And that, in the end, was exactly what Mrs. Bernstein had come to realize: Beth needed her assistance. The girl simply didn’t know where to begin, and thus, her mother must take her in hand and show her what to do. The irony of this was, of course, that Susan Bernstein—back when she was Susan Gilman, of Shaker Heights, Ohio—had insisted on planning her own wedding in the most unconventional manner possible, despite the fact that she knew exactly how a proper person planned such an event, as her own mother thought of little other than balls and fund-raisers and luncheons and, of course, weddings. When Beth announced that she was getting married—to this man the Bernsteins had only met once or twice (but then, how often had her parents met Donald before she married him?)—a vast reservoir of knowledge came rushing back to Mrs. Bernstein: invitations mailed no less than eight weeks in advance, seating charts, veil lengths and levels of fullness (elbow length, fingertip length, cathedral length), and so on.
Over the two weeks that had passed since Beth and Will’s announcement—as Beth avoided even talking about the wedding—Mrs. Bernstein had found it more and more difficult to refrain from asking: “Are you thinking passed hors d’oeuvres for the cocktail hour? Or just crudités?” and “How many bridesmaids do you plan on?” Just to get the girl’s mind going. There was also the temptation to burst out with passive-aggressive statements like “If you don’t register soon, you won’t get any engagement presents, because none of Daddy’s family will know what to get you.” To which—when she finally did give in to the urge and say it—Beth, unsurprisingly, said simply, “Mom, we’re not getting married for the gifts! We’re getting married because we love each other. I don’t think we want to register, anyway.” And Mrs. Bernstein, querulously, had replied, “Everyone gets married for the gifts. Otherwise you’d just shack up together forever.” Of course, she didn’t believe this at all. She hadn’t thought of gifts either when she’d married Donald. Why had she said it? She couldn’t say.
Earlier in the week, she’d finally gathered herself together and given Beth a quiet ultimatum: they needed to get the basic wedding stuff done as soon as possible, otherwise they’d be in deep water. “I’ve looked at the calendar and the invitations absolutely have to go out by July fifth,” she told her daughter, using the voice she reserved for talented but lazy students. “They need to get to guests by the tenth, otherwise people won’t have time to make travel arrangements. And we must figure out the food. And your dress.”
“Okay, Mom,” Beth had said amiably, to Mrs. Bernstein’s surprise, and agreed to come out to Scarsdale over the weekend. It would be both easier and cheaper, Mrs. Bernstein thought, to obtain most of the wedding things in Westchester. They could simply go to the stationers in town, or to Neiman’s or Saks, where they could also take a look at dresses for both Beth and her bridesmaids (though she hadn’t yet said anything about bridesmaids; was it possible there would be no bridesmaids?). It was too bad Altman’s had closed, she thought for the thousandth time.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Beth’s procrastination had something to do with second thoughts about this man, Will; or, rather, about the fact that he’d been married before (unhappily, but still) and had a little boy, who would be coming to live with them once they were married (and, Mrs. Bernstein hoped, installed in a bigger apartment). Apparently, the little boy was precious and sweet and well adjusted despite the tragic circumstances of his birth. But Beth herself had only met the child a handful of times and a kid who seems charming during an afternoon at the park inevitably becomes a little less so when it’s time for dinner and bath and bed. Or when tired or sick. “You won’t be able to sleep in on Sundays, you know,” she’d warned Beth. “And sit around all day reading the paper. You can’t do that with a kid.” Beth had said she knew that, she understood, she loved Will and she loved Sam. But Mrs. Bernstein worried.
Standing at the counter, she waited for the coffee to bubble up to the top section of the little pot and went over, again, what they needed to do: invitations (choose paper, envelopes, inserts, figure out the wording), dress for Beth (ideally they’d simply choose one today), dresses for bridesmaids and a suit or tux for the little boy, Sam (Mrs. Bernstein could buy her own dress later, coordinating with Will’s mother), food (Beth must look at the menus Mrs. Bernstein had sent for from the few caterers who did events on Vinalhaven), cake (she had photos from various bakeries), and, well, that was probably enough for one day. Steam began to escape the top of the steel pot. Mrs. Bernstein turned off the heat and poured the thick liquid into a squat white mug. A year earlier, she’d replaced the house’s ancient, crumbling kitchen. All the surfaces were now a glittering white. When she’d selected the cabinetry and countertops (poured concrete, very much the thing these days), she’d imagined the room transformed into a rustic hideaway, the kitchen of a Cotswolds cottage, with roses tapping at the windows, and sun lying in patches on the floor’s pale tiles. Now she wasn’t sure she liked it. The effect was a bit sterile.
She brought her coffee to the table and riffled through the paper until she found the Style section, which she habitually read first, in order to ease herself into the harder news. She skimmed the wedding announcements for former students, then turned back to the front page and began an interesting story about a group of radical young people who’d protested the practices of some huge, evil-seeming corporation. Turning to the story’s second page, she saw a familiar face in the line of protesters dressed in clever simulations of prison garb (what a great idea!). A handsome man in, perhaps, his middle thirties. Was he a student of hers? She looked at the caption. “Journalist William Hayes (far right, foreground) was arrested on Friday, along with Robert Green-Gold, following a skirmish with Crown executive vice president Charles Harris. Mr. Hayes is currently writing a much-anticipated biography of tech guru Ed Slikowski, who also participated in the protest (third from left).”
William Hayes. Why was that name familiar to her? She’d finished the story and moved on to a piece about spas for dogs before the name and the face coalesced—Lil’s husband, who had, of course, introduced Beth to Will in the first place. Wow, she thought, that’s so neat! She felt an impish desire to wake Don and tell him that one of Beth’s brainy, apathetic friends was in fact—could you believe it?—some sort of radical, who’d been arrested. All of Beth’s Oberlin chums—the girls, that is; the boys were a whole different story, which she didn’t even want to think about now—reminded Mrs. Bernstein of little girls dolled up for a party, in their ladylike dresses and ringlets. When she was their age, she’d run around braless, in raggedy jeans and leotards, Beth propped on her hip, her hair hanging down her back in thick clumps. But they were sweet girls, definitely, and all very smart. And that was the way, wasn’t it? The rebellious parent begets the dutiful child. Perhaps Beth was more political than she knew. For all Mrs. Bernstein knew, Beth could have been at this protest, along with Lil and Tuck. She looked at the photos again. What fun! And how creative! This young man, Green-Gold, sounded really interesting. Perhaps he’d want to come speak at the high school? She’d have to ask Beth about it.