And then, one week, Margot went to pick up Ellie from Mme Willette’s-and there, in the foyer, waiting for the class to be let out, was Edge Desvesnes.
“Hi!” Margot had said, her voice containing amazement and confusion. Edge was way out of context here; it was like seeing her dentist at the Union Square Greenmarket, or her childhood minister, Reverend Marlowe, at the hardware store.
Edge had turned to look at her, but she could tell he was having a hard time placing her, as well.
She said, “Margot Carmichael.”
“Oh, my!” he said, and they embraced.
Margot had known Edge Desvesnes since she was a teenager. He and his first wife, Mary Lee, used to come to barbecues at the Carmichael house in Darien. There had been a time when Margot was still in braces and glasses and bad-hair-and-worse-skin when she had a terrible crush on Edge Desvesnes. She remembered once passing hors d’oeuvres at a party that her parents were throwing. After she had served Edge, he had turned to Doug and said, “That’s a beautiful girl you’ve got there, partner. Those eyes.”
And Doug had said, “Don’t I know it.”
Margot had blushed hot and retreated to the kitchen. No one had ever called her “beautiful” before. The boys in Margot’s class were ruthless about her looks. That Mr. Desvesnes, who was cool and funny and cute, had called her “beautiful” was enough to turn Margot’s world upside down.
Beautiful. She had looked at herself in the mirror for months after that, wondering: Am I beautiful? And what had he meant about her eyes?
Margot had seen Edge Desvesnes periodically in the years that followed. He came to dinner to celebrate her parents’ twentieth anniversary, he pulled into the driveway to honk for Doug when they went golfing, he attended Kevin and Beanie’s wedding. Before she ran into him outside the dance class, the last time Margot had seen Edge Desvesnes was at her mother’s funeral. Edge had served as a pallbearer. In Margot’s memory, he had been with a woman, but Margot had been too racked with grief and swarmed by people to notice which woman. She had heard through her father that Edge had divorced, then married, then divorced, then married-but amid the drama of her own life, Margot hadn’t been able to keep up.
Seeing him again so unexpectedly, Margot felt as flushed as she had been at fourteen. She said, “You’re not here for…”
“Waiting for my daughter,” he said.
“Your daughter?” In Margot’s memory, Edge had sons. Two with the first wife, one with the second, or the other way around. Did she remember hearing about a daughter?
“My youngest,” he said. “Audrey.”
Margot said, “Audrey is your daughter? Ellie loves Audrey.” Margot swallowed. She thought of the Indochine beauty. “So your wife…”
“My ex.”
“Oh,” Margot said. “Well, I’ve been meaning to approach her about getting the girls together. I had no idea… I mean, I didn’t know she was your daughter.”
At that moment, the door to the studio opened, and the girls filed out in graceful silence. Ellie reached for the cold water bottle in Margot’s hand. Audrey wrapped her arms around Edge’s waist and squeezed.
“My daughter,” he said.
“Fifty-nine,” Autumn said now. “That’s old. That’s Viagra territory.”
Rhonda laughed at this.
Margot said, “Not quite.”
Things had turned romantic right away. At that very first encounter, they had exchanged cell phone numbers, and by that evening, Margot had a text from Edge that said, You are a knockout, Margot Carmichael.
And she had said, Moi?
Two Saturdays later, when Edge was back to pick up Audrey, they made plans to have coffee. A few days after the coffee date, they met for drinks, and drinks had turned into the two of them making out on a dark street corner in Hell’s Kitchen. Edge had said, “Your father would kill me if he saw us now.”
And Margot said, “My father will never find out.”
Those had been the words that they’d lived by; those had become the chains that strangled their relationship, made it clunky, and kept it from growing. Doug could never find out.
“Whatever,” Margot said now. “It’s kind of a mess.”
“Is he coming to the wedding?” Rhonda asked.
“Yes,” Margot said. “Tomorrow.”
“Well, then, we still have tonight,” Autumn said. “Let’s get out of here.”
That’s a beautiful girl you’ve got there, partner. Those eyes. Margot had asked Edge if he remembered saying that.
He had shaken his head, baffled. No, he said.
Margot flagged the bartender for the check. “This is my treat,” she said.
“Oh, Margot, come on,” Autumn said. “It’s too much.”
“I insist,” Margot said, and she could tell Autumn felt relieved.
“Thank you!” Rhonda said. “That’s really generous.”
Margot looked at Rhonda. Rhonda’s face was fresh, smiling, sincere. This was the same woman who had once told Margot she bought dresses at Bergdorf’s, wore them with the tags on, and returned them the next day?
“You’re welcome,” Margot said. She was done trying to predict what would happen next. This wedding had taken on a life of its own.
THE NOTEBOOK, PAGE 9
The Service
Religion is tricky. Think of Charlemagne and Martin Luther and the Spanish Inquisition and the Gaza Strip. I don’t know if you’ll marry a man who is Muslim or Jewish or a happy agnostic, and I will tell you here that I don’t care what religion your Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be practices, as long as he is good to you and loves you with the proper ardor.
I am going to proceed with this portion of the program as though you will be married at St. Paul’s Episcopal. I fell in love with St. Paul’s the first time I passed it on Fair Street, and I convinced your father to attend Evensong services one summer night in June. Who wouldn’t love Evensong in a church with that glorious pipe organ and those Tiffany windows?
I have been to weddings where the officiant didn’t know the couple getting married, and he was therefore forced to deliver a canned sermon. For this reason, I suggest you ask Reverend Marlowe to come to Nantucket to perform the service. Harvey is a sedentary being, and he won’t like the idea of traveling to an island thirty miles offshore. But ask him anyway. Beseech him. He has never been able to resist you, his little Jenna who went on the Habitat for Humanity trip to Guatemala at the tender age of fifteen. I think he believed you would grow up to be a missionary. You single-handedly changed his mind about the Carmichael family-you (nearly) made him forget that it was Nick who set off a smoke bomb in the church basement during coffee and doughnut hour.
Reverend Marlowe is fond of his creature comforts, so be sure to mention that your father will fly him to the island and pay for a harbor view room at the White Elephant, where a bottle of fifteen-year Oban will be waiting for him.
But the Scotch and the turndown service are just window dressing. Reverend Marlowe would do anything for you.
DOUGLAS
He drove to Post Road Pizza, which was a place he used to go with Beth. He asked to sit at the two-person booth in the front window, which was where they always sat. He ordered a draft beer, a pizza with sausage and mushrooms, and a side order of onion rings with ranch dressing for dipping, which was what he and Beth always used to order. Doug took a couple of swills off his beer and walked over to the jukebox. It still took quarters. He dropped seventy-five cents into the jukebox and played “Born to Run,” “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys,” and “Layla.” These were all Beth’s favorite songs; she had been fond of the rock anthem. If Doug asked Pauline to name one song by Eric Clapton or Bruce Springsteen, she would be stumped.