or asking advice or even fighting, you end up just being really polite and having nothing to say because you don’t know each other, not really, not the way brothers and sisters do. And so I want to be there.”

  “You do,” Dad says, but it’s not a question. It’s insistent, even hopeful, like a wish he’s been holding back for too long.

  “I do.”

  The song changes once again, scaling back into something slower, and the people around them start drifting toward their tables, where the salads have all been served. Charlotte reaches out and gives Dad’s arm a little squeeze as she walks by, and Hadley’s grateful that she knows enough not to interrupt them right now.

  “And Charlotte’s not so bad, either,” Hadley admits, once she’s passed.

  Dad looks amused. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  They’re alone now on the dance floor, just standing there while the rest of the room looks on. Hadley hears the clinking of glasses and the clatter of silverware as people begin to eat, but she’s still keenly aware that all the attention is still focused on them.

  After a moment, Dad lifts his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.”

  A new thought strikes Hadley now, something that hasn’t occurred to her before. She says it slowly, her heart banging around in her chest: “You don’t want me to be part of it.”

  Dad shakes his head and takes a small step closer, putting his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Of course I want that,” he says. “There’s nothing I want more. But Hadley?”

  She raises her eyes to meet his.

  “There’s no baby.”

  “What?”

  “There will be,” he says almost shyly. “Someday. At least we hope so. Charlotte’s worried because there’s some family history of trouble with these things and she’s not as young as, well, your mom was. But she wants it desperately, and the truth is, so do I. So we’re hoping for the best.”

  “But Charlotte said—”

  “It’s just the way she is,” he tells her. “She’s one of those people who talks a lot about something when they really want it to happen. It’s almost like she tries to will it into being.”