“Let me think about this some more,” Stone said. He hung up and continued driving home, baffled.
46
Late Sunday morning Stone woke up with a feeling of unease. He was in the shower before he figured out why: The wedding was at two o’clock. Unease turned to dread. Why, he asked himself, had he promised to go to the wretched event? Because, he replied to himself, he didn’t think it would actually happen.
He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower. She might not show, he pointed out to himself; there was still time. He felt better.
He made himself a large brunch: a bagel, cream cheese and Irish smoked salmon, orange juice and coffee, enough to last him until dinner. The phone rang, and he picked it up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino.”
“Hey.”
“You want a ride to the church?” Dino sounded as if he were suppressing laughter.
“Oh, shut up. I’ll take a cab.”
“I just want to be sure you show up; you promised Genevieve, remember?”
“I remember.”
“If you don’t show up, she’ll blame me.”
“Why would she blame you?”
“For not seeing that you got to the church on time.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I’ll pick you up at one-thirty.”
“Okay.” Stone hung up and looked at the kitchen clock. He had only forty-five minutes. He finished eating, went upstairs and got into a suit and tie and some well-polished black shoes. He was standing outside the house when Dino’s car, driven by his rookie detective, pulled up. Stone got into the backseat with Dino and Genevieve.
“I’m so glad you’re going to the wedding,” Genevieve said.
“I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Dino said he didn’t think you would.”
Stone leaned forward and glared at Dino, who was sitting on the other side of Genevieve. “Dino was just covering his ass in case I didn’t show,” he said, then leaned back again.
“Did you send a gift?” Dino asked.
“I sent a very nice silver bowl from Tiffany,” he replied acidly.
“Did you have it engraved?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course.”
“With Eliza’s initials or his?”
“With one of each.”
“That’s mean.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Now she can’t take it back.”
“So what?”
“Suppose she decides not to go through with it?”
“Then she’ll still have a very nice silver bowl and a reminder of her former fiancé.”
“You’re hoping she won’t go through with it, aren’t you?”
“I’m hoping no such thing. She’s a free woman, and she can do whatever she wants. She will do whatever she wants.”
“No, she won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wants you, not Edgar.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“You divined it, then?”
“I know her very well.”
“I thought I did, too. I thought she’d never marry a doctor.”
“She may not.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“I kid you not,” Genevieve said. “I don’t think she’ll go through with it.”
“Well, she’s leaving changing her mind kind of late, isn’t she?”
“She won’t make a decision until she has to.”
“And when do you think that moment will come?”
“You’ll have an opportunity to stop it, Stone.”
“Genevieve, are you telling me that you expect me – that Eliza expects me – to leap to my feet when they get to the line in the ceremony about… Well, you know the line.”
“I don’t expect you to, but I think Eliza does.”
“So I’m supposed to kidnap her from the church and drive her away in my little red sports car while Simon and Garfunkel sing the sound track?”
“That would be nice.”
“It would be insane.”
“Dino,” Genevieve said, “help me out here.”
Dino leaned forward and looked at Stone. “Kidnap her and drive her away in your little red sports car. If Simon and Garfunkel don’t show up, I’ll sing.” He leaned back.
“I don’t want to discuss this any more,” Stone said. No one spoke for the rest of the ride.
The church was at Madison and Seventy-first, next door to the Ralph Lauren store. Stone and Dino walked halfway down the church and took seats on opposites sides of the aisle, while Genevieve went into an anteroom to assist the bride.
Stone looked around. It was as motley a collection of people as he had ever seen. Half of them were wearing scrubs, as if they had left the hospital in the middle of surgeries; others were dressed in jeans and parkas; and a few were dressed quite elegantly – Edgar’s friends, he supposed. Somebody was playing jazz tunes on an electric piano, while a couple of other musicians played bass and guitar. Stone wondered what the Episcopal priest thought about that. Then he felt himself dozing off.
A slamming door snapped him out of it. The priest was entering, and he gave the audience an apologetic shrug for the noise. He was joined at the altar by Dr. Edgar Kelman, the renowned surgeon, then the trio swung into some uptempo Mendelssohn, and Stone heard foot-steps behind him. He looked back to see Eliza coming down the aisle, with Genevieve right behind her. Eliza looked lovely, and for a moment Stone’s heart began to melt, but when he made brief eye contact with her he spun his head around, eyes front. The ceremony began.
Stone sat rigid, his jaw clamped shut, as the priest recited the ceremony. Then he came to that awful line, “If any person here knows any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” Stone held his breath.
He was sure the dead silence in the church lasted at least two minutes, but then realized that it was probably more like five seconds. The priest continued, and Stone exhaled in a rush. Half the audience, including Genevieve, turned and looked at him questioningly. Then the priest pronounced them man and wife, and everybody clapped.
The happy couple strode quickly down the aisle, and as they passed, Eliza tossed her bouquet into Stone’s lap, getting a big laugh from everybody.
Stone tried not to turn red.
47
Stone arrived home, still angry and depressed, to find a creamy envelope under the front door knocker, apparently delivered by hand, since it was Sunday. Inside, he ripped it open and read an engraved dinner invitation for that evening from Harlan Deal. RSVP was crossed out. “Just come” was scrawled next to it.
Why the hell would Harlan Deal want him at his dinner party at the last minute? He tossed the invitation onto the front hall table, went into the library and made himself a drink. He did not often drink this early in the day, but it was the only thing he could think of that would change his mood.
He switched on the library TV, settled into a chair and began surfing the channels, looking for something to take his mind off his day. A shopping channel was selling wedding dresses; an Asian evangelist was marrying four hundred identically dressed and unsuspecting couples in a football stadium; Martha Stewart was teaching her viewers how to plan the perfect wedding.
He switched off the TV and turned on the local classical music radio station. Fucking Mendelssohn again. He switched to the jazz station. Ella Fitzgerald was singing “Making Whoopee.” “Another bride, another groom,” etc. He switched off the radio.
He took his drink upstairs, stripped off his suit and lay on the bed. Drinking horizontally was hard. He pressed the button on the remote that raised the head and foot of the bed. Easier. He drained his glass, set it down and dozed off.
He woke, befuddled and hazy about date and time. A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was half an hour before the dinner party. He splashed some water on his face, got into his evening clothes and left the house, taking the invitation with him. What the hell.