Margot hung up the white eyelet flower girl dress and then her own grasshopper green bridesmaid dress, thinking, God, I do not want to wear that.
But she would, of course, for Jenna. And for her mother.
Grocery store, liquor store. She was racing the clock, there was no time to think about Edge, or Drum Sr. getting married, or about Griff with his kaleidoscope eyes and the two days of growth on his face. But the three of them were in her brain. How to exorcise them?
She took an outdoor shower under the spray of pale pink climbing roses that her mother had cultivated and that still thrived. The roses alive, her mother dead. Was the fact that Margot didn’t like gardening a character flaw? Did it mean she wasn’t nurturing enough?
In the worst days of their divorce, Drum Sr. had accused Margot of being a coldhearted bitch. Was this true? If it was true, then why did Margot feel everything so keenly? Why did life constantly feel like being pierced by ten thousand tiny arrows?
She had been a coldhearted bitch to Griffin Wheatley, Homecoming King. He didn’t realize it, but it was true.
Guilt.
But no, there wasn’t time.
Margot fed her children a frozen pizza and grapes, serving them in her bathrobe, her hair still dripping wet.
Carson said, “Are you going out tonight?”
“Yes,” Margot said.
The three of them started to squeak, squeal, and whine in chorus. They hated it when Margot went out, they hated Kitty, their afternoon babysitter, they hated their afternoon activities regardless of what they were-because they sensed that these activities were also babysitters, substitutes for Margot’s time and attention. Margot had hoped that as they got older, they would come to see her career as one of the wonderful things about her. She was a partner at Miller-Sawtooth, where she did valuable work, matching up top executives with the right companies. She had a certain amount of power, and she made a lot of money.
But power and money meant little to her twelve-year-old and even less to the ten and the six. They wanted her warm body snuggled in the bed between them, reading Caps for Sale.
“It’s your auntie’s wedding,” Margot said. “A sitter named Emma is coming tonight and tomorrow night. Saturday is the wedding, and it will be held here in the backyard, and Sunday we’re going home.”
“Tonight and tomorrow night!” Drum Jr. said. Of the three of them, he was the one who needed Margot the most. Why this was, she couldn’t quite explain.
“Who’s Emma? I don’t know Emma!” Ellie said.
“She’s nice,” Margot said. “Nicer than me.”
It was nearly seven, and the light outside was still strong. The smaller tent had been raised, and now the guys were laying the dance floor. The grass would be matted, but Roger had assured them it wouldn’t die. The smaller tent looked good, Margot thought. It was bigger than she’d expected, but it wasn’t big enough to shelter 150 people. Maybe between the tent and the house. Maybe.
Forty percent chance of showers.
Emma Wilton showed up right at seven. She was a girl whom Margot used to babysit, now twenty-five years old and between years of veterinary school. She and Margot hugged, then remarked on how their relationship had circled around, and Margot said, “And ten or fifteen years from now, Ellie can babysit your kids.” They laughed, and Margot excused herself for the blow-dryer.
She checked her phone. Nothing from Edge. What was wrong with him? Margot was tempted to text, Is everything okay? But that might come across as sounding nagging or needy-or worst of all, wifely. Another problem with texting: it was nearly impossible to express tone. Margot wanted to let him know that she was concerned without having him think she was asking, Why the hell aren’t you texting me back? Which was, of course, exactly what she was asking.
There was a text on her phone from Rhonda. Margot opened it eagerly, expecting more drama. It said: My plane arrives at 8:20. What time dinner?
Margot deflated a bit. It sounded like Rhonda was still coming. This was bad. This was, in so many ways, the worst-case scenario. To have Rhonda, but no Pauline? Unthinkable. Who would Rhonda talk to, who would Rhonda hang out with, if not Pauline? There were no other Tonellis coming to the wedding, and none of Pauline’s friends.
Margot typed back: Dinner is at 8.
Rhonda responded right away: Who picking me up? Rhonda always, in Margot’s experience, responded right away because-Margot suspected-Rhonda had nothing to do but text back right away. She had no proper job, no other friends.
Margot typed: Pls take a cab.
Rhonda replied: ?
Margot looked at the question mark, then burst out laughing. Of course Rhonda had texted a question mark. She was probably wondering why Mr. Roarke wasn’t picking her up in a white stretch limo.
Margot had sent a handful of detailed e-mails about tonight’s bachelorette party to all involved. She had listed the name and address of the restaurant and the time of their dinner reservation-8:00-in each message. That Rhonda had then booked a flight that landed at 8:20 wasn’t Margot’s problem.
Was it?
Guilt.
But no, there wasn’t time.
Although Jenna’s bedroom was the smallest-the “spinster aunt bedroom,” their mother had always called it, since for decades it had belonged to Doug’s spinster aunt, Lucretia-it was also the best appointed because it had a deck that overlooked the backyard and the harbor. It was on this deck that Margot and the other maidens opened the champagne.
Autumn took charge of popping the cork, since she waited tables at a beachfront seafood restaurant in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. The cork sailed into the yard, and Margot watched Jenna’s eyes follow it as it landed in the grass.
Then Jenna said, “I guess I thought the tent would be bigger.”
Autumn expertly filled four glasses, and Margot reached for one. She wanted to drink the whole thing down in one gulp, but she had to make a toast. She smiled at Jenna, and Jenna smiled back. Jenna wouldn’t care about the tent or about Margot making a unilateral decision about Alfie’s tree branch. All Jenna cared about was Stuart, who would be arriving tomorrow with his people.
“To an amazing, wonderful… and sunny weekend!” Margot said.
The four of them clinked glasses.
Jenna said, “There is another tent going up, right? The one the people are sitting under?”
“Yes,” Margot said. Drink drink drink. “Tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Jenna said. “I thought it was going up today.”
“Nope,” Margot said. Drink drink drink. “It’s tomorrow.”
Jenna frowned. Margot thought maybe the issue would explode right then and there. Instead Jenna said, “I miss Stuart.”
Finn was frowning also. She said, “At least he’s not in Vegas, getting a lap dance.”
Margot recalled Finn’s expression on the ferry when Scott’s name came up. So that was why: Vegas, lap dances, strip clubs, cocktail waitresses with large, enticing fake breasts. Margot remembered how things like that could seem threatening to a new marriage. But that kind of jealous anxiety faded away, just like everything else. At the end with Drum Sr., Margot had found herself thinking, Why don’t you go to Vegas and get a lap dance?
Autumn said, “Lap dances are harmless. I get them all the time.”
For the first time all day, something struck Margot as funny. “You get lap dances?”
“Yeah,” Autumn said. “Guys love it.”